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“That Fig Zit's escaped from the game and is trying to get at Mad Dog for real.”

The sheriff had expected to have to sell her that one, not find her arguing Mad Dog's case before he could even explain it.

“I'll be on the next plane to Tucson,” Pam said, as if she thought you could find someone as easily in a metropolitan area of a million people as you could back home in Buffalo Springs.

“Don't…” the sheriff started to tell her.

“I'll stay in touch,” Pam said.

Mrs. Kraus' monitor flashed—dazzling colors, then a scene from back in the game swirled into focus. Fig Zit's features leered from the screen. “I'll teach you to meddle,” his voice roared. The sheriff could hear an echo over Pam's phone. It must be on her computer, too. “My revenge begins now. On each of you—Pam Epperson, Mrs. Kraus, Sheriff English. You first, Sheriff. I want you to know that right now, I'm turning one of my demons loose on your daughter in Tucson.”

“Jesus,” the sheriff muttered. How did the bastard know Heather wasn't safely under house arrest in Tucson? How did he even know she was in Arizona?

“Oh no,” Pam whispered. “Tell Mad Dog I'm on the way.” And then a dial tone hummed in the sheriff's ear. Not that he noticed right away because Fig Zit had one more thing to say.

“The monster I'm sending, he won't kill her,” the creature growled. “But after the things he does to her, she'll wish he had.”

***

Mad Dog ushered the pregnant girl to Cherokee's Chevy. She'd told him she was feeling better and he didn't need to help her or take her anywhere, but standing in the headlight's glare, he'd noticed she had quite a bump on her forehead. As he held the door for her, he tried to explain about being a Cheyenne shaman, and that was why his face was painted.

“You through doing the shaman thing,” she asked as he got behind the wheel and pulled into the street, “or do you want to keep the paint on?”

“Through,” he conceded. She pulled a soft cloth and a plastic water jug out of her backpack and started gently scrubbing his face.

He halted at a stop sign at the first corner and paused.

“Where are we going, Señor Shaman?”

“I don't suppose you know how to find a hospital?”

“Oh sure,” she said. “I've lived more of my life in Tucson than Mexico. Closest one is probably University Hospital. That's almost due east, but really, you don't need to take me there. I'm fine.”

“I'll feel a lot better about it if you get that bump looked at. Head injuries can seem like nothing and then the brain starts swelling and…. Well, I'd just rather you get it looked at.”

“I can't pay,” she said, moving her attentions from his cheeks to his forehead. The paint seemed to be washing off easily. This stuff must be better quality than he got from that sex shop in Wichita.

“With the new border security, it cost me everything I had to pay the coyote to get me across.”

“I'll pay for your treatment,” he said. “How much can it be?”

She shook her head. “You Cheyenne, you don't go to emergency rooms much, do you?”

He admitted he'd never been treated in one himself.

“I mean,” she said, “I don't know exactly, but I think this could cost a thousand dollars. Maybe more.”

He didn't believe her. Oh, he'd heard horror stories about medical costs and insurance coverage on the news. But this was just a bump. If he'd taken her to Doc Jones back in Kansas, there wouldn't even be a charge.

Mad Dog only had a couple of hundred in cash, but he had credit cards. He started to tell her but she was speaking again.

“Emergency rooms here, they'll treat people whether they have money or not. You should just drop me off at the entrance and then go on your way. I don't want to be an even bigger burden.”

“No way. I won't just abandon you.” For one thing, he wasn't sure she'd go inside if he left her. For another, he had no intention of making this hospital or the taxpayers pick up the bill when he was the one who'd taken responsibility for her. The coyote, that was the guy who should pay. But the smuggler wasn't available.

What would he do with her after she'd been treated? He hadn't worked that part out yet. She'd admitted she was here illegally, but could he turn her in? Would he have crossed a border, just the way she had, whether trying for a better life was legal or not? He couldn't say.

“Turn here,” she told him. It was a big street. Wide and empty and well lit. And there was a huge complex of buildings ahead. A sign said EMERGENCY.

She started working on the paint on his hand, the one she could reach. “You are a very kind man,” she said. “I don't think I've ever met anyone quite like you.”

He grinned a foolish grin. There was probably no way he could make himself turn her in. And then her grip on his hand went from gentle to savage. He thought she was going to squeeze straight through to the bone.

“What…” he said.

“The baby,” she said. “I think he comes now.”

***

Heather English knew she was being followed. Her law enforcement training might be limited—mostly watching her dad at work as she grew up, then, on very rare occasions, lending a hand. But her pursuer's leather soles made noise when they slapped on pavement, or tried to be quieter and ran along the sandy edges of the street. She thought about just outrunning him, but she was curious. Had TPD set her up in the hopes she'd lead them to Uncle Mad Dog?

A vacant house with boarded windows was just ahead. Sections of the low picket fence along the street had collapsed, and there was a big tree in the front yard that shaded part of the pavement. She jogged into the shadows, dodging patches of weeds, and threw a look over her shoulder. The owner of those leather soles wasn't visible, though she could still hear him. She ran behind the empty house and circled it, spooking a mangy coyote on the way, and found a good hiding place behind a cluster of dying cactus. From there, she could watch for her pursuer and still have a choice of escape routes.

Except he didn't come. And, by the time she got around the house, she couldn't hear his footsteps anymore. She waited, sure he hadn't seen where she went, even if he somehow knew she'd stopped. She waited some more. Nothing happened. No one came. No more footsteps, stealthy or otherwise. Just the whisper of the breeze through moonlit vegetation and the ceaseless hum of a city that never fully slept.

She went back around the house, moving soft and quiet. She could get a better view back down the street from there, but it didn't help. Nothing moved out there. Nothing out of the ordinary, except….

What was that? Back down by the corner. When she came this way, she'd run along that side of the street and there hadn't been a heap of rags at the edge of the road. She waited a bit longer but it didn't move. Nothing moved. Heather crept through the shadows, back into the street. Still nothing. Nothing but that unfamiliar roadside lump.

Curiosity kills, she told herself, but she couldn't keep from retracing her steps, from finding out what that was and why she hadn't noticed it.

It got her adrenaline up, but she wasn't afraid. Her dad had begun teaching her hand-to-hand self defense as soon as she was big enough to walk. Since she'd gone off to college, she'd filled her exercise time with classes in all sorts of martial arts. They were great exercise regimes and they'd helped her cope with her mother's losing battle with cancer. She was sure she'd be better than whoever might be back there.

The bundle of rags had a hand. The hand was attached to an arm that reached from the gravel to the edge of the pavement. This was a person! One who hadn't been here when she passed. Was he hurt? Dead? Faking it to catch her off guard?

The hand was motionless. As she got closer, she could see that the heap had a face. Its mouth drooled into the dirt. A nose oozed blood. She prodded him with a foot, ready to skip back if he made a grab for her, or maybe stomp that hand. Her prod got no reaction.

She circled him. He wore leather soles on expensive western boots. She remembered the elaborate stitching.

“Captain Matus?”

When he didn't answer, she circled behind him and approached from where he'd have the most trouble grabbing her, from where she'd have the best chance of making him pay if he did. She bent, got a handful of hair, and lifted his face. It was Matus, all right, and breathing, but out cold. With some fresh road rash on his face, too, as if he'd suddenly lost consciousness and gone down head first into the gravel.

“Captain,” she said it louder this time, shaking him a little. The blood that dripped from his nose was her only answer.

And then a soft voice spoke from across the street as a shadowy form materialized from behind a trash bin.

“Hello, Heather English,” the voice said. “Meeting you like this, it's going to be my pleasure.”

***

She pleased the professional.

She didn't scream. She didn't flinch—not even when her cell phone rang. He liked the tough ones, the ones who wouldn't show you their fear. When they broke, they had so much farther to fall. Their suffering could be truly exquisite.

He wasn't quite so pleased when she bounced to her feet on the far side of the unconscious captain and assumed a defensive stance—taekwondo, he thought. One more thing the client hadn't seen fit to mention. She let her phone chirp, unanswered, keeping her hands curled in tight fists just where they should be in order to defend herself.

He needed to talk to his resources. See if they had any leads back to his client yet. He really should have checked with them before starting this particular contract. But what the client wanted done to the girl had the potential to be wonderfully gratifying.

“Who are you?” she said. “How do you know my name? What happened to Captain Matus?”

“I happened to Matus.” He advanced across the street, slow, casual, only his words threatening. “I'm your destiny, Heather. And I know your name because someone wanted us to meet.”

She took a couple of steps back. Cautious ones, and she glanced around, choosing her ground and considering escape routes.

“The captain will be fine,” he said. “I am an expert at pressure points and blows that stun. The good captain should wake in ten or fifteen minutes and be hardly the worse for wear.”

When she'd moved, she kept her hands up and her feet properly spaced. But, after all, how good could she be, this little girl from the Kansas sticks? And it didn't really matter, even if she were some expert with a black belt. He just hoped she wasn't so good that he'd have to kill her rather than enjoy the things the client wanted.

He got to Matus and stepped around him. He was close to her, now. Close enough to be on her and overpower her in seconds. Unless she was truly skilled. Better to test that. Better to know how seriously to take her before taking her the way he had in mind. He decided to show her a target. The switchblade snapped open in his hand—six inches of razor sharp steel that gleamed, reflecting the moon and distant street lights.

“I'll start by taking your nipples,” he said. “And then there's a form of scalping you may not have heard of. It takes the pubic hair and a circle of flesh from between your legs. White men used to perform the operation on Indian squaws, you know. They wore the resulting trophies as hat bands.”

She fell back two more steps with the shock of what he told her. Somewhere, far away, he heard a siren, and, perhaps, a wolf's howl. And, had she just growled at him?

“Then, I think, we'll perform a minor surgery that will further affect your future sex life, if any. Are you familiar with female circumcision?”

He thrust the knife and her foot came up to kick it but he spun and kicked her leg and knocked her off balance. Not quite badly enough for her to fall. Not quite enough to leave her open to the attack he'd planned. She wasn't bad, he thought. Or she was very lucky.

“I didn't think I wanted to hurt you,” the girl said. “Now, I'll enjoy it.” And she came for him—kick, kick, a block to his counter strike. She even landed a blow on his knife hand that left it numb and tingling.

Much better than he'd expected. Before she could recover and attack again, he went at her—kick, spin, kick, palm strike with the hand without the knife because she wouldn't expect that. She blocked the kicks. The palm strike caught her solidly in the sternum and sent her tumbling into a thick copse of desert broom. It swallowed her completely and she must have landed badly because he heard a yelp as she fell—a kind of panicked, inhuman cry.

He went in after her. Something with fur and teeth launched itself from the brush. Jaws snapped and he danced back. He couldn't retreat fast enough. Teeth closed on his left hand. The pain was incredible. He used the knife—snick, snick—and the thing died, teeth still buried in his hand. But the girl wasn't in the bush anymore. She was up and running. She had a half-block lead on him and he was still locked in the death grip of a mangy coyote.

***

No answer,” the sheriff said as Heather's phone cycled to her message box. He put his own phone back in its cradle.

“Don't mean nothin'.” Mrs. Kraus pushed her chair away from the computer. “Just 'cause he says something's going to happen to her, don't mean it will.”

“I know,” the sheriff said, “but Mad Dog was convinced it was him, Fig Zit, right there in Tucson killing that cop and getting Mad Dog blamed for it.”

“You aren't usually so quick to accept your brother's screwball theories.”

She was right, there. It was just that he was so far away. So unable to protect his daughter if she needed it. And unable to even find out if the threat was real.

“You saw that?” Mrs. Kraus said. It took the sheriff a moment to realize she was talking to the War of Worldcraft tech on her own phone. “He did, he saw it,” she told the sheriff. “One of the most powerful hacks he's ever encountered, but it left tracks he says. He's tracing them. Put me on hold while he runs them down.”