hill, the sooner she could get her ass back to California. Clearly she wasn’t needed in El Tigre. And since it had only been late yesterday that she’d had to say thanks, but no thanks to the position on the film, maybe there was a slim chance she could still get in on the production.
Here’s hoping. Because she knew exactly what an enormous boost the gig would give her career. At the very least it would allow her to give up her other job.
And creating aliens with paints and putties would be a fabulous stress-buster. She could use that about now.
She walked several blocks before it occurred to her that she’d seen a cable station earlier when she’d been searching for a place to park the car. She couldn’t remember precisely where, and she had zero familiarity with Santa Rosa. In her golden pre-boarding-school days, she and her folks had lived first in rough-and-tumble Tacna, further south, then in a small township in the northern Amazon region.
But the Metrocable ran north and south, so even if it was a long walk between the station and her car, it would be on level ground. And that beat picking her way down the near-vertical hills.
Content to have a plan, she about-faced and started back the way she’d come.
She’d reached the main street and had just come to the opposite end of the block from the cantina where she’d had her drink when a man suddenly materialized out of nowhere and shoved her up against the brick building. Heart slamming up against the wall of her chest, she sucked in a deep breath, prepared to scream her head off.
Before she could, however, a rough, dry-skinned hand covered her mouth. The man, who wasn’t much taller than she—and was a good ten years younger—shoved his face close to hers. “I’ll take my hand away if you agree not to scream,” he said in colloquial Spanish. “I don’t want to hurt you, but I will if you make a fuss. Comprende?”
Not really, but she nodded her head.
“Good,” he said, dropping his hand and taking a short step back. “You’re coming with me. Victor Munoz wants to talk to you.”
* * *
YAWNING, FINN PAUSED on the street outside the cantina and looked around to get his bearings. The long day’s travel was catching up with him and he was ready to go find that hostel.
Even knowing the Metrocable station was to the left, his gaze automatically went right. And he shook his head. “Huh. You again.”
The same punk-rocker blonde who’d grabbed his attention by the short hairs in the cantina reached out long metaphoric fingers to latch onto them again. He still didn’t get why she had such a pull on him, but he couldn’t look away from her and a guy who looked barely out of his teens as they stood nose-to-nose a short distance away.
He frowned. The kid might be young, but something about him looked menacing. Maybe it was the way he had Blondie crowded against a wall, or maybe it was the gangbanger vibe of his clothing. The reason didn’t matter. Blondie didn’t look happy, and although Finn couldn’t hear their conversation he got the distinct impression they were arguing.
And that was before he saw the thug grip her arm when she slapped her hands to his chest and shoved him back. Finn started walking in their direction.
He heard the quick patois of their exchange as he drew near and was mere feet away when he saw the blonde suddenly freeze. Then she jerked her arm free. Instead of shoving the youth back again, however, she thrust her nose right up under his.
“What?” Her voice rose in incredulity, but if something the guy had said blindsided her, it didn’t prevent her from drilling his chest with a fierce finger. “Let’s hear it, Speedy Gonzales,” she said with a you-will-tell-me authority that Finn would’ve had a hard time ignoring—and he was accustomed to dealing with customers a lot tougher than this chick.
The thug just pokered up. “My name is not Speedy,” he spat, clearly insulted—and the fact he got bent out of shape not because she’d challenged his authority, but had assigned him a less-than-macho moniker, reinforced Finn’s impression of the young man’s youth. The kid thumped a fist off his chest. “I am Joaquin.”
“You could be Jesus Himself,” she snapped, “and I’d ask the same thing—my folks are where?”
That’s when it kicked in that she was speaking American English. Yet even as the reason for his sudden ability to comprehend the conversation registered, she snapped what he could only assume were the same questions in Spanish.
Finn didn’t have a clue what this Joaquin character had said to precipitate the full-metal-jacket questions she shot at him like an unceasing barrage of bullets from a semiautomatic. But from the look on his face, the kid realized he’d made a major mistake.
And that could be bad, because guys that age already harbored a serious need to prove their machismo at every turn. Throw in the possible gangbanger element and things could turn ugly fast.
Sure enough, even as Finn watched, Joaquin’s hand reached for the small of his back. The other male stood in profile to him, so he saw the butt of a gun as Joaquin fumbled beneath the hem of his shirt.
Finn was on the move before the weapon cleared the little shit’s waistband. With no time to consciously think the matter through, he simply yanked off his backpack and took the final Mother-may-I-worthy giant step that brought him within range. Then, gripping his pack by its straps, he swung it at the young man’s head.
It connected with a solid thwack and knocked the punk to his knees. The gun dropped from Joaquin’s hand and skittered a few feet away. Finn lunged for it, his only thought to keep it out of the other guy’s hands. But before he could get his own hand around the pistol grip, the blade of a monstrous knife slashed down, aiming for his fingers.
Swearing a blue streak, Finn jerked them out of range. Jesus. The kid must have a head made of ironwood if he’d recovered that fast. And Joaquin clearly had no intention of letting Finn get his hands on the weapon. Not without drawing blood, anyhow.
With no other real option in sight, Finn kicked the gun as far away from both of them as he could.
“Go, go, go!” The blonde’s voice was insistent as she grabbed him by his free hand and they took off at a dead run in the direction of the Metrocable.
The woman could move and they covered the distance to the station in no time. She danced in place like a toddler in need of a bathroom as she dug a fistful of El-TIPs—the country’s official pesos—out of her pocket, taking quick glances over her shoulder the whole while.
Then she abruptly stilled. “Shit! He’s coming after us.” She looked around wildly. “Where the hell is help when you really need it?” she demanded, turning back and shoveling pesos into the ticket machine. “I was told these stations are lousy with security.” She punched buttons at a dizzying rate.
The machine spit out two tickets and she grabbed his hand again. “C’mon, let’s go!”
They went through the turnstiles and onto the platform as a gondola swung around the turnabout and slowed to a crawl a few feet away. It disgorged its passengers in front of them, and since they were the only ones currently waiting they climbed aboard. As one, they turned to watch Joaquin as the young man raced up to a ticket machine, shoving a woman about to use it out of his way.
“Nice
