Free Rapture's Edge by J. T. Geissinger Page A

muscular, and glowering, they sprang to attention and trained the sights of their automatic rifles on the center of his chest. D noted with no small satisfaction he was at least a head taller than both of them.
    Then again, at over six foot five, he was at least a head taller than almost everyone.
    “Gentlemen,” he said calmly, looking first at one, then the other.
    One of them cleared his throat, a froggy sound that echoed softly off the crumbling stone walls. “Can’t let you pass, D.”
    D’s brows rose. “That so?”
    “Celian’s orders,” the other one offered apologetically. Restless, he shifted his weight back and forth between his feet. D smelled his anxiety, both acrid and musky, a hint of spice on the air, and made the instant assessment that these two were all sizzle and no steak.
    In other words, easy pickings.
    “You were at the training session the other night,” said D, eyeing the more obviously nervous one. He nodded, a curt affirmative, and adjusted his grip on his rifle. Little beads of sweat had broken out on his upper lip. “Enjoy it?”
    The guard glanced at his companion, and D continued. “Heard that soldier I knocked out is doing better.”
    “Which one?” said the other guard, smiling grimly. He was the bigger of the two, also nervous but determined not to show it, standing there with his legs spread wide and his square chin jutting out like a dare.
    Okay,
thought D.
You first, then
.
    Before either one could react, D Shifted to Vapor, shed his clothes in a pile on the ground, reappeared behind the cocky guard, and tapped him on the shoulder. The guard spun around, right into the unleashed power of D’s fist. He dropped like a stone, and his rifle went clattering over the cracked marble.
    The other guard took one look at D’s massive, naked, tattooed form and promptly dropped the rifle. He held up both hands. “Just make it quick,” he said. “And do me a solid—tell Celian I put up a good fight, will you?”
    D almost smiled. He liked this kid. So instead of punching him in the face—which would leave him with a bruise blooming blue and purple over one side and probably a few crushed bones like his friend lying at their feet—he used an old standby…the sleeper hold. Steady, applied pressure to his carotid artery, and after a few twitches, the kid was out like a light.
    Just as D finished getting dressed again, he heard a noise behind him. He spun around and saw Constantine leaning against a marble column on the other side of the basilica, slowly clapping in mock applause. His expression was one of amused disbelief. He pushed away from the column and walked toward D.
    “Great show. I think Celian really needs to rethink his containment strategy.” When D didn’t answer, he said with exaggerated sarcasm, “Going somewhere?”
    D shrugged and crossed his arms over his chest. “Stir-crazy. Needed to get out.”
    “Figured as much.”
    “You spying on me again, grandma?”
    Constantine chuckled. “Something like that. Mind if I join you?”
    D paused, examined the expression on Constantine’s face, and then said, “Not really a question, is it?”
    Now Constantine’s chuckle was wry, as was the smile that split his face. “You’re pretty sharp for a blunt instrument, you know that?”
    “Got all the looks in the family, too.” At that, they both chuckled. “Ladies first,” said D, gesturing toward the hidden door that led to the outside world and freedom. “And if I hear one word about a curfew, I’ll smack that movie-star smile right off your face.”
    “Good to know you haven’t lost your sense of humor, D. The thought of you landing a punch on me is seriously hilarious.”
    Constantine gave D a friendly shove, and D shoved him back, grinning. Then they both walked out into the starlit Roman night.
    Three hours and two bottles of Glenlivet later, D’s mood had sunk a notch below black.
    “You want to talk about it?” asked Constantine, watching D stare