Free Strange Magic: A Yancy Lazarus Novel by James Hunter Page A

out—plugged by a couple of low-level biker goons. Damn. I always thought it would be some dark godling, or maybe a Fairy queen, or, hell, even a ninja Rakshasa. I’ve even envisioned being trampled to death by a rampaging elephant, while playing the blues.
    But capped by some Rube thugs while I was stuck drooling on a sidewalk with a bullet hole in my ass? No sir, never envisioned that. Undignified I tell you. Naturally, I should have expected something like this. I get no respect, no respect at all.
    After a full minute, I got impatient—what in the world was taking these clowns so long? They could at least try and be professionals about this.
    I craned my neck around, trying to get eyes on the goons. Instead, I saw the slick black Land Rover on black-rimmed 22s tearing down the block, automatic weapons sticking out from every window.

 
     
     
     
     
     
    TEN:
    Lucky Break
     
    The shooting started about ten feet from me. The night air resounded with the crack-hiss of AKs, followed by the angry hum of rapid fire Uzi’s. Bullets of various calibers chewed into the asphalt and concrete, glass shattered in sheets, car alarms sent up a cry. The crazy thing was that most of the bullets appeared to be aimed behind me, aimed at the bikers who’d been pursuing me. That’s not to say a few strays didn’t come my way, but it was clear that I wasn’t the target.
    Whoever these guys were, they probably thought I was already dead. I couldn’t blame them for their faulty assumption. I certainly felt dead and from a certain perspective I probably looked the part. I heard a lot of shouting, followed by a substantial quantity of return gunfire, but the sounds were all starting to blend together, to blur and soften, taking on a certain fuzzy white-noise quality.
    I read the license plate on the Land Rover as it zoomed by: 16KINGS1. Ha. How about that—instead of trying to kill me, Cesar Yraeta’s crew was laying down suppressive automatic weapons fire, pinning my assailants in place, affording me the opportunity to escape. They were saving me, even if the act was unintentional. If Morse had been tracking my car, it stood to reason that the 16 th Street Kings would’ve been doing the same thing.
    They’d probably tailed me to The Full House, figured I was going to bring some retribution toward the Kings, and decided a little preemptive action was the best course. Yraeta’s boys must’ve thought a good defense is a good offense too. Oh the irony of ironies—the Kings’ bad intel had actually saved me, had given me a chance to escape. Finally, something that resembled a providential break, something as rare and glorious as a rainbow-farting-unicorn.
    Except I couldn’t move.
    God must have one heck of a sense of humor. Just wish I wasn’t always the butt of the joke. I needed to act, needed to move, otherwise Morse and his thugs would find me. It wouldn’t be difficult since I was lying in plain view on a sidewalk three minutes from their front door. Dammit, this was not how I was going out!
    Mustering my flagging will, I pushed through the thick layer of sludgy syrup separating me from the Vis, from the power I needed to save myself. The resistance was tremendous, both repelling my attempts to work through to the power beneath and exhausting me further from the effort. This wasn’t molasses, it was a friggin’ prehistoric tar pit, and it was about to swallow me like some ancient and unfortunate T-Rex. If I gave up now it would be the end for me, someone would roll by—whether Saints or Kings—and put a bullet in my noggin, just to be on the safe side. So I pushed, focusing my will into a drill, boring deeper and deeper into myself. Drawing on strength of conviction, resolution, hope, and anger.
    A lot of anger.
    “This is not the way I die!” I shouted through numb lips. Spittle darkened the sidewalk beneath me like the splatter of fat raindrops.
    A trickle of power, a flow no greater than a leaky faucet, the