The three of them circled in the misted gleam of the streetlamp. The guys’ voices rasped and broke, like teenagers. Rubio said uptown biz men recruited disposable young muscle from the squatter camps, offering food, shelter, and the latest jazz weaponry. New to the game, these boys?

I tried to put it all together. Like, the boys hadn’t hauled out fancy hardware and zapped her, so someone wanted this girl alive and conscious. And she wasn’t screaming bloody murder because, in this neighborhood, the rare passerby might be meaner than the thug-boys. She was putting up a fight and a damn good one, for all her uptown flounce and glow. Basic martial arts training at least, like we had at the den. All the smooth moves. A real bundle of surprises.

The mist had thickened into rain, curtains of filth drifting through the lamplight. The girl feinted backward, hit a puddle, went down hard but bounded right up, dripping oily muck. I couldn’t figure why she didn’t cut and run. Maybe for the pack, that I was meant to guard till she’d put the boys down?

Which was looking not so far off.

My street nerves twitched to be out of there, but curiosity still ruled me and she was a wonder to watch. Sheened with sweat, her face lit with a predator’s grin, she had one thug face down on the broken street and the other limping and swearing, favoring his right arm.

This girl was a freakin’ ninja!

I blinked away rain and recalculated. Once she finished, she’d come looking for her pack. Not twigging me to the thugs had likely saved my life, so I’d be honor-bound to give it to her. Street rules.

But only if she asked.

That broke the holding spell. Why give her the chance? My duty was to my den. Whatever hid in this overstuffed bag, some of it had to be good pick. The pack alone could earn me a whole stack of meal chits.

This time my body won before my brain had time to argue. I wished her victory, stuffed the pack into my grab bag and deserted out the back. Sorry, ninja girl, but that’s life downtown. Where you’re from, you can just order up a new one.

TWO

I could’ve shot right home to the den. Should have. Coming in early is just fine if your pack is full. And I set off with honest intent, racing through risky turf in the pitch black until it was safe to use my headlamp, glad for the now furious downpour covering the racket of my flight. Already savoring a rare triumph at the tellers’ counter and my street coach’s surprised approval. Even Rubio would boast of such a haul.