His distraction and fast-moving feet led him from the empty tunnel to a set of stairs that narrowed as they led upward. He emerged from the catacombs into a restricted area, cordoned off and dusty with workers in hardhats suddenly noticing his appearance and making a fuss.
“I think I’m lost!” he exclaimed, playing the American tourist. He let himself be quickly ushered out onto the street, where he blended with the crowd. He weaved quickly through the bodies, using them as cover should Nora be close by.
Only that shield suddenly dispersed—some people crying out in genuine annoyance, others with laughter—as the heavens opened up and the rain soaked everything.
Including him.
Ugh.
Sloshing in wet hikers wasn’t his idea of fun. At least his backpack was waterproof. What it didn’t have, because he’d not been able to bring one on the plane, was a weapon. Still, broad daylight in a mostly public place he should be fine, or so he told himself at the stomp of fast-moving feet. People probably trying to get to where they were going quickly.
Still, his pace increased, and he glanced over his shoulder. Stumbled as he saw the pair of big goons closing in on him.
He might have assumed it was a regular mugging if he’d not recognized the larger one with the shaven head and snarl. He worked for the people he’d screwed on the key.
Oh fuck. Both men had hands inside their coats. Would they shoot him in the street even with possible witnesses?
Forget any side alleys, he was staying in the public eye. He pounded through a puddle and did his best to go full speed over the uneven cobblestones. Don’t fucking fall. If he twisted his ankle, he was done for.
His sprint slowed only slightly as he emerged into a plaza that had more traffic with people hustling packed strollers, covered in clear plastic tarps, while the parents and the walking germ vectors tucked under umbrellas. The majority of them appeared to be emerging from some gates, the wrought iron bars twisted into animal shapes. A zoo. A maze. A place to lose his pursuers.
Peter darted inside, hearing the yelling of the attendant that he hushed by flinging a bill. He ran, choosing a path at random, then another, leaving his pursuers behind. It helped that the rain fell thicker, a drenching curtain, rendering visibility difficult. What he really needed more than concealment was a way out that lost his pursuers. He wondered how they’d found him in the first place.
The reason hit him a second later.
His phone.
They must have hacked its location. He tossed it into the monkey enclosure, where furry paws gripped and began playing with it, the chattering and excitement high.
His sister would worry when she tried to call and didn’t reach him, but he’d find public cafes and use a VPN to route messages to her so she didn’t panic.
His steps slowed as he reached a fork. To the left was the aviary, to the right, big cats. Shudder.
Nope. He walked toward the bird section when he saw two bulky shapes far ahead.
Fucking seriously? His luck was utter shit.
Despite his dislike of the felines, Peter bolted in their direction, only to slip and fall on a slimy patch of melting ice cream. Chocolate goo amidst a squishy waffle cone. He hit the ground hard on one knee, and when he tried to stand, his leg threatened to buckle, the joint throbbing at the abuse.
He limped, losing speed. The pounding feet caught up. He turned to face his assailants, fists up, really wishing his first stop before the catacombs had been to a shop where he could have at least picked up a switchblade, something to defend himself other than feet and fists.
Still, he wasn’t a slouch when it came to fighting, and the rain made aiming at him with a weapon difficult, as it bogged down the darts Baldy fired. Since he couldn’t risk getting hit, he ran for the guys with a loud yell. The surprise worked to his advantage, and he slammed into Baldy’s midsection before he could reload. They hit the ground with Peter on top, meaning he got in a few good pummels before the guy’s buddy yanked him off.
Shorty, whom he should have named Brick because he looked like his face had hit one too many, raised a fist and offered a gap-toothed grin.
Peter kicked him in the midsection then swung a fist while Shorty was distracted. It connected, but before he could recover, arms wrapped around him from behind.
He thrashed, but Baldy was at least a foot bigger and many pounds larger. He lifted Peter off the ground and crushed him until he went still. Then he held him in front of Shorty, who had lost another tooth. It whistled moistly as he asked, “Where’s the key?”
“What key?”
Shorty slammed a fist in his face.
“Ow.” He played it up as if he were dying. Being stoic only got a person beaten harder.
“Where’s the key?” Shorty asked again.
“Lost in a river.”
“You’re lying!” Baldy squeezed and shook until Peter gasped for air.
“Where is the key?” Shorty held his fist in front of Peter’s face.
“Up yours.” He lifted his feet and kicked. Shorty went tumbling, and Peter used that pushing momentum to snap free from Baldy. He hit the ground and rose swinging.
But two against one meant he couldn’t avoid the beating. He knew enough to raise his arms to protect his head. Still, the punches rang in his ears. Clacked his teeth. A solid blow to his midsection sent him to the ground, where they kicked him in the ribs. By the time they searched him, he could only moan in pain, most of it real.
Shorty triumphantly said, “I’ve got the key!”
“Boss will be happy,” the gruff Baldy replied. “We taking him back to the boss?”
Shorty nudged him with a foot. “No need since we got what we came for. Dump him in with the tigers. I hear he’s got a thing for them.” Followed by a snicker.
Peter almost whimpered. Not the fucking tigers. He kept his eyes closed against memories of the old lady. The feline. The way they both toyed with him in that basement until the lines of reality blurred.
The ground took a while to hit. The tigers were kept in a concrete bowl with sheer stone walls that they couldn’t climb. He lay there for a moment, alive. Barely.
He hurt.
A lot.
The rain washed the blood away from his skin, but rather than help, it drew attention.
Chuff. Chuff. The hot, heated sound of an animal breathing. He cracked open an eye and immediately regretted it. A striped feline growled only paces away from him, crouched and ready to pounce. His death seemed certain.
And by a fucking tiger of all things.
Then shit got strange as a golden shape landed between him and the tiger. Four hairy legs and a swishing tail accompanied by a low warning snarl.
He blinked the rain out of his eyes, but it didn’t change the fact a lion had appeared.
Great. Lions. Tigers. What was next, a bear?
Should he wait out the fight and hope he could take on a wounded victor before it ate him? Or draw both their notice and claws trying to escape?
Could he have option number three?
The tiger didn’t like having its turf invaded and sprang first. The golden lion, with fur damp from the rain, met its leap and the bodies hit with a thud. They landed on their sides, and their feet were tangled as they clutched at each other, trying to chew off the other’s face.
The battle didn’t last very long. The tiger might have been larger, but the lion proved tricky and mean. It soon had the striped feline retreating to its den to lick its wounds.