Ghostwalker 02 - Mind Game

danced in front of her eyes. She could feel her airway begin to close. She pushed herself up and staggered through the narrow pathway of bushes and garbage cans, holding on to branches as she gasped for breath.
    She tried to control the sound of her breathing. Sound traveled in the night, and even with the music that seemed to pour from various establishments a street or two over, she knew the kind of men hunting for her would be tuned to the slightest noise.

    She had to cross an open street. There was no one in sight, and the violent energy was so strong it was impossible to tell if anyone was close to her. She had to chance crossing. It was imperative to get as far from the battleground as possible. She glanced around, one last cautious look, and started across the street, moving as quickly as she was able to on rubbery legs. Her vision blurred. The streets were uneven, cracked and pitted in places.
    She stumbled and hoped if anyone saw her they would assume she’d been drinking. She was three quarters to the other side when a man stepped out of the shadows and off the sidewalk. He was carrying a gun, and it was pointed right at her.

    Dahlia felt the waves of malevolence pouring off of him but she kept walking, her gait stumbling and uneven, muttering to herself as if she didn’t notice him. She doubted if anyone knew what she looked like. The French Quarter was packed most of the time, even in the early morning hours before dawn, and tourists drank all the time. She glanced up when she was only a few feet from him, feigned surprise, hoping she looked like a regular on her way home.

    “Are you coming home from a costume party? Nice getup.” She slurred her words and swayed drunkenly, inching closer to him, trying to get within striking distance.

    Confusion hit her, a wall of it, as he tried to assess if she was a danger to him. She wore a black sweatshirt and boots, but her hair was flowing to her waist and she obviously was without a weapon. She was too small to be a physical threat. The man visibly relaxed.
    “What the hell are you looking at?”

    She muttered something wordless, hoping to continue her impression of a drunk.

    He reached out and caught her arm, pushing her toward the wall. “What are you doing out this late?” Holding her there, his hand gripped her breast hard through the material of her sweatshirt.

    Dahlia calculated the odds of fighting him off while maintaining her drunken charade.
    He was hurting her with his squeezing. He suddenly laughed. She realized he believed all the fighting was taking place around the corner. He was bored and a little angry that he didn’t get to participate, instead regulated to standing guard. He was tired of watching the action and had made up his mind to have a little of his own.

    She waited until he lifted his head and exposed his throat. The moment he did, she hit him with the edge of her hand, putting her body weight behind it, at the same time trying to slide sideways, using the wall to help her get away from him. He was enormously strong, grunting and choking at the blow, but doggedly moved sideways with her, keeping her body pinned between his and the wall. He hit her hard in her stomach with his clenched fist, stepping back, still gagging, as she doubled over. He raised his gun, the butt end toward her face.

    Dahlia knew immediately he was dead. Her mind and body went nearly numb. Inside of her head, right before the white-hot pain exploded through her body, she heard her own scream. The force of the bullet drove the man backward away from her, so that he crumbled like a rag doll and settled onto the sidewalk in a lifeless heap. His gun clattered to the walkway beside him. It seemed to happen in slow motion, her vision narrowing to the grim image of death.

    Immediately she was swamped in the aftermath of the violence, her body taking the brunt of the destructive energy as it raced to claim her. She fought back, trying to stay conscious, trying to find a way out from the raw, swirling force threatening to take her over. The air crackled with electricity. She saw white arcs of it zigzagging above her head. It was only then that she realized she was on the ground, inches from the downed man.

    Dahlia began to crawl, a grueling effort when her body felt like lead and pain roared through her at her movement. She inched her way along the walkway. The smell of urine and blood was overwhelming and added to the misery of her churning stomach. She