Running Hot

care how wholesome I am? For your information, you’re right, though. The drug they gave me didn’t elevate the level of my talent. It wasn’t intended to have that effect.”
    “I don’t understand.”
    “The drug can be genetically altered in a variety of ways to suit an individual’s psychic profile. The version I’m taking has provided me with an entirely new talent.”
    “If you believe that, you really have gone off the deep end.”
    “I am not insane,” Martin shouted.
    The words seemed to echo around them. A few seconds of terrifying stillness followed. Then Martin’s aura flared with a sickening heat.
    She knew, then, that the moment had come. He was going to try to kill her now. The only question was whether he intended to use a gun or his bare hands. One thing was certain, standing there at the end of the dock left her nowhere to run.
    The mind-searing blast of energy came out of nowhere. It roared over her, bringing disorienting pain and the promise of an endless plunge into the abyss.
    Not a gun. She fell to her knees under the force of the lightning that slashed at her senses. Not his bare hands, either. A slight miscalculation on her part.
    Martin stared down at her, enthralled with his own power.
    “They were right,” he breathed. “They told me the truth about the drug. Congratulations. You are about to become the first person to witness what I can do with my new talent.”
    “Don’t touch me.”
    “I’m not going to touch you. It isn’t necessary. I’m going to incinerate your psychic senses. You will go into a coma and then you will die.”
    “Martin, no, don’t do this.” Her voice was steadier now. So were her senses. She had recovered somewhat from the initial traumatizing shock. She was getting a handle on the pain, which meant that she was pushing back the invading waves of energy. “Maybe it’s not too late. Maybe some of the experts in the Society can help you.”
    “You’re pleading with me. I like that.”
    “I’m not going to beg for my life. But there is one thing you should know before you do this.”
    “What?”
    “If you hadn’t come along, I would have owned that florist shop by now, a whole chain of flower shops.”
    “That was always your greatest flaw,” Martin said. “Your dreams and ambitions were so much smaller than mine.”
    He heightened the psychic heat of the dark energy he was generating, his face tightening with effort. She pushed back harder, pulling energy from her own aura. The pain lessened some more.
    “Die, damn you,” he hissed. He took another step closer. “Why don’t you die ?”
    Her strength was coming back. She was able to focus clearly on maintaining the energy shield that her aura had become.
    Martin staggered but he did not seem to notice that she was fighting him. Instead, he appeared disoriented.
    Angrily, he pulled himself together and took another step toward her, almost touching her. He forced more energy through the murky bands of dark lightning he was generating.
    “You’re supposed to die,” he shouted.
    He reached down to seize her by the throat. She raised her arms in a reflexive, defensive gesture. He grabbed her hands. She gripped his wrists.
    Her palms burned. The world exploded, sending jolt after jolt of shock waves through her senses.
    Martin Crocker convulsed once. He looked at her with the eyes of a man who is peering into hell.
    “No,” he screamed.
    He reeled, lost his balance and went over the side of the dock into the water. His aura winked out with terrifying suddenness.
    She rose, heart pounding. For the second time in her life, she had killed a man. Not just any man this time—a very powerful, influential multibillionaire who just happened to be involved in a dangerous criminal enterprise.
    And her hands still burned.

ONE
    WAIKIKI . . .

    The big man in the short-sleeved, orange and purple flowered shirt was going to be a problem in about five minutes. It didn’t take a psychic to sense the angry, volatile energy stirring the atmosphere around table five. Any experienced bartender would have picked up on it. For a bartender who just happened to be psychic and who was also an ex-cop, the invisible warning signs had started blazing neon-bright when Mr. Orange and Purple Flowers walked into the Dark Rainbow half an hour earlier.
    Luther Malone gave the mai tai a quick stir with a swizzle stick and set it on Julie’s tray next to the beer and the Blue Hawaii. Julie leaned over the bar