Dragonflies: Shadow of Drones by Andy Straka Page B

way.
    “Right. Sorry. I see no windows or doors in the back of the building. None down the alley either.”
    “Security cameras?”
    “Don’t see any.”
    Sounded like a good a place to draw the guy in and find out what he was up to. It might be the only chance he’d get.
    “Okay. I’m going to try to reel him in.”
    “You sure?”
    He said nothing. Moving more briskly as he approached the building, he abruptly turned and ducked down the alley.
    The entire alleyway was framed by the tall concrete-enforced retaining wall that had to be at least twenty feet in height. The narrow opening to the blue sky overhead let in minimal light.
    “Okay. I see what you have in mind,” she said.
    “How am I doing?”
    “He’s closing on you.”
    Breathing harder from the adrenaline, Tye hurried to the end of the building, and slipped around the corner.
    “Am I good?” he whispered.
    “Okay, you’re good,” Raina said. “He’s just coming into the alley now.”
    Tye willed himself to go still. Whatever was happening here would become apparent soon enough.
    “He’s stopping for a moment to check things out. Must be wondering if you went into the building.”
    Tye waited.
    “All right, he’s moving again. Slowly. He’s still looking around. I’ll tell you when he’s just about made it to your corner.”
    He liked the tactical advantage of having Raina’s eyes on his side. It allowed him to magnify and project his capabilities in ways he’d never considered. He counted to fifteen, trying to project back to how long it had just taken him to move along the wall.
    “He’s just about there,” Raina said.
    Here we go. Tye stuck his leg out and stepped straight into the man’s path. “Hold up, friend.”
    “Wha–?” The man took a quick step back.
    He looked to be about five-ten, two hundred and fifty pounds. He wore a dark gray sweatsuit with big pockets. Up close, Tye realized, he was neither African American nor Latino, as he’d suspected; maybe Middle Eastern or Filipino, maybe something else. He had a small scar on his lower lip, a tattoo on the side of his neck, and dark, setback eyes. Mr. Sweatsuit neither looked nor carried himself like a student.
    The heavyset man came out of his pocket with a handgun cradled in his right fist. Tye immediately made it as a large caliber, not the type of weapon typically brandished by your everyday gang banger.
    “Whoa,” he said. “No need for that.” Alone and unarmed in what he now realized was a stupid place to confront the guy, he instinctively edged forward a little, closing the gap between them.
    “I’ll decide if there’s a need,” the man said. His accent was distinctly American. Not Southern or New York. Midwest? Chicago? Maybe the west coast? Maybe L.A.?
    “You were following me, Amigo.” He was still kicking himself for not anticipating the gun. He could just imagine Raina’s panic at the moment, watching on her video feeds. Should she call the police? They both knew she couldn’t do that.
    “Who you callin’ Amigo?” The man trained the barrel of the gun directly at Tye’s chest.
    He raised his hands in the air, feigning panic, moving closer. “Don’t shoot. Please don’t shoot me.”
    The big man looked disgusted. “What are you? Some sort of psycho fag?”
    A few inches more. “I was just…I was just…”
    A sound like the flutter of wings burst from somewhere above. The big man’s eyes flicked up toward the noise, all the opening that was needed.
    Tye spun his hands in a clockwise whip, grasping the top of the barrel with his left hand to push it away while breaking the man’s grip with a powerful chop from his other, executing a Kiaido Ryu gun disarm; he pulled back with the gun in his own control before the guy even knew what hit him.
    The man lost his balance for moment, but Tye wasn’t fooled. The guy came right back at him with a switchblade from somewhere, aiming for Tye’s midsection. Making a snap decision not to use the