Emily Kimelman - Sydney Rye 05 - The Devil's Breath by Emily Kimelman Page B

the girl’s hair right at the apex of her forehead. Twisting my body hard, I ripped out the hair and brought my right fist around in a cross strike that knocked the girl off her feet. Before she touched the pavement I’d already backed up next to Blue, holding the bloody clump of blonde hair. When she did hit the ground, she stayed there.
    Having their leader knocked out cold left the other two girls with a dilemma. “You can take her and go,” I said. They cautiously moved toward the small pink figure. Each grabbed her under an arm and began to lift. She moaned and her head lolled on her neck, blood dripped down her face. As I watched them leave the alley, Blue turned and I heard clapping. I swiveled and dropped low at the same time. Blue took off toward the figure who, when she stepped into the light, I recognized as my old friend, Malina.
    “Same old Sydney Rye,” she said in her light Mexican accent.
    I stood up and walked to meet her, dropping the clump of hair on the ground. Blue pranced around Malina and she stopped clapping to give him the greeting he expected. Kisses on the face and ruffling of the ears. “Malina,” I said, pulling her into a hug. “It’s great to see you.” Blue pushed between us with a low yowl of protest and we both laughed, breaking apart.
    Malina looked dazzling as she almost always did. Long dark hair falling in large waves over her shoulders, glittering almond shaped eyes, flawless skin. She wore a belted rain coat, her legs bare, and low heels that, on her, looked sexy.
    “How did you find me?” I asked.
    “Dan,” she said. “You know he tracks you.”
    I laughed. “Is that creepy?”
    She shrugged. “You ask me, it’s romantic but…” Malina laughed.
    I put an arm around her. “Let’s get a drink.”
    “Yes, someplace quiet. We need to talk.”
    #
    “Y ou remember the first time we met?” Malina asked, looking around the bar.
    “Pretty different than this,” I answered, remembering the tourist trap in Puerto Penasco where our beers wept onto the table and Malina was allowed to smoke. Her best friend recently murdered, Malina fought back tears and danced with men for money while I stewed over the injustices of the world and my inability to do anything about them.
    Our waitress this evening was almost as scantily clad as the one who’d served us that night. We ordered two cognacs, it seemed appropriate with the late hour and sultry decor of the bar. “How are those girls?” I asked after the waitress, wearing fishnet stockings and black silk short shorts, left us with our drinks. I took a sip, the strong liquor filled my nose and pricked at my eyes.
    “Good,” she said. “Lenox took them to a non-profit that specializes in helping victims of sex trade traffic get green cards and rebuild their lives. And he cleaned up your mess. Both guys survived and neither of them is admitting a woman got the best of them.”
    “What were they doing with those girls?”
    “Making them work in clubs, dance, suck dick, what do you think, Sydney?”
    “Guessing those guys weren’t the masterminds behind the operation.”
    “I could ask Lenox for a name.”
    “Lenox?” I asked. “The man on the phone?”
    “Devastatingly handsome and sexy man.” Malina fanned herself. “You’re lucky you didn’t meet him, what with your already tangled romantic life.” I flinched and Malina cleared her throat. “I’ve known him for about two years.”
    “He’s in your business?”
    She smiled. “Yes, but he specializes in the opposite sex.”
    “Men.”
    She nodded. “And he believes strongly in human rights on both sides of the marketplace.”
    “Very noble.” 
    “He is quite a man.”
    I laughed. “I’m sure.”
    There was a pause during which Malina chewed on her bottom lip. “What?” I asked.
    “Dan wasn’t supposed to tell you.”
    “You too, Malina?”
    “You don’t want to join us, Dan says.”
    “I don’t know what it is,” I answered honestly, sitting