Thigh High by Christina Dodd Page A

familiar with the streets, like a man who took what he wanted.
    Then, slowly, his head turned. He looked right at the rusting Dumpster.
    A man with a hat pushed low over his eyes and a scarf wrapped over his mouth stepped out. He pointed a handgun at them. At Mac. “Gimme your wallet.”
    Frustration hit her first.
    New Orleans was really showing off her tricks.
    Then rage rose in her, caught at her throat.
    Her wallet? Not even.
    Without thought, she flung the hailstones at their mugger.
    He ducked.
    One struck his shoulder. The other glanced off his head with satisfying thunk.
    Before the mugger had recovered, Mac launched himself into the air, kicking out right at the guy.
    The pistol fired.
    Mac booted it out of the mugger’s hand.
    The mugger hit the wall behind him, hard enough to knock the air out of him.
    Mac landed on his feet. Started toward him. Slipped on the hail and ended up on his butt.
    He didn’t curse. He got up, but the mugger wasn’t waiting around to see if Mac could get in a second kick. He ran, his legs rolling out from underneath like a marionette.
    Mac collapsed back onto the ground and took a deep breath.
    â€œYou okay?” She fumbled her cell phone out of her purse.
    â€œWhat are you doing?” Mac asked sharply.
    â€œCalling the police.”
    He caught her hand. “Don’t bother. He’s long gone.”
    â€œBut there’s a gun. They could get fingerprints—”
    â€œAnd do what? Catch some drug user who is already on parole? As has been pointed out to me multiple times today, during Mardi Gras, the police don’t have time to do more than herd people.” With a grimace, Mac rose to his feet, then fixed his dark eyes on her. “Why in the hell did you throw those hailstones? Don’t you know you’re not supposed to resist a mugging?”
    â€œWhy the hell did you kick him?” She mimicked him. “Don’t you know you’re not supposed to resist a mugging?”
    He didn’t answer. He used his silence to demand an explanation, and she found herself muttering, “I hate thieves.”
    He laughed, a brief bark of amusement.
    That startled her. She didn’t know he could laugh. “I don’t see what’s so funny. I hate being robbed. I work too hard for my money to hand it over.”
    â€œYou could have been hurt.”
    â€œ I could have been hurt? What about you? I didn’t do an imitation of Bruce Lee. Not to mention—” A tear on his jacket caught her attention. On the side, under his arm, right through the fabric. She could see light through it. “What did you do? Did you—”
    The pistol had gone off. The pistol had discharged.
    â€œDamn it, he shot you.” She lifted the material.
    She expected to see that the bullet had struck only the coat. Because otherwise, how was he standing?
    But a red stain spread across his white shirt.
    â€œMy God, he shot you,” she repeated, her voice rising. She caught at him. “Sit down. Let me—”
    â€œIt’s nothing.”
    â€œNothing? You’re bleeding.”
    He pulled his handkerchief out of his pocket and pressed it to his side. “The bullet nicked me, that’s all.”
    â€œI’ll call an ambulance.”
    Again, as she lifted her phone to her ear, he caught her hand. “No.”
    â€œYou’ve been shot.” Didn’t he understand how serious this was?
    â€œI’ll go back to my hotel and wrap it up.”
    â€œWrap it…it’s a gunshot wound. You can’t just wrap it up!”
    He was starting to look amused. “The bullet didn’t even puncture an organ.”
    â€œOh, well, then. As long as it didn’t take out a kidney or anything,” she said sarcastically.
    â€œIf I’d been a little quicker on the kick, he wouldn’t have gotten the shot off at all.”
    â€œShame on you! You’re not up on your karate!”
    He