Turncoat, Megan Derr [best ebook reader ubuntu txt] 📗

stupid kids, but Dixie hadn't lived this long by believing in things like luck and coincidence and hopefully. Heading for the back door, he unlocked it, grabbed the slugger he kept next to it, and stepped out into the chilly night.

Maybe he should have gotten dressed first. Too late now.

Another pained cry filtered across the backyard, coming from a little pile of shadow by the back gate, which gaped open and clacked as it struck the fence over and over. What in the hell? Still holding tight to the bat, Dixie knelt and found his way through layers of… damned interesting material for a man to be wearing. But beneath it all he found a steady pulse. Drawing back, he gingerly examined the rest of the figure—a man, to judge by the flat chest, though that didn't mean much necessarily—and came across blood when he touched the side of the man's head.

More and more interesting. Didn't seem to be any other wounds, though, so he set the bat aside and dragged the man fully into the yard, then closed and locked the gate… which had been locked from the inside and wasn't easy to reach even by leaning over the top. Either the man had a really long reach, or he'd unlocked it after climbing over, which made no damn sense. To let someone else through? Dixie looked around, listened carefully, but the man on the ground seemed to be the only one about.

Dixie retrieved his bat and hefted the little man up in his arms. Poor thing didn't feel like he'd weigh more than ninety pounds soaking wet.

Back inside, Dixie laid him out on the kitchen floor, closed and locked the door, then pulled out the first aid kit kept on a shelf over the washer and dryer. Some warm water and a soft cloth helped him clean the head wound, which turned out to be a small scratch that bled dramatically but didn't amount to much in the end. Dixie treated it to prevent infection, then put everything away and cleaned up, using peroxide to get rid of any sign of whose blood in particular had been in his kitchen.

Scooping up his house guest, still dead to the world, Dixie carried him down the hall to his bedroom and laid him out on the bed. He stripped the man's clothes off, frowning all over again as he examined the soft, pliant fabric lined with wires as fine as hair. It was specially made stuff that could work with the unique abilities of most supers. The material couldn't do everything—Matt's suit was unique to him, modified with nanotech to keep up with his ability to go invisible—but the list of stuff it couldn't handle was short.

Setting it aside on a chair in the corner, Dixie finally gave his guest a good look. If he had to guess, he'd wager the man was half-Latino, half-Asian, but more specific than that—hell if he knew. He had short hair, but getting on toward long like it needed a cut. A long white scar cut down the side of his throat and across the collarbone. That must have hurt like the fires of hell. More scars—burns, cuts, what looked ominously like shrapnel damage—peppered the rest of him. Whoever the man was, he wasn't very good at staying out of trouble. Or ducking.

He looked even smaller sprawled out on Dixie's massive bed. Maybe a touch over five feet, and Dixie still wouldn't bet much money on him being over a hundred pounds. If he was, it sure wasn't by much. There was a silver hoop in his left nipple. Man was pretty as hell…and looking was turning into gawking so that was enough of that.

Dimming the bedroom lights, Dixie went to throw out the remains of dinner and double check the house was locked up.

He stepped into the living room as someone knocked on the door. "Aw, hell." Scrubbing his face, rubbing his eyes so they'd look a bit more on the tired side, he trudged to the door and pulled it open, yawning as he did so. Switching his accent to Middle America, he asked, "Why in the world are a couple of dudes knocking on my door at asscrack o'clock?"

There were two of them, pale as bone and starched stiffer than their black suits. They wore sunglasses, adding to the douche factor, but Dixie knew G.O.D. snoop glasses when he saw them. Well, they could snoop all they wanted. They wouldn't learn anything about him he didn't want people to know.

The bigger one, built all brick shithouse like Dixie, said, "Apologies, sir. We're looking for a fugitive—"

"I don't see a badge," Dixie interrupted.

Their mouths pinched practically in unison as they pulled out badges that marked them as part of the G.O.D. Peace Force. "We're looking for a fugitive and we're afraid he might have snuck into one of the homes on this street. Have you heard any strange noises tonight? Noticed anything knocked over or moved that you know you didn't move yourself? Anything like that?"

Dixie shook his head. "Nope. It's just been me, pizza, and bad TV."

"Would you mind if we looked around?"

"Not if you come back with a warrant," Dixie replied flatly. "I'm sure you've noticed the garage next to my house. I'm a mechanic, and I was headed to bed. Day always starts too early around here, and I'm late going to bed as it is. I'm not letting a bunch of cops keep me up till dawn unless you've got a warrant that says I have to. With respect, agents."

The men nodded, but he knew pissed off law enforcement when he saw it. "Thank you for your time."

"Good luck with your hunt," Dixie said and waited there as they walked away.

Once they were gone, Dixie whirled around and finally went to put on some damned clothes.

'Cause he sure as hell wasn't going to get any sleep. If he knew the G.O.D., which he did better than most, they'd