The Acceptance

crunching of nose cartilage, and waited to see if that would end the fight.

A rank curse brought a brief pause, but didn’t quell the attack. The pipe swung again, and again missed her. She was too fast, too agile for the likes of this cretin.

This time Gaby kicked out a knee, and watched the attacker’s leg buckle. He almost fell, stumbled instead, and took another vicious swing at her head.

An enthusiastic opponent, for sure.

Determined and stupid.

Leaving her few choices in the matter.

The weapon hit the paved street with a deafening clash. She thought she might have heard Mort scream, but she tuned out all distractions to get in the zone, to deal with this threat.

To . . . destroy it.

Taking advantage of the assailant’s bludgeoned state, Gaby brought her blade straight up—and felt it burst through vessels, fat, and muscle.

She joined her hands together, pushed hard and deep, and experienced the satisfying sensation of deflecting off a bone.

An agonized scream rang out, this one from the man pierced by her blade.

Thanks to his persistence in trying to do her harm, it was even easier to ignore than Mort’s distress.

Tugging out the knife against the natural resistance, the suck and drag of wet, fibrous flesh, Gaby stepped to the side and, for only a heartbeat, waited.

As she assumed, her strike ended the fight.

The clunky pipe dropped to the ground with a clattering echo. Her adversary’s knees buckled. The body slumped.

Disappointed that she’d had to use such extreme measures, Gaby muttered, “That was hardly worth the effort.”

Gigging this son of a bitch had done little to alleviate her burgeoning belligerence.

The recondite disguise served no purpose now, but what did she care who her attacker might be? Craven souls, both insignificant and exalted, crawled over the surface of the earth with annoying sedulousness.

The more Gaby accepted her life’s duty, the more she relished taking on them all, with or without God’s specific mandate.

No, she didn’t care who this inconsequential gnat might be.

But Mort did. Creeping closer, he asked, “Good God, Gaby. Who is that?”

Knife still in her hand, now crimson with gore, Gaby shrugged her tense shoulders. She kicked the fallen figure with the toe of her boot. “Hey, my friend wants a name.”

She said it, and then it struck her all over again.

Her friend.

Would she ever get entirely used to the concept?

Mort wanted details on this attack because he cared for her. She sensed his misguided tendency to protect her—never mind that, moments before, he’d screeched like a little girl.

As a dark puddle of blood blossomed around him, the assailant slumped to his side in a protective curl more appropriate to the womb than a dirty street.

Voice shaking, faint, he said, “Carver hired me . . . to kill . . . you.”

“Yeah?” Gaby knelt down, curiosity now piqued. “You failed big-time, huh?”

In a barely audible whisper, the man said, “He’ll kill me now.”

“Nah, I doubt it. You’ll be dead before he can get to you.”

Mort said, “Gaby,” with a lot of worry. “Why would anyone want you dead?”

“I don’t know.” She nudged the man. “How come he sent you after me?”

There was a strange gurgle, then the body went flat, sprawled on the pavement, limp and still.

She looked back at Mort. “Think you ought to call someone before he really does expire?”

Mort chewed his bottom lip, his brows pinched. “I suppose.” But he didn’t rush to do it, further surprising Gaby. “He wanted to kill you, Gaby. He tried to cleave your head open with that pipe.”

“Shake it off, Mort. The clown wasn’t even close.” She stood again and held out her hand. “Give me the phone.”

With grave reluctance, he said, “No, I’ll do it. You need to clean that knife.”

“True.” Bending at the waist, she jerked off the man’s ridiculous mask, saw a face gone slack in near death, and said, “I don’t recognize him. You?”

Shaking his head hard, Mort said, “No.” He looked at Gaby. “Who’s Carver?”

“No one important.” She used the mask to clean off as much of the blood and gore as she could. To the naked eye, the knife looked spotless. The naked eye wasn’t good enough. Soon as possible, she’d do a thorough job.

She slid the weapon back into her sheath.

“You should probably go,” Mort told her.

Not a bad idea, really. As he punched in 911, she asked, “What will you say?”

“That I couldn’t see much, but after the fight broke up and a body was on the ground, I figured I’d better call.” He held up a finger, and spoke into the phone. “Hey, yeah, I have an emergency. Yeah, a guy’s been stabbed. He’s hurt real bad, might even be dead.”

Gaby marveled at the lack of emotion in his tone. Sure, he’d screamed out during the attack. But after that, he’d quickly gathered himself.

The Mort she used to know would have been a nervous wreck after witnessing an altercation that resulted in a limp, bleeding body.

This Mort took charge, accepting that some things were inevitable—and necessary.

After giving the police their general location, Mort disconnected the call.

He’d impressed her, and it took a lot to do that these days. “Thanks, Mort.”

“Thank you. For coming back. For being my friend.” He turned solemn, distraught, far too grave. “Thank you for doing what others won’t. What they can’t.”

“If you get maudlin, I’m smacking you.”

The corner of his mouth kicked up, and for the very first time since meeting him, Gaby thought he might not be such a slimy-looking little guy.

Confidence, control, changed his appearance as much as a summons changed hers.

“No, I won’t,” he said. “But I’ve thought about you a lot, Gaby, about the burden you bear.”

She reared back, threatening him, and Mort laughed before holding up his hands in surrender. “Fine. I know you don’t need my thanks. Now go before they get here. And make sure you scrub that knife clean.”

Bossing her? He really had changed. “I know what to do.”

Silent, he walked beside her toward an oppressive alley no doubt filled with more human vermin. “We need to know why Carver wants you dead.”

What the hell? Gaby glared at him. “Wrong, Mort. We don’t need to know anything. Go back to your place and visit with your girlfriend. Forget about this.”

His sigh was loud enough to send a rat scurrying away. “Gaby—”

“I can take care of myself, and you know it. As for Carver, you can leave that numb-nut to me.”

Drawing back, Mort stared at her with disapproval. “You know why he’s after you, don’t you?”

Good God. Bossing, questions—was there no end to his intrusion? “You want me to go, or stick around to chat with the cops?”

Frustration put back his scrawny shoulders. “Go. But, Gaby? Promise you’ll come to see me again.”

“Yeah, sure. Eventually.” It wasn’t a lie. She’d be back.

After she wrote the rest of the newest Servant novel.

And had a little one-on-one chat with Carver.

And met again with Luther . . .

“Damn,” she said, only half under her breath, “having friends can be a pain in the ass.”

Mort smiled, lifted a hand to wave, and when she was almost out of range to hear, he said, “I love you, too, Gaby.”