Galilee Rising(15)

"Gee, thanks for the advice," she says before studying me for a second. "You know the pictures on the news didn't do you any justice." She giggles. "Get it? Justice? Anyway, I just wanted to say thanks for getting him killed. I've made more money in the past few months than the whole two years before. It was real swell of you."

"Go to hell."

She clucks her tongue. "Boys, guess who just volunteered to be our hostage? This woman just keeps on giving."

"Done ma'am," says one of the henchmen. He hikes his pouch over his shoulder. Larceny completed, the others return to the rappel ropes.

KitKat tilts her head to grin down at me. "Ready to go, JoJo? Get up." She grabs my arm, but I yank it away with a sneer. I can stand by myself. "Hope you're not afraid of heights."

"I'm not," a woman says above.

All eyes move up to the source. Hovering in what's left of the jagged skylight is Lady Liberty with a huge smirk, blonde hair and cape flapping from the nearby helicopter. I will never say another bad word about her again. The bad guys, including KitKat, all gape at her for a second. I don't waste the opportunity. As I was trained at the academy, with one fluid movement, I grab the barrel of her gun, step to the side, yank it toward me so hard it breaks her finger, tilt her wrist down, and commandeer the gun. She yelps in pain and surprise. Still got it.

At the same time, Liberty swoops down like a hawk toward the now frightened mice. The henchmen raise their guns as she rockets toward them. By the time I have the gun, the men open fire. All the ladies scream in panic, some ducking down, but I tune this out. I point the gun at the villain while sweeping her legs out from underneath her. In shock, she remains on the floor, staring up at me as spent slugs rain down on us. The bullets hit Liberty's force-field and cascade down like copper hail. Oblivious, the hero glides around the room punching, kicking, and generally beating the shit out of four hulking motherfuckers with guns. Two pounce at the same time but with a swift kick backwards and glittering energy blast forward, both topple like dominoes. Without missing a beat, she dispatches the last one with a roundhouse to the jaw. He crumples to the floor unconscious like the others. It's all over in about ten seconds. Girl power.

Panting from the effort and still in battle stance with fists raised, she surveys the room for more threats. She stops on me, meeting my eyes. "That all of them?"

"Guy in the helicopter," I say.

"I'll get him. Police are on the way." She glances down at KitKat. "Looks like you can handle the rest." She smiles at me. "Good job." And as fast as she came, she's gone.

A few seconds later the ropes fall and the helicopter flies away so we can hear the sirens in the distance. The other women rise, all but KitKat who glares up at me. I grin. "Bitch, you crashed the wrong fucking party."



*



I insisted on riding to the hospital with the still sobbing Bitsy. The paramedics revived her with smelling salts but advised she should go get checked for a concussion. All in all it could have been a hell of a lot worse. A few other guests were treated for minor cuts and bruises. When the ambulance was pulling away I saw a medic splinting KitKat's finger in the back of a police cruiser. That brought a small smile to my face.

The emergency room at Our Lady is quiet when we arrive, so we're brought right into an exam room. "Get Dr. Ambrose," I order the intern who begins looking my friend over. Only the best for my friend. Bitsy threw up twice in the ambulance, so I'm certain she has a concussion. Last year made me quite the expert. About ten minutes later, and a million assurances nobody will hold the robbery against her since it was her party, the good doctor with nurse in tow arrives. I'm embarrassed to admit my stomach flutters when he steps in. He glances up from Bitsy's chart, glasses perched on the end of his nose, and his mouth opens a little in surprise when he sees me. It takes a second for him to remember himself. His mouth sets into a firm, straight line. "Mrs. Armstrong?" he asks, all business.

I pat her hand. "I'll let Dr. Ambrose examine you." I stand. "I'll be just outside."

With a smile her way, I walk to the door. Jem doesn't glimpse up as I pass. My cell has been buzzing non-stop since we left, so I go to the waiting area and plop down in one of the chairs. On the TV above a reporter recaps the "hostage situation at the Restoration Society luncheon just minutes ago." I give it half an hour before my name crops up and I'm inundated with phone calls from reporters. My cousin Veronica, one of said bottom feeders though I never hold that against her, has already tried per my call history. Dobbs, Gene Tully my press guy, my old partner Cam, and Harry have all left voice messages. As I'm texting Dobbs to come get me, Thayer Armstrong, Bitsy's husband, rushes into the lounge. He spots me and hurries over. "I got your message. How is she? Is she okay?"