A Chance Meeting

Chapter 3:
Surprises


Tana stretched lazily and tried to shake the fuzz out of her head from last nights bar hopping. She rolled over, expecting to find Paul but meeting only more twisted blankets.

Wondering if she'd kicked him out of bed, Tana freed herself from the linen prison of her own design and looked to the floor beside her bed. No dice. A glance into the living room of her sparsely furnished apartment confirmed her suspicions.

"Just like a man," she said aloud, instantly regretting it. Red Bull and Jagermeister would not be on the menu next time.

She grabbed the cheap dime-store alarm clock on her nightstand and realized it was well past noon. Giving the numbskull the benefit of the doubt (she had slept like the dead, after all), Tana resolved to call him. After she'd showered and had coffee of course.

She crept unsteadily from the bed and into the crummy little bathroom. The young woman had tried to get Uncle Dave's old apartment, but it was too expensive for her budget. She was forced to settle for the hovel below it. At least it was clean…sort of.

Tana turned on the water in the shower stall and began the interminable wait for it to heat up. In the meantime, she checked herself out in the full-length mirror on the back of the bathroom door.

At 22, she was still trim and fit. Gymnastics saw that she kept the freshman 15 at bay all this time. She wasn't overly muscled, but toned, almost wiry. At 5'11" she seemed like an amazon to most guys, though.

Her breasts were small, but pert. She had long legs and guys always loved her butt. Everyone told her she looked great, but she didn't really see it.

With a wince she unwrapped the bandage on her elbow. The jagged, irregular wound wasn't healing right and still bled a little, even after a couple of weeks of her own treatment. With a frown she realized she'd have to go see a doctor. The steam filling the room mercifully interrupted that thought.

She sighed as she stepped into the shower, pulling the bi-fold door closed. Tana loved a hot shower and quickly washed her thick brown hair to better enjoy it before the water turned cold. Then she reached for the nearly empty bottle of body wash and set to work. As Tana's hands roamed all over her body, her mind drifted back to last night.

Paul's fake ID had passed muster, and as they drank and talked she couldn't help but be mesmerized by his haunting blue eyes. He had opted to leave his glasses at home, giving her ample opportunity to plumb the icy depths of those deep azure orbs. His straw colored hair was perfect, and under his brown pullover she could smell just a hint of polo.

Why must some guys bathe in it?

She knew it was wrong. He wouldn't be eighteen for a few weeks yet, but her reason was soon trampled by the alcohol.

Before she knew it, they were back at her apartment, writhing in her queen-size bed. The burgundy comforter and sheets were thick with the smell of sweat and passion and lust. The metal frame had groaned in protest at the abuse that it was taking. Tana couldn't help but cry out his name with her thunderous release, the shower having long since gone cold.

Vigilante cursed his luck as he wiped the rain from his crimson tinted goggles. His black ski-suit was soaked, and he didn't know how much traction the boots would give him on the wet asphalt behind the hotel if there were a fight. If he'd had half the experience of his predecessors, he'd know the answer to that. He also would have picked a better hiding spot than behind the stinking dumpster near the kitchen doors.

The alleyway he was in didn't see much traffic at least. Only the occasional rat or pigeon, neither of which were willing to brave the storm. The hero hoped the rain would stop soon.

It was already well past noon and he was wondering if he was even at the right address. The woman Paul had spoken to might have lied to him. Or maybe he'd written it down wrong. Whatever the case, Vigilante had waited as long as he could. He was about to stand up and leave when he heard footfalls approaching.

Scanning past the rows of trashcans that lined the alleyway, he saw her round the corner. She wore the same red coat and hat as the woman Paul met the previous day. He couldn't help but make a mental comparison to Carmen Sandiego and was forced to stifle a chuckle. As the rain dripped from the brim of her hat, she panned all around the alley. Throwing her hands up in disbelief, she turned to leave.

Then the four men came around the corner. The largest of the four, a man with long, ruddy brown hair dressed in leather chaps and vest over jeans and t-shirt seized her by the arms. "Well, lookit wat we got 'ere boys. Pretty little lady walkin' all by hersef," he hooted. The other three laughed and catcalled.

Pulling out an overly large hawkbill lockback, he grinned. "Give us yer purse, or wheel take yoo."

Great, Vigilante thought to himself. A fight was exactly what I was trying to avoid. But he had to do something. He was a hero after all. Wasn't he?

The black garbed man lunged out from behind the dumpster and shoved the nearest thug hard. The small, slim man with close-cropped red hair went sprawling onto the thick asphalt. He drew his .38 Caliber Service-Six and started to swing it toward the one with the knife.

Before he could take the shot, the heavyset thug to his left, moving impossibly fast for a fat guy in an overcoat had shouldered into him. Vigilante tried desperately to hold onto his weapon, but to no avail. As he landed face first in a puddle the pistol spun off under the dumpster.

The hero rolled over quickly and saw the thug with the knife slap the woman hard, sending her to her knees. He turned toward Vigilante with a devilish grin. "Grab 'im boys. An' ah'll stick 'im." They began to circle like vultures.

Their would be victim pushed himself up to his feet with a grunt. "Yer' gonna die t'day, hero," the leader bellowed. With a hand behind his waist and the other open in front of him, Vigilante slowly inched backwards as they closed in.

When the fat guy and his pint sized partner charged him, Vigilante was ready. He snapped his left leg up hard between the butterball's legs, sending the man to his knees in tears. At the same time, his left hand snaked out from behind his back, holding a small yellow truncheon.

With a hollow crunch, it rapped the short, balding thug, drawing blood. As the man clutched his skull and leaned forward in a daze, the hero moved to swing again but caught the gap between the dumpster and it's lid on the back swing.

As the hero yanked hard in a desperate attempt to free his trapped weapon, he saw a flash of silver to his left. Vigilante raised his arm defensively and was horrified as the knifepoint came through it, showering his goggles with blood. With a scream, the hero stumbled backward, tripping over the fat man.

Vigilante turned as he fell landing on his arm and driving the weapon deeper. As pain lanced through his arm, he felt his right hand close on the cold handgrip of the revolver. He lay there a moment and tried desperately to force down the pain.

"Hurts, don' it", he heard the dark-haired man say. "Dat's jus da beginnin'. Yer gonna hurt a lot more before you die.

Vigilante rolled onto his back and pulled the trigger. He heard a yell, and wiped the blood from his goggles. The knife-wielding thug lay in front of the hero clutching at his bleeding ankle. Through fuzzy vision he saw the other three men scrambling for cover.

The wounded thug let out a steady stream of obscenities that would make Ralphie Parker blush. The would-be hero felt the gun fall from his hand. He heard it clatter on the ground loudly. Then he laid his head on the cool asphalt and couldn't help but grin at the maimed thug as unconsciousness claimed him.

The woman in red moved forward then. As she pulled a handset out of her pocket, she stomped on the wounded thug's ankle and ground her foot. "Useless idiot," she growled in a thick Russian accent.

Her heavily bandaged hands, looking much like a mummy's worked the radio deftly. "Stein," she barked. "Bring the car around. I have him."

"The Vigilante," a man's voice responded.

"Negative," the woman responded with a grin as she pulled the mask from the would-be hero. Rain ran down his youthful face in rivulets. His fine blond hair was limp and soaked, and a trickle of blood ran from his nose.

"Paul Chase," she replied, her grin widening still.