The Independants/Rap Sheets/The Jade Pendant
From Unofficial Handbook of the Virtue Universe
"I fucking hate the French."
"Yeah, no shit," Carlos agreed. He flipped open his phone and stared, his eyes wandering unfocused across its face and down to the small black and crimson bag of jewelry on the floor. "But I love that accent, man. What you think she was saying?"
"Probably praying we wouldn't shoot her. Just call the boss, tell 'im we caught some thief in the house and threw her out with the garbage. And get me a fucking ambulance. Coño!"
"Yeah, alright man."
Fifteen feet from the house, a car dimmed its lights and pulled off to the side of the road. Its driver hustled over to the lawn, groomed to perfection except where a young girl lay. He dragged the petite blonde across the sidewalk, wrestled her limp form into the back seat and gunned it.
Two minutes earlier...
"Petit! They're back, get out of there!"
"Merde. I can't, I do not have ze jewelry!"
"Forget it, Petit, you've got to--
"No." With a petulant snap, the thief's Razr disconnected and slid into a tight pocket. Downstairs, the front door creaked open and four heavy men scanned the room, instantly alarmed when the security system didn't beep its demand for a passcode. Upstairs, the lithe French girl flashed a narrow beam of light across the mistress's room, desperately searching for the necklace her reputation dangled from. Any other jewelry she found would put food in her stomach, buy medicine, patch armor, feed her hungry pistols and pay dangerous debts.
Fifteen seconds later, two small sacks, black and cherry red, matching the skintight FlexWeave covering her from neck to toe, were filled with diamonds, gold, silver, some jade and emeralds, all intricately worked and worth a fortune, and lashed to Petit's hips. She doused the light, secured it against her thigh and carefully approached the door. Four men, she estimated, and by the sound of their hushed whispering, they already knew where to look. The mistress's bedroom, where Senor Ramon Pistiolo's vast funds accumulated in the form of jewelry and useless baubles.
Paired pistols slid quietly into Petit's palms. She crouched, took aim... waited... waited...
-blam-blam-blam-blam-blam-blam-
Wood splintered and a strangled cry pierced the door's new ventilation system, quickly followed by the sluggish -BLAM- of heavy revolvers returning fire. Clinging precariously to a centering beam running along the ceiling, with her pistols reholstered, Petit waited... again.
"Jose!"
"Forget it, James, he's dead. And so is whoever's in there. Go check it out."
The door opened slowly, ever so slowly. And like molasses through a cigarette holder, James shuffled into the room. Petit's muscles strained to hold her flat along the thick wood. Her inner thighs were beginning to burn as the man looked around the room in awe. "What... there's nobody in here."
"That's impossible. Turn on the light, you idiot."
"How can--
"Mazheek!" Petit declared flippantly just before her feet slammed into James' shoulders. She hit the ground rolling as a bullet buzzed past, biting James in the ass. Pistols once again flew to the french rogue's hands. Launching from her roll into a low dive past the landing, bullets ripped open the space between the muzzle of her guns and the surprised head firing blindly from the top of the stairs. Four deadly rounds punched open his eyes, mouth and cheek before the man behind him could raise his magnum. By then, she was out of sight down the hall.
He was smarter than the other three men. "I know you're up there..." he called, testing her.
"Brillant. Vous pouvez tromper un âne."
"Wh-what? I don't speak-- look... you're trapped--
"Vos amis ont été aussi rapides que les escargots--
"-- in that hallway. Just slide your guns over and we won't--"
"-- et la chambre des maîtres est derrière moi. Vous perdez. Au revoir."
"-- hurt you too bad."
Petit concluded her exit barb with a quick roll of the door handle and an even quicker curse. The bathroom she was pressed against had no windows. He was right. Even worse, she'd underestimated the man from the mistress's room. He wasn't dead. The bullet bit hard into the slim girl's chest, staggering her back onto the cool white bathroom tile and a second whizzed past her neck before she brought both pistols to bear. One flung a wide shot into the shooter's shoulder. It wasn't a kill, but his gun skidded across the wood floor of the mistress's bedroom. Her other pistol was aimed right at the smart man's head as he peeked from the stairs into the hall.
"Okay," she spat confidently, "I will make yeu a new deal."
"Who the fuck are you?!" cried the man with the shattered shoulder. "I shot you!"
"Yeu," addressed the rogue, pointing at the now very vulnerable - and very willing to listen - headshot waiting to happen. "Open ze window."
"I fucking shot you!"
"I will leave ze jewelry here and yeu can tell your boss--"
"Square in the chest, I know it, you're dead! That's--
"Shut up! Vous pleurnicher comme un chien sans-abri!" she shouted. With both guns still trained on each of the men, she drew herself up. There was a burn where the bullet cracked right in the middle of her chest, but the girl was no worse for wear. "I have already said. Iz mazheek. Yeu cannot kill me."
"Y-you'll leave the jewelry?"
Keeping one pistol leveled at the unwounded man's head, she lowered the other and unstrapped the small sacks. The weight of a hundred thousand American dollars in jewelry tinged with a crystalline remorse in all three pairs of ears as it hit the ground. "Zo. Yeu will put down your gun. And open ze window. Yeu tell your boss yeu ran off ze thief and she got away wiz nothing."
Suspicion furrowed his brow. "Just like that, huh?"
"Oui. Just like that," she shrugged. He wasn't convinced, but he had two dead men and another bleeding out in the mistress's room. "I do not like to kill people," Petit shrugged, "and if you try to stop me, I will have to kill yeu. If I take ze jewelry, your boss will have to kill yeu. It is better zis way, non?"
Slowly, still skeptical of her intentions, the man did as she suggested, then backed away from the window. The slim rogue kept her pistol pointed between his eyes as she climbed out and pulled it shut behind her. As Petit suspected, another car had pulled up and more men were entering the house already. They'd be looking for her if the man didn't hold his end of the bargain. She waited again, feeling the life slowly ebb from her body as she leaned against the second story wall.
There was no 'mazheek' involved - this time. He had hit her solidly in the chest and her lungs and heart were stuggling to keep her alive despite several badly cracked ribs. FlexWeave body armor had traded her a swift death for a slow, agonizing one. Petit knew she was running out of time. Carefully, she pushed away from the wall and padded along the sloped awning. At the edge, she peered down briefly, then dropped away from the light spilling from first story windows.
Tears formed at her eyes from the impact. Petit flipped open her Razr and speed-dialed her partner, Fishhead, a blessedly simple man who'd tried to warn her of this. Small, light steps had already carried her quickly from the house when he answered, panicked, and the words she was able to squeek out before her weak legs sent her tumbling into the grass didn't comfort him. "Fishhead. H-help..."
Three days later...
"There, there..." Balloons and flowers lay haphazardly on a bedside table. The room was dark and, except for Fishhead and herself, empty. "Back from the dead. I suppose it's mazheek, right?" he joked.
"Non," she answered, wincing. "Just... good medicine. My necklace... where is it?"
"It's here," he said, lifting a small jade dragon pendant on a fine silver chain from the pile of her clothes. "I've never seen you wear this."
"It's... from ze job."
His eyes widened. "Shit! I'll take this to him... he must think we've run with it, by now."
"Wait! Fish--
"Shh... You're in no condition to move," he protested, pushing her gently back onto the bed. "I'll take it to Chills and explain we had to lay low for a couple days."
"Fishhead! It's... nngg...." He was out and the door shut before she could finish, and she soon after lapsed unconscious again. When two more days passed, weak, hungry and still in pain, but otherwise healthy, Petit slipped out of the bed. Fishhead had done a good job patching her up. He always did. But if he hadn't returned, that could only mean she'd been sold - again - and he'd paid the price for it this time.
The blonde slowly dressed herself and gathered her pistols and equipment. She'd already stayed there too long.
