Owl and the City of Angels by Kristi Charish Read Free Book Online Page A

the answer to—”
    “Knock it off, Alix. I’m serious.”
    Yeah, he said that now . . . funny how sentiments changed when details emerge . . .
    “Apparently the IAA is more pissed about me knocking off a mummy than usual,” I said.
    “There has to be more to it. The Egyptian cell phone and military lines are so plugged I can’t make head or tails of anything going on in Alexandria. There are reports of explosions and gunfire from your end of the city—”
    Somehow I doubted that was entirely the IAA’s fault. Even if they’d hacked every cell phone in the city trying to flush me out, it wouldn’t get messy this fast. “I think that has less to do with the IAA and everything to do with the riot—speaking of which, the masses are heading my way, so if you don’t mind—” I swore as I caught sight of an IAA suit on the neighboring building’s roof. My cover behind the worn patio set wasn’t foolproof, and he spotted me in a matter of seconds, pointing to his friend.
    Wait a minute, what was in his hand . . . “Oh hell no, when did the IAA start carrying guns?” I said. They wouldn’t shoot though, would they? Not in a crowded city . . . In answer, a bullet struck the mud brick not too far from my head.
    Damn, they meant business this time.
    “Alix?” Rynn said.
    “Got to go.”
    He swore. “Run—call back when you can, I’ll try to keep tabs on the IAA.”
    I hung up and glanced down at the alley, then up. On the roof across the street stood another three IAA agents. If I climbed down to the street now, I’d be a sitting duck.
    Lucky for me the balcony door was ajar. There was a lull in the bullets, so I threw Captain inside and dove in after him.
    The apartment was modest; a couch and TV took up the bulk of the living space, accompanied by a small kitchen. I spotted a family of three—maybe four—hiding behind the couch, staring at me, their eyes wide.
    Never underestimate the value of pure, unadulterated shock. It means people don’t react.
    I jerked my thumb back at the destruction outside their balcony. “One hell of a protest,” I said in broken Arabic.
    The man nodded, slowly, but didn’t say anything. “Door?” I asked, or hoped that’s what I asked. I’ve said it before, and I’ll say it again: languages are not my forte.
    The woman, huddled around a kid and wearing a bright green headscarf, nodded and pointed through the kitchen.
    With no intention of wearing out my shock value, I grabbed Captain and bolted out the front door and down four flights of stairs. When I hit the street, I was met by a sea of people in a mix of traditional white robes and typical Western wear of jeans and T-shirts. I wedged myself against the doorway, hoping they’d pass. They didn’t, endless and thick enough to crowd the narrow street. A woman screamed farther back, and I heard glass breaking.
    The riot had caught up.
    I shoved my hair inside my hood and tied it tight. Somehow I doubted there were many blond tourists fitting my description racing through the city now. “Hold on tight, Captain. The ride’s about to get rocky,” I said, and only after making damn sure my backpack was well strapped to my front did I dive into the crowd.
    The thing you have to remember about mobs is that they’re their own entity. The only way to navigate one is in a Zen-like state of calm—go with the flow . . .
    Well, that and throw a punch at anyone who tries to trample you and hope to hell no one decides this is the day to mug a tourist . . . or has the bright idea to throw something flammable.
    I kept my eyes peeled for the IAA as I rode the sea of people down a narrow side street, one that would take me to the docks.
    It’s always a pain to navigate a mob—especially if you’re short; the landmarks and road signs just, well, vanish. I caught sight of mosque spires I recognized five or six blocks to my right as the mob came up to a fork, and I rode the section that broke to the right. Turn