My WIP is again about Azazel and is part of the Golden Wing Series from The Wild Rose Press. Here;s the beginning:
Chapter 1
As with most of my adventures, this one started innocently enough. I’d been feeling a bit lonely, tired of staring at the four walls, and decided to go out and about in Sin City—Viva Las Vegas. I took a short cut through a back alley and happened upon a human tragedy in progress. Gun drawn, a street kid had cornered an old man between a dumpster and a brick wall.
“Good evening, Junior-G, my name is Azazel. Drop your weapon, put your hands above your head, and turn around slowly.” My voice was calm and gritty, a fair imitation of my favorite actor from the Old West. I was tempted to add or I’ll twitch my nose and your cock will fall off, but that might get the old man shot.
The kid whirled, gun leveled at my chest, and fired. The acrid scent of the discharge stung my nostrils. The bullet sped toward me, spun ninety-degrees, and like a heat-seeking missile honed in on its target, the kid holding the gun. Junior’s jaw dropped, his eyes wide enough to pop from his head. At the last instant, the bullet veered right and struck the dumpster with metallic thunder. The kid hung there as if suspended from invisible strings attached to the waistband of his drooping jeans.
The bad ass rocked up and down on his heels. “What the—Motherfu—”
“Mind your tongue, Junior.” Cool, confident, I strolled across the stained concrete.
He gave me a tough guy stare, but the hand holding the gun trembled. Effort pinched his face. Understanding what had just happened stretched his intellect. He fast became a nervous kid in street clothes. Baggy jeans rode low, showing red briefs. Combat boots. Bleached skulls stacked on his black t-shirt. Junior was too shocked, and I moved too fast, grabbing the gun from his frozen fingers and using it to wave him along.
“Run home now, J.G. Your Mama’s cooking turnip greens and cornbread.” My smile was benevolent, but my eyes sparkled dangerous. “Remember, if you ever harm a woman, a child, or the elderly, I’ll know and…” I could no longer resist and wagged a finger in his face. “I’ll twitch my nose and make your cock fall off.”
“Shit man, what you talking about?” The kid did one of those bag of rags shuffles like a scarecrow with the stuffing knocked out.
“You know I turned the bullet midair. With no more than a careless thought, I could cause a vein in your head to rupture. You’d be dead before you hit the ground. Creating a cockless wonder is,” I snapped my fingers, “that easy. Shall I prove it?”
He must have found one functioning brain cell. “You’re one crazy mo-fro.” And then another synapse randomly fired, and he clutched his groin. “How’d you know my name?”
“I was holding your mother’s hand the day you were born.” A priest in denim, I signed the cross. “Go, and sin no more.”
He puffed up his chest, narrowed his eyes, and shot me another gangster look.
I leaned forward and snapped my fingers. “Boo.”
Hitching up his pants, he ran blind, his head twisted at an odd angle to watch me over his shoulder. His cap flew off, and hair as long as mine spilled down his back. An alley cat, disturbed by the pitter-patter of his scared little feet, screeched.
“Feets don’t fail me now.” I laughed aloud, so the kid could hear me, strode to the dumpster, and tossed the gun into the reeking garbage.
I was rather pleased with myself.
