A Taste for Jazz

One thing's for sure, ever since hell broke loose over The Seven, I've had more strange gigs than I imagined possible. Oh, sure, the bulk of my work is still the bail jumpers and those high bounty cases I stumble across, but in the last six months, my jobs have included tracking down and apprehending vampires and shifters, fae and even a daemon. Not my normal gig and it sure as hell isn't as easy. These Seven people have skills that make guns as effective as bring a knife to gunfight.

If you can't get the jump on them, or take them while they're asleep, you're only hope is to drug or tranquilize them. And to be honest, I've stopped taking those gigs. Not because I can't use the money, but because nothing about it seems right.

I mean, if they've committed a crime or are on the run from the law, well that's okay. But to bring them in just because they're different? That just feels wrong to me.

I'm not a woman to stand on a moral platform, and my life stands as testimony that I'm not above bending a rule or skirting a law if the need arises. But the way things are going with the government and The Seven makes me think of the Nazis—and genocide is a nasty business I want no part of.

It cuts into my bottom line, but hey, there are still other bounties to be collected. And if push comes to shove, I can always go back into personal security. I'm sure some rich or famous person somewhere needs a bodyguard.

Jazz performed a quick visual of the area to determine if she were being observed. Clothed in black and protected by the cover of a large hedge, she felt secure, but never forgot a lesson learned early in her career. Caution is the first and most important rule of the game.

After carefully removing the circle of glass she'd cut in the window and placing it on the ground, she quickly repacked her instruments into her pack. She slipped into the pack's harness, once again admiring its design. The body-hugging fit prevented the tools of her trade from jostling around on her back. A shift in their position could affect her mobility or balance.

She reached inside to unlock the window and slowly push it open. Music from inside the house disguised any minute sound she made as she climbed inside and pulled both guns from their holsters.

Despite having a veritable arsenal to choose from, nine times out of ten she found herself selecting the same weapons, a matched set of Glock 31c's, two 357 SIGs with fifteen-round magazines, ported on the barrel and slide to reduce muzzle flip while shooting.

Muzzle flip could mean life or death in her business, thus her preference for the 31c. Its ports pushed gases up so that the resulting upward force kept the recoil minimized. In short—a quicker follow-up shot due to reduced muzzle flip, or what most people called recoil.

With weapons securely in hand, she crossed the room, staying out of the line of sight from the door. Once she reached the door, she flattened herself against the wall and carefully peered out into the hall. Empty.

On silent but swift feet, she hurried down the hall. Upon reaching the end, she pressed back against the wall, listening to the sounds coming from the living area of the house. She could hear three voices, all male. She could detect no other movement or sound from the rest of the house aside from the music. Jazz grinned as she felt the surge of adrenaline that always preceded action and stepped out into the room, feet braced wide, both arms extended and weapons ready.