Summary Of A Dog's Short Story: Tracker

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A Beckman short barrel in her thigh gun holster, Lady Killer snuggled in her right boot, one dagger up her right sleeve and two more nestled in the harness under her leather jacket. Throwing stars in every pocket with a mini claymore shoved down her pants. Just for luck, she slid nickel knuckle spikes onto the gloved fingers of her left hand. Gloves that covered the poisoned flechette inserts underneath polished nails. Sosa climbed out of her car, slung her satchel over her shoulder, and lowered her visor. Baden Burrows was no place for the underdressed. Her long, blonde braid slapped her back in rhythm with her leather boots as they hit the chalk covered sidewalk, raising dust with every step. A couple of ice dealers on the corner watched her pass with keen interest until they saw the sigil tattooed on her cheek. Then they looked away. Ten minutes later, she knocked on…show more content…
Sosa half sneered, half smiled. That was like asking a wolf if she was a dog. “I’m a guild registered Tracker. Now let me in or I’m leaving this shithole and not coming back.” “Oh--sorry.” The door opened and she breezed through the doorway. “Are you Sosa?” She turned around and froze. Beside the now closed door stood a skinny jumble of a girl, with arms and legs everywhere, who couldn’t be more than thirteen. A pair of grey green eyes peeked out from behind jagged, dark hair. Eyes the color of the sea after a storm. Elesa’s eyes. Of course, the girl wasn’t Elesa. Elesa died six months ago. Sosa skipped her funeral--if Trackers went to funerals they would do nothing else. Instead she drank all day. Drank, free-based ice, screwed women, then men—did whatever it took to forget Elesa, dead and buried in the ground. She walked up to the girl until only inches lay between them. “Who is Elesa to you?” Sosa towered over at the girl every part of her not skin or bone, muscle. But though the girl swallowed, she didn’t squirm or avert her eyes. That impressed
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