Huntress by Lisa Jane Smith, now you can read online.
"It's simple," Jez said on the night of the last hunt of her life. "You run. We chase. If we catch you, you die. Well give you three minutes head start."
The skinhead gang leader in front of her didn't move. He had a pasty face and shark eyes. He was standing tensely, trying to look tough, but Jez could see the little quiver in his leg muscles.
Jez flashed him a smile.
"Pick a weapon," she said. Her toe nudged the pile at her feet. There was a lot of stuff there- guns, knives, baseball bats, even a few spears. "Hey, take more than one. Take as many as you want. My treat."
There was a stifled giggle from behind her and Jez made a sharp gesture to stop it. Then there was silence. The two gangs stood facing each other, six skinhead thugs on one side and Jez's gang on the other. Except that Jez's people weren't exactly normal gang members.
The skinhead leader's eyes shifted to the pile. Then he made a sudden lunge and came up with something in his hand.
A gun, of course. They always picked guns. This particular gun was the kind it was illegal to buy in California these days, a large caliber semiautomatic assault weapon. The skinhead whipped it up and held it pointed straight at Jez. Jez threw back her head and laughed. Everyone was staring at her-and that was fine. She looked great and she knew it.
Hands on her hips, red hair tumbling over her shoulders and down her back, fine-boned face tipped to the sky-yeah, she looked good. Tall and proud and fierce . . . and very beautiful. She was Jez Redfern, the huntress.
She lowered her chin and fixed the gang leader with eyes that were neither silver nor blue but some color in between. A color he never could have seen before, because no human had eyes like that. He didn't get the clue. He didn't seem like the brightest.
"Chase this," he said, and he fired the gun. Jez moved at the last instant. Not that metal through the chest would have seriously hurt her, but it might have knocked her backward and she didn't want that She'd just taken over the leadership of the gang from Morgead, and she didn't want to show any weakness.
The bullet passed through her left arm. There was a little explosion of blood and a sharp flash of pain as it fractured the bone before passing on through. Jez narrowed her eyes, but held on to her smile.
Then she glanced down at her arm and lost the smile, hissing. She hadn't considered the damage to her sleeve. Now there was a bloody hole in it. Why didn't she ever think about these things?
"Do you know how much leather costs? Do you know how much a NorthBeach jacket costs?" She advanced on the skinhead leader.
He was blinking and hyperventilating. Trying to figure out how she'd moved so fast and why she wasn't yelling in agony. He aimed the gun and fired again. And again, each time more wildly.
Jez dodged. She didn't want any more holes. The flesh of her arm was already healing, closing up and smoothing over. Too bad her jacket couldn't do the same. She reached the skinhead without getting hit again and grabbed him by the front of his green and black Air Force flight jacket. She lifted him, one handed, until the steel toes of his Doc Marten boots just cleared the ground. "You better run, boy," she said. Then she threw him.