(Elemental Assassin 01) Spider's Bite (21 page)

Finn sighed. “So we’re going to go help him then?”

I didn’t answer. I was already outside, running toward the cabin.

Several low hedges and growing pines dotted the landscape between the street and the cabin. Stiff needles clutched at my clothes, and the tangy scent of pine sap tickled my nose. But it was easy enough for me to hopscotch my way from bush to bush, tree to tree, shadow to shadow. I paused about fifty feet away from the steps leading up to the front porch. Listening. Watching. Waiting. A lone man stood outside the front door. His three friends must have slipped inside while I’d been approaching the house. I’d seen the fifth guy go around the cabin, probably to keep Donovan Caine from bolting out a back door. No worries. Finn would take care of him.

I shook my sleeves, and my silverstone knives fell into my hands. Cold and comforting, as always.

I picked my way up the hill, coming at the porch from an angle. The end of the wooden, wraparound porch stood about four feet off the ground, supported by a couple of low beams. I squatted down and peered over the edge, my gray eyes just above the porch line. The guy still stood by the front door, but his body was turned away from me, facing inside. He wasn’t expecting trouble, at least not from this direction. Sloppy, sloppy, sloppy.

I hooked one of my legs onto the porch and pulled myself up. The wooden slats felt cold against my warm stomach, and the nail heads pressed into my chest like icy, round brands. I slithered over to the corner, where the shadows were the deepest, and crouched behind an antique rocking chair. The guard kept looking inside the house.

I got to my feet and repositioned my knives. Hugging the wall, I slid toward the front door.

Another light flared to life on the second story, brightening the yard beyond the porch. Shouts rang out from the interior above my head. A gun burped once, then twice more. The guard cursed and rocked back and forth on his feet, unsure whether he should charge in or not. He clutched his gun close to his chest, right over his heart.

It didn’t do him a damn bit of good.

My knife slid into his back, through his ribs, and up into his heart. His blood spurted out onto my hand. Hot. Wet. Sticky. The sensation was the same, yet different every time.

He jerked, and I clamped my hand over his mouth to keep him from crying out. Shouldn’t have bothered. Something crashed deeper inside the house. Loud, vicious curses drifted out onto the night breeze, drowning out whatever noise the dying man might have made.

I pulled the knife out, eased the dead guard to the porch, stepped over him, and slipped inside. A couple of dim overhead lights cast out a bit of weak illumination. The front hallway branched off in three directions—up, right, left. A den lay to the right, with a big-screen TV, a brown leather couch, and a couple of recliners. A small dining area was off to the left. A dirty plate and glass littered the rectangular table, along with a crumpled newspaper. Cozy.

The stairs lay in front of me, and I headed up them. Again, I hugged the wall, wincing at the inevitable
crack
that sounded as my weight shifted on the slick wood. I peered over the lip of the landing. Another hallway with rooms branching off either side. To my right was what looked like a never-used guest bedroom and an office with a computer half-buried by stacks of sports magazines. In front of me was a bathroom, with a heap of towels twisted together on the tile floor. Another room lay beyond that one down the hallway, probably the master bedroom.

Lights blazed in the last room, the one I’d seen Donovan Caine pacing back and forth in. Several hard
slap-slap-slap
s rang out, followed by a low, throaty groan. The detective was getting the shit beat out of him.

I eased onto the landing, wincing as the stairs let out a final, unwanted creak. But the men inside the bedroom were too intent on hitting Caine to worry about possible intruders. Besides, they’d left two guards stationed downstairs, one in the front and one in the back. Nothing could possibly go wrong when you left a couple of guys alone and in the dark to watch your back.

A knife in either hand, I tiptoed down the hallway toward the bedroom. The indistinct voices sharpened into meaningful conversation.

“Tell us where it is,” a man said. “Surely you can see how pointless this is. No one’s coming to save you, detective.”

Déjà vu all over again.

“All we want is the flash drive and the information Gordon Giles gave to you at the opera house. That’s it.”

“Yeah,” another male voice chimed in. “Give it to us quick enough, and we might even let you live.”

I rolled my eyes. Liar. The only way Donovan Caine was leaving this house was in a black body bag.

A low cough rumbled out, followed by the sound of someone spitting. Caine, hacking up his own blood.

“I told you Giles didn’t give me anything. No flash drive, no files, nothing,” Caine said in a raspy voice. “He didn’t have time to before your assassin came into the box.”

“But you were there to get it, to convince him to turn the information over to you,” a third man’s voice sounded. “He must have told you something, given you
something
.”

Another series of
slap-slap-slap
s sounded, punctuated by the solid
thwack
of fists hitting flesh. Caine groaned again.

“Where’s the boss lady?” Number One asked. “She’ll get him to talk. Right quick, too.”

“Really? Like she made the old guy at the restaurant talk?” Number Two said. “Creepiest thing I’ve ever seen, the way she kept ripping off his skin, and the way he kept laughing at her. Even gave Carlyle the willies, and you know what a cold bastard he is.”

Fletcher. They’d been there in the Pork Pit that night. This guy and Charles Carlyle had seen Fletcher die, probably held him down while the Air elemental did her worst to him. My hands tightened on my knives, and the cold knot of rage in my chest throbbed with anticipation.

Fletcher.

“The geezer was tough. The detective here isn’t that strong, are you, Caine?” Number Three said.

“The elemental’s on her way,” Number Two cut in. “Shouldn’t be too much longer. Ten minutes, tops. Just keep hitting him. No reason not to soften him up for her. It’ll make his skin peel off easier.”

They all shared a good chuckle at that. The laughter faded away, and more
slap-slap-slap
s  rang out, steady and insistent. Someone enjoyed being the muscle. I blew out a soft breath and readied myself.

“Speaking of the elemental, go downstairs and check on Phil and Jimmy, will ya? I don’t want those two slacking off and her seeing it.”

Number Two talking again, although I had no idea if he was addressing One or Three. Didn’t much matter. They’d all be dead in another minute. Two, tops.

I crept closer to the bedroom, my back skimming the wall, until I was just next to the doorjamb. Footsteps whispered on the carpet, headed in my direction. I waited, gathering my strength. A shadow fell over me, and a man stepped into the hallway.

I rammed my knife into his chest.

The man screamed and stumbled back. I used his own momentum to shove him deeper into the bedroom. My eyes flicked over the area, taking in everything in a second’s time. Donovan Caine handcuffed to a chair. Two men dressed in suits standing over him. One guy holding a gun by his side.

The guy I’d stabbed hit an end table, knocked over a lamp, and did a header onto the carpet. Dead on arrival.

I hurled my other knife at the man with the gun. He jerked to one side, and the blade caught him in the shoulder instead of in the throat. He raised his weapon and fired. I threw myself forward and onto the floor, the rough carpet burning my knees and stomach through my jeans and long-sleeved T-shirt. The shot went over my head and shattered a lamp. Glass rained down on me, nicking my hands.

But I was already moving. I rolled over and came up onto my hands and knees. My foot lashed out, and my sharp kick caught the third guy in the knee. He yelped and bent forward, putting himself between me and his friend. I plucked a knife from my boot and cut his throat with it. Blood spattered in my eyes and onto my face, but I ignored the uncomfortable, wet, stinging sensation and grabbed hold of the dying man.

One guy left.

He raised his gun and fired three more times. But his friend was in the way, and the bullets slammed into his back instead of my chest. I pulled myself up and shoved the dead guy at the last man. The body flopped against his wounded arm, and the gun slipped from his hand.

I threw myself at the last guy, but he saw me coming. His fists slammed into my chest. Hard, solid blows. I jerked back, my foot caught on something, and I fell to the carpet. He leaped on top of me, wrapping his hands around my throat. I tried to break his grip, but he was stronger. My hands scrabbled on the floor, looking for one of my knives, his gun, anything I could hurt him with.

A leg moved in my peripheral vision, and a foot slammed into the guy’s head. The man grunted, and his grip loosened. I shoved him back and rolled out from under him, my eyes flicking over the bloody carpet. There. I grabbed the base of one of the broken lamps. The curved glass had shattered, leaving a sharp, serrated edge about five inches long. Perfect.

The guy clamped a hand on my shoulder and yanked me up, determined to finish choking me.

I spun around and slashed his throat.

The glass dug into his flesh, instead of slicing deep and clean the way my knife would have. The edges caught and snagged on his stubbled skin. Nothing easy and painless about it. The man shrieked an ear-splitting sound of keening pain. He tried to jerk away, move away. I thought of Fletcher and followed him. I pulled the glass out, taking chunks of flesh with it, then shoved it right back in. Hard. What had been a trickle of blood increased to a crimson torrent, spattering down my torso and onto my T-shirt, jacket, and jeans.

The man’s hand clamped down on my shoulder like a vise, making me wince. Blood and mucus bubbled out of his trembling lips. We stood there. Me driving the glass in deeper and deeper, his hand tightening that much more with every millimeter. His eyes glazed, and after about thirty seconds, his grip slackened. I shoved him away, and he joined his two dead buddies on the floor.

My eyes went to Donovan Caine. To my surprise, he had his leg up, ready to kick out with his foot again. The detective stared at me, then the men on the floor. He lowered his boot.

“Sorry about the mess,” I said. 

15

The corner of Donovan Caine’s mouth lifted up into a faint smile—or grimace. Hard to tell since red welts and shallow cuts dotted his features like lumpy, ugly freckles. The beginnings of a shiner rimmed his right eye, and a bruise had already darkened his left cheekbone. I’d saved Caine from being beaten as bad as Finn, but the detective had still taken several good licks.

“You’re the one who’s a mess,” Donovan Caine said.

I glanced at my reflection in the mirror over the dresser. Blood coated my face like some sort of mud mask Jo-Jo might use at her salon. More blood covered my jacket and T-shirt, blackening the fabric, and drips and drops painted my jeans and boots in gobby, Jackson Pollock patterns. Distinct fingertip bruises ringed my throat, a macabre necklace of purple jewels. I probably had a matching set on my shoulder from the guy’s death grip. When you added the blood and bruises together, I looked like I was dressed up for Halloween—as a murder victim.

Not exactly the face I wanted to present to the detective, but I’d looked worse. Much worse. But tonight, something about the blood made me feel old. Tired. Used up. Just once, it might be nice to go out at night and not have to incinerate my clothes when I got home. Just once.

I dropped my eyes from the mirror. “Job hazard.”

Caine couldn’t go anywhere, since he was still strapped down. I walked behind him. The detective’s hands were cuffed, with the chain threaded through the back of the chair. Silverstone handcuffs. Looked like Caine never went anywhere without a set. Kinky.

“Key?”

Caine jerked his head. “On the dresser.”

I retrieved the metal key and bent down behind the detective. His rigid muscles coiled, and he drew in a sharp breath. He smelled faintly of soap, and I could feel the strength of his body, even though he was shackled to the chair. Caine probably thought this was just a ruse. That I was going to slit his throat instead of freeing him. I might have considered it, if I hadn’t already offered to work with the detective. My word still meant something to me, too.