(Elemental Assassin 01) Spider's Bite (22 page)

The handcuffs clinked open, and Donovan Caine got to his feet. He turned to face me and massaged his wrists, rubbing the feeling back into his hands. His gaze skimmed over the mess of blood, bodies, and broken furniture. He spotted the discarded gun, half-hidden under the remains of one of the crystal lamps, near his feet.

“You have a decision to make,” I said in a quiet voice. “You can pick up that gun. Turn it on me. Try to avenge your partner’s death.”

I didn’t add he’d die where he stood when my knife ripped through his heart. Caine had seen what I was capable of. Witnessed my skills firsthand. I just hoped it was enough to temper his dogged determination to make me pay for Cliff Ingles’s death.

“Or?” The detective kept rubbing his wrists, but his hazel eyes never left the weapon at his feet.

“Or we can call a truce, and you can come with me. Work with me to get to the bottom of this. They want you dead now, too. They want us all dead.”

Donovan Caine stared at the gun. A second ticked by. Five more. Ten. Fifteen. Thirty. He flexed his fingers, an Old West sheriff about to draw down on the mangy, good-for-nothin’ gunfighter threatening his town, his peace of mind, his way of life. I tensed, ready to strike.

The detective lifted his eyes to mine. His gaze was the color of smoky topaz, or perhaps a fine whiskey, oscillating from pure gold to burnished brown and back again. Emotions flickered in the amber depths, one after another, like lightning bugs winking on and off. Disgust. Anger. Mistrust. Suspicion. Curiosity.

“Why did you come here?” he asked. “You could have let them kill me.”

I shrugged again. “Like I said before, I need you. Need to know what you know about Gordon Giles. I believe I heard something about files and a flash drive?”

Caine rubbed a hand through his black hair. “Yeah. They seem to be missing. My friends here were under the assumption I had them.”

“But you don’t?”

He didn’t respond. Caine knew how to keep his face blank too.

I moved around the room, picking up my knives and slipping them back into their various slots. I also rifled through the dead guys’ pockets, digging out their wallets, cell phones, and jewelry. Nobody was wearing a chain with the triangular tooth rune on it, but one of the men had the shape tattooed on the back of his left wrist. I spotted it when I took off his watch.

I frowned. That damn symbol again. I was getting real tired of seeing it without knowing who the fuck it belonged to.

Caine saw me staring and crouched down to get a better look. He took care not to get within arm’s or knife’s reach of me. Smart man.

“Is that a rune?” he asked.

“Yeah. One I’ve been seeing a lot of lately.” I pulled my cell phone out of my back jean pocket, used it to snap a picture of the rune, then stuffed the device into my jeans once more.

Caine didn’t say anything else, but he grabbed the guy’s wrist, held it up to the light, and stared at the crude symbol, committing it to memory.

I straightened. “All right, detective. Time to decide. Are you in? Or out?”

He glanced up. “What happens if I’m out?”

“You go your way, and I’ll go mine. I’ll look for your fellow boys in blue to fish your body out of the Aneirin River in a couple of days.”

He shook his head. “That won’t happen.”

“Really?” I asked. “I was watching the house. I noticed you arguing with someone on the phone right before these guys showed up. I’m willing to bet it was someone on the force. Care to tell me who you were talking to?”

Caine’s eyes dropped to the floor, and I spotted another cell phone swimming in a puddle of blood. Must be his.

“Stephenson,” he muttered. “I was talking to Wayne Stephenson, my captain.”

The overweight giant who’d given the press conference. The one who’d kept a muzzle on Caine the whole time. I made a mental note to get Finn to start digging into the police captain. If the Air elemental had paid him off, maybe she’d left a trail back to herself.

“And what did Stephenson want? To make sure you were home before he sent the dogs in?”

“He wanted to talk to me about the Giles case,” Caine said. “That’s all. It doesn’t prove anything.”

“No,” I said. “It doesn’t prove anything. But it’s a pretty damning coincidence.”

Silence. Donovan Caine stared at me. Emotions continued to flash in his eyes. Faster now. Like lightning striking the earth again and again on a hot summer night. Although he didn’t look at it, I knew the detective was still thinking about the gun lying just a few tempting feet away. About how he could take care of one of his problems right here, right now. I hoped he’d realize how stupid that would be. Or I’d be wearing even more blood in another minute. Two, tops.

But some of my reasoning must have resonated with him. The detective exhaled. He let go of the dead man’s wrist and got to his feet.

“I’m in,” he said.

“But   ”

He shook his head. “But not without serious reservations and some rules. This truce you’re offering only goes so far. I won’t cover up anything you’ve done. Not one damn thing. I won’t kill for you, and I won’t let you hurt any innocent people.”

I laughed. The harsh sound smacked against the bedroom walls like the kiss of death. “Innocent people? Like the gentlemen who came to see you tonight? The ones who were going to hold you down while their boss tortured you? I don’t think you have to worry about stumbling over many
innocent
people on this case, detective.”

“Maybe not. But that’s how it’s going to be.”

I’d expected nothing less from him, and I could live with those terms. It was Caine’s personal vendetta against me, that hot, seething, unreasonable rage, that could be his undoing. “Say the rest of it. You know you want to.”

“The second this is over, I’m coming for you. Getting justice for Cliff Ingles, my partner, no matter what I have to do, even if that means killing you. Do you understand me?”

Caine’s harsh, angry promise blazed like a bonfire in his eyes. His mouth was a flat line in his face, his hands bunched into fists, his whole body tight and tense. I’d pushed him as far as I could.

“Understood.” I said. “Now, grab whatever gear you can get your hands on in three minutes. Clothes, money, whatever. We need to move. Now.”

He stared at me. I met his hard gaze with one of my own. The detective nodded, and I knew he’d stick to his word. We were on the same side—for now.

“We need to leave because the Air elemental’s on her way?” Caine skirted around me, still keeping out of arm’s reach, and headed toward the closet. He didn’t completely turn his back to me.

“Yeah. So hurry up.”

Donovan Caine pulled a duffel bag out of the closet. He hooked his finger under a jagged strip of carpet inside the small space, rolled it up, then moved a loose floorboard underneath. He stuffed a couple of bricks of cash into the bag, along with two guns and several boxes of ammunition. Perhaps the detective wasn’t the paragon of virtue I’d thought. Or perhaps he just realized the value of being prepared for anything in this city. Either way, my respect for him grew a little more. Despite his outdated ideals about justice, the detective was smart. A trait I’d always admired.

Caine moved over to the dresser and grabbed some clothes. Jeans, socks, boxers. I focused on the last item. Black boxers. Made from a nice silk, although not nearly as high-end as Finn’s. I thought of that silk rubbing against me, followed by the thick, hard length of him. Mmm. Too bad he hated me, and I looked like an extra from a slasher movie right now. Otherwise, I might have considered seducing Donovan Caine.

“I would think someone like you would relish the challenge of taking on an elemental.” Caine continued to stuff clothes into the bag.

I pushed my fantasy aside. “I might be an assassin, detective, but I don’t particularly enjoy killing people.”

“Then why do it?”

The inevitable question. I decided to give him my standard, pat answer. Donovan Caine didn’t need to know about my murdered family or time living on the streets. He didn’t need to know I’d been tired of being weak and afraid and hunted. That I’d chosen to become an assassin so I’d never feel that way again. So I would be strong.

And he especially didn’t need to know how none of my skills were helping me cope with Fletcher’s death or this sudden, nagging weariness I felt.

“Because I’m good at it, the blood doesn’t bother me, and it pays very, very well. Not because I get some sick, twisted thrill out of watching the light leak out of people’s eyes,” I said in a glib tone. “As for elementals, they die, just like everybody else. Magic doesn’t make you invincible. Gordon Giles was an Air elemental, but his power didn’t save him from being burned to death in that fake car accident. That being said, I don’t want to take on an Air elemental when I’ve already been knocked around and saddled with an injured man. Besides, I don’t know how many more men she might be bringing with her. She’ll probably have a couple guys, maybe more. Not the kind of odds I like. As you can guess, I prefer more one-on-one action.”

“Point taken.”

The corner of his mouth lifted. This time, I was sure I hadn’t imagined it. Whether it was a grimace or smile, I still couldn’t tell.

Caine zipped up the bag and slung it over his shoulder. “Lead on, Macduff.”

“Quoting Shakespeare? I never would have guessed, detective.”

“I never guessed I’d be working with an assassin either. Stranger things.”

“Touché.” I flashed one of my silverstone knives at him. “Stay behind me and keep quiet. There was one more guard who went around the back of the cabin. My associate should have taken care of him, but you can never be too careful.”

He raised a black eyebrow. “Associate?”

“Associate. Now, follow me.”

I turned and strode over to the bedroom door. My hand tightened on the knife hilt, and I waited a beat, listening. But Caine didn’t go for his third gun, the one I’d seen him slip out of the dresser and against the small of his back, the one he thought I didn’t know about. The detective was honoring his agreement. He wasn’t going to shoot me in the back—yet.

I tiptoed into the hallway. Everything was quiet, and no scurries of movement sounded. No hoarse whispers. No ragged gasps. Nothing.

Donovan Caine stayed close to me. His clean, soapy scent washed over me again. The warmth from his body enveloped my own, and his breath puffed against the back of my neck, almost like a kiss. We reached the part of the hall that overlooked the first floor. I made a motion with my hand for Caine to stay put. Then I dropped to my knees, slid down the wall, and peeked through the railing.

Finn leaned against the front door, reading a newspaper. The dead guard lay where I’d placed him. Finn had a foot propped up on the guy’s bloody back, which meant he’d already gone around the house and killed the last man. He wouldn’t have been standing there otherwise. I shook my head and straightened.

“Come on,” I told Caine. “The coast is clear.”

We went downstairs. Finn didn’t look up as the wood creaked and cracked under our weight. I snatched the newspaper out of his hands and tossed it aside.

“Hey,” he protested. “I was reading that.”

“Now you’re not.”

I stepped back so Finn and Caine could have a clear view of each other.

“Donovan Caine, this is my associate, Finnegan Lane. And vice versa.”

The two men stared at each other. Caine looked at Finn’s supple leather jacket, designer khakis, and custom-made polo shirt. Finn eyed the detective’s ratty duffel bag, the threadbare patches on his jeans, and the stains on his faded boots. Assumptions were made, judgments rendered, dicks measured.

After about twenty seconds of intense scrutiny, Finn stuck out his hand. Caine just looked at it, with his flat, deadpan, cop stare.

“Not a hand shaker, eh? Too bad.” Finn dropped his hand.

“The rear guard?” I asked.

“Dispatched, of course.”

Finn didn’t have much use for knives, but whenever he backed me up on jobs, he always carried a couple of guns with him. Usually a silencer as well, which is probably why I hadn’t heard him take out the rear guard. Among his many character quirks, Finnegan Lane happened to be an excellent shot.

He gestured at the dead man at his feet. “I take it all the others wound up like this one, Gin?”

“Of course.”

Finn grinned at me. “Touché.”

Donovan Caine stared at me. “Gin? Is that your real name?”

I realized I’d never told the detective my name, just my assassin moniker, the Spider. But he was going to have to call me something, since we were going to be working together, and it was too late now to concoct some sort of alias. “More or less.”

“Gin?” Caine asked again.

“Yeah, like the liquor.”

“Gin.” Caine said the word carefully this time, as though it were a fine wine he was tasting on his tongue, instead of a bastardized version of my real name. “It suits you.”

Despite the situation, I found his slow drawl low, warm, and inviting. “Glad you think so. Now let’s go.”

We skulked down the hill through the yard. The party next door was still going strong, although the radio now blared out “Free Bird.” A few more frat boys had stumbled outside and were sleeping off their drunken stupors on the lawn. Nobody appeared to have heard the gunshots or the sound of five men dying in and around Donovan Caine’s cabin. The southern rock music was so loud and twangy, I doubted anyone on the whole street could hear themselves think. Noisy neighbors. A blessing in disguise sometimes.

We reached the SUV. Finn got into the driver’s seat, while I slid into the passenger’s side. Donovan Caine paused, staring into the dark depths of the vehicle. He pulled in a breath, opened the door, and climbed into the backseat. He hesitated again and let out the same breath before he shut the door.
No going back
. That’s what he had to be thinking right now. Also short for
what the fuck am I doing getting into an assassin’s car?

But the detective seemed to be sticking with his decision. With our truce. He pushed his bag down onto the floorboard and buckled his seat belt. The sharp snap reminded me of handcuffs clinking together.