Spider's Bite

Page 6

He was handsome enough, although not as pretty as some of the other men I'd seen in the lobby. But Caine moved with the loose, easy confidence of a man who knows what he's doing-and knows he can handle anything that comes his way.
Was there anything sexier than confidence and the skill to back it up? I didn't think so. A hot awareness coursed through my body. My breasts tightened, and a small, pleasant ache settled between my thighs. I wondered if Donovan Caine would be that smooth and sure in bed. Bet he would.
For a moment, I let myself fantasize about the detective. Naked. Writhing under me.
His mouth teasing my pebbled nipple. His calloused fingers kneading my breasts. I pictured myself sinking onto his throbbing length. Riding him with quickening strokes until he screamed out my name. Draining every ounce of pleasure I could out of his lean body, until we were both spent and sweaty and satiated. Mmm.
Too bad he played for the opposition and wanted to put a bullet in my head. My daydream would remain just that.
Fletcher had said Gordon Giles might go to the police for protection. That must be why Caine was here. To meet with Giles. Placate him with the usual assurances of safety, immunity, whatever.
A smile tugged at my lips. I wondered what Donovan Caine would do when I put an arrow in Gordon Giles's heart. Would he try to administer some sort of medical attention, even though it was already too late? Would he call for help? Or would he race out of the box, gun drawn, determined to find the assassin?
All I had to do was pull the trigger and I'd find out.
But instead of finishing the job, I watched the detective. Caine took a seat to Giles's right. The two of them bent their heads together and started whispering. Well, Caine did most of the whispering. Gordon just shook his ferretlike face in a definite no-no-no pattern. Whatever Caine wanted him to do, Gordon wasn't giving in just yet.
I was so preoccupied with Donovan Caine that the telltale click didn't register until it was too late. But the cold gun pressed against the back of my neck definitely got my attention.
"Drop the weapon," a voice hissed in my ear.
Chapter Five
"Drop the weapon," the voice hissed again.
The barrel pressed against my spine at the base of my skull. If he shot me there, I'd be dead before I hit the floor, especially if he was using silverstone bullets.
For a moment, I thought about reaching for my Stone magic, using it to harden my skin to an impenetrable shell. But if the bastard was faster than me, just half a second, he might be able to pull the trigger before I brought enough magic to bear. Besides, using that much power would zap my strength. Judging from my current situation, I was going to need every bit of my energy this evening. Better to save that trick for when I was really desperate. This was only a mild annoyance so far.
"Drop it right fucking now."
"Sure," I replied in a calm, easy voice. "I'll drop it. But you're going to have to give me some room. I can't pull back with you right on top of me."
A blatant lie, of course. But he'd gotten the drop on me, and right now I was in no position to outmaneuver him-or the gun on my spine.
"Fine. But don't try anything stupid."
The gun lifted from my neck, and I felt him take five steps back. Perfect. I let go of the bow's trigger, eased the weapon off the balcony wall, and set it down, with the bolt pointing back at him.
"Now, stand up and turn around-slowly. Hands up where I can see them." I did as he asked and turned to face him. A short, stocky, Asian man with thick, powerful muscles stood behind me. He wore his black hair in a low ponytail, and a white scar slashed across his right cheek, going from the corner of his brown eye down past his jaw line. Like me, he was dressed in black. Assassins didn't really wear any other color when they were working.
"Hello, Brutus."
He tipped his head. "Gin."
Every assassin had a name, a code word that identified him or her, and perhaps gave a hint about his specialty. If you wanted someone poisoned, you were probably going to reach out to Hemlock. Death by fire? Look up Phoenix. Gutted entrails? Hooke was your girl. Fletcher Lane had been known as the Tin Man because he never let emotion get in the way of a job.
Brutus's moniker was Viper, and a rune tattoo of the fanged snake curled up the side of his neck. Brutus called himself Viper because he was the kind of guy who crept around in the underbrush. The one you didn't see until you stepped on him or he decided to strike. Like now.
Since there are a limited number of people who specialize in our profession, at least at our level, we'd run into each other more than once over the years. Three times now, our respective clients hired us to kill the other person. I'd put a knife in Brutus's back in Savannah the last time we'd met. He'd returned the favor by shooting me in the stomach. All six of our clients had died.
I might have been stone-cold efficient when it came to my assignments, but Brutus was a machine. He never showed any sort of emotion. Not pleasure, not pain, not even a glimmer of satisfaction at a job well done, nothing. He showed up, killed his target, and moved on.
I stood there with my hands up. A silencer capped the gun in his hand. The weapon was level with my heart. Brutus wouldn't miss. Unless I made him.
"You know, I'm actually sorry about this, Gin." Despite his apology, Brutus's voice was flat. Emotionless. "But the money was just too good to pass up." My eyes flicked to the box seats. Donovan Caine and Gordon Giles whispered to each other, oblivious to the drama taking place above their heads. Caine seemed to be demanding something from Giles, who was still shaking his head no no no. My mind spun, trying to make sense of the situation.
"What is this?" I asked. "A setup? I kill Giles, then you kill me?"
"That was the plan, but since you were taking your sweet time, I decided to do you first."
My gray eyes narrowed. "Why? I was going to finish the job. Going to kill Giles. I'm a pro. I don't take jobs unless I plan to follow through with them." Brutus shrugged. "The accountant's death will raise some tricky questions, so my employer decided it would be better if his assassin was caught. Immediately."
"So you're going to make me the fall guy to protect your client." My voice was as flat as his.
Brutus nodded. "This way, there's no manhunt, no drawn-out trial, no awkward questions. But there will be a shootout with one of the opera house's security guards.
When the smoke clears, you'll be the only one not breathing. The trail starts and ends with you."
"So you've got someone on the inside then. Someone helping you."
Brutus didn't say anything, but I didn't need him to confirm my suspicion. My gaze went back to the box, but no one had joined Donovan Caine and Gordon Giles.
Brutus must have someone stationed outside the door, standing by in case Giles got jumpy and tried to leave.
"What's my motivation?" I asked, shifting my weight onto my right foot.
"Nothing too elaborate. Just a poor, no-class hooker pissed at Giles for promising to marry her and make her an honest woman. A deranged woman enraged by love and jealousy who decided to take matters into her own hands."
"A hooker killing for love? In this city?" I sneered. "You couldn't come up with something more creative than that?"
Brutus shrugged. "Not my call."
I nodded. "Of course not. Well, I have to admit it's a solid plan, Brutus. Your client should give you a bonus. By the way, who is your client?"
Brutus shook his head. "You should know better than to ask me something like that, Gin."
I did know better, but asking gave me the opportunity to move my left foot closer toward the crossbow.
"I'd love to keep chatting, but I have a schedule to keep." Brutus's grip tightened on the gun. "You're a decent assassin, Gin. Almost as good as me. I really am sorry-" I kicked out with my left foot, jiggling the trigger on the crossbow. The bolt shot out, catching Brutus above his right ankle. The other assassin grunted and fired a shot as I threw myself to the right. The bullet from his gun just clipped my shoulder, spinning me around. I hissed as a ribbon of hot fire erupted in my muscles. But that was better than the projectile piercing my heart.
I pushed the pain away, hit the ground rolling, grabbed my pseudo cello case, and got back up on my feet. I brought the case up over my chest. Two more bullets thunk-thunked into it. I shook my left arm, and a silverstone knife fell down my sleeve and into my hand. Another bullet slammed into the case, and I staggered back as though I'd been hit. Then I pivoted, slung the case to one side, and threw the knife at Brutus.
The blade caught the assassin in his right shoulder. The gun slid from his twitching fingers and plopped onto the floor.
"You and those fucking knives," Brutus muttered and yanked the blade out of his shoulder socket. "Get a real weapon. Get a gun."
"Guns are for people who don't have the guts or skill to use a blade." I threw down the bullet-laden cello case and palmed the knife hidden up my right sleeve. Brutus shifted his weapon to his right hand.
And then we danced.
We circled round and round on the narrow catwalk, kicking, punching, slashing with our knives. Brutus sliced my left bicep, adding to the hot fire on that side of my body.
I slammed my elbow into his mouth. He punched me in the kidneys. I kneed him in the groin.
We were evenly matched professionals. Trained, skilled, efficient, deadly. But the bolt in Brutus's ankle hindered him more than the bullet graze in my shoulder did me.
He stepped back to get out of the way of my slashing dagger, and his ankle went out from under him. He stumbled to the floor. All the opening I needed.
Before Brutus could recover, I yanked the crossbow bolt out of his ankle and threw myself on top of him. This time, Brutus couldn't stop the whimper of pain that escaped his lips. He tried to grapple with me, but I shoved my knife against his neck.
The blade just cut through his skin. He froze.
"Now," I said, raising the bolt up and pressing the bloody tip close to his left eye.
"You're going to tell me exactly who hired you and why he wants Gordon Giles dead so badly. Or I'm going to put this bolt through your fucking eye and into your brain." Brutus smiled, his teeth red with his own blood. "You've got two options, Gin. You can kill me or save yourself -or try to."
I touched the top of the bolt against his eye. Brutus might be as cold as stone, but even he shuddered at that. "What do you mean?"
"I told my client you were good, that you might get away. So we devised a backup plan. Even if you kill me, you're still going to get blamed for Giles's murder. I've got another man standing by ready to take him out. The paper trail leading back to you has already been set up. Threatening letters and the like. It's all in place-" I raised my knife up and slammed it into Brutus's heart. The first time, he gasped in surprise and pain. The second time, his brown eyes bulged, and more blood trickled out of his mouth. By the third time I stabbed him, he was dead.
"Arrogant prick," I muttered, climbing to my feet. "You should have just shot me. Not talked yourself to death." Brutus's body spasmed a final time in agreement.
I was already stepping over him and gathering up the weapons. Because Brutus was right about one thing. I had to save Gordon Giles's life instead of taking it-if I had any hope of saving my own.
I stuffed the crossbow back into the cello case, sprinted down the catwalk stairs, and shoved through the exit door. My wounded shoulder hit the doorjamb, and I hissed.
Being shot, even just grazed, always felt like someone had shoved a red-hot metal poker into my flesh. Like a Fire elemental had put her hands on me and let loose with her incendiary magic. But I ignored the discomfort. Compartmentalizing pain, learning how to block it out and keep going no matter what, had been one of the first things Fletcher had taught me.
Fletcher. My thoughts turned to him. He was in this, too. If Brutus's client wanted me to take the fall for Gordon Giles's death, killing Fletcher would be next on the to-do list. They couldn't afford to leave him alive. Finnegan Lane either. I had to get to them. Soon.
I hurried through the executive floor, dropped the cello case by the unlocked balcony door, and went on into the stairwell. I pounded down the stairs to the second floor.
Intermission was still several minutes away. No one crowded into the hallway yet, and I had a clear path to Gordon Giles's VIP box. I didn't need people to start screaming when they realized a woman dressed in black was holding a bloody knife in one hand and an even bloodier barbed bolt in the other.
Up ahead, a man pulled open the door to the box seats and stepped inside. Brutus's backup. And I realized he wasn't just going to kill Giles. A dead-end trail and no witnesses meant he'd have to take out Donovan Caine, too. Killing Giles and blaming me was one thing, but I didn't need the heat of a dead cop on top of that. Especially an honest one like Caine, who was something of a folk hero in Ashland. The cops, even the crooked ones, would lean on everyone they knew to get Caine's killer. The insatiable appetite of the press and public pressure would force them to. Donovan Caine and Gordon Giles definitely needed to keep breathing tonight.
I quickened my pace and charged through the door. Gordon Giles squatted half in, half out of his seat, his blue eyes wide with panic and fear. Donovan Caine stood tall and erect. He just looked furious.
The man with the gun turned at the sound of the door opening. I stepped forward and sucker-punched him. His nose crunched under my tight fist, and blood spattered onto the curtain-covered walls. The man cursed and stumbled back. I used his own momentum to spin him around, pull him toward me, and hook my right arm around his shoulder. My knife pressed into his throat.