Ten minutes later, the doors on the elevator slid open, revealing the dim parking garage attached to the back of Finn's building. I helped Finn limp out of the elevator.
Dark, dirty concrete rolled out in every direction. Late- model luxury sedans sat waiting in their assigned slips in front of a narrow ramp that angled and turned up to the next level. Fluorescent lights flickered over the vehicles, and a bug zapper hung in one corner. A moth flapping around the zapper decided to land on the glowing, tempting blue surface. The resulting crack and sizzle sounded like a grenade exploding in the enclosed space.
Finn pointed to a set of stairs that ran between the levels, and we tiptoed down them.
The smell of motor oill and trapped exhaust thickened the air. I skimmed the fingers of my free hand against the concrete wall. Sharp notes of worry punctuated the stone's mutter. Not unusual. Everybody got a little paranoid and claustrophobic in parking garages, even me.
The low, growling sound didn't ease my mind. Not after the long, bloody night I'd had. But we made our way down to the second level without incident. I dragged Finn toward the closest car I saw that was his-a flashy silver Aston Martin that would have looked right at home in a James Bond movie. Finn collected cars like other people did knickknacks.
"No," Finn groaned. "Not the Aston. Anything but the Aston. I just got it a month ago.
The blood will never come out of the leather seats. Even Sophia won't be able to get it out."
"What do you suggest then, your highness?" I snapped. He pointed. "Get my Benz. At least it's burgundy inside."
I rolled my eyes but did as he asked. Finnegan Lane might not have been my blood brother, but he annoyed me just like a sibling would. Teasing, nagging, provoking, until I wanted to cut out his tongue and fry it up in a skillet for dinner. Still, I'd do anything for him. Even smear his clotting blood inside the vehicle of his choosing.
I opened the door on the black Benz, dumped Finn in the front, threw our stuff in the back, and sank into the driver's seat. The leather felt as soft as a warm mattress, cupping my ass, straightening my spine, supporting my neck and shoulders. Mmm. It felt so good to just sit still for a minute and not worry about my next move-or who might be waiting around the corner to try and take me out. I could have put my head back on the seat and been asleep in under a minute.
Too bad my night was far from over.
Two minutes later, we exited the parking garage. I turned onto the appropriate street and headed north to Jo-Jo's. My route took us past the Pork Pit. The neon pig gleamed like a beacon in the darkness. I tried not to think of Fletcher, lying in a pool of his own blood in the storefront, but the image of his flayed body, his ruined flesh, filled my mind. For the second time tonight, hot tears pricked my eyes. Damn. I hadn't cried this much since I was a kid.
Finn saw the sheen of moisture. "Hey, hey. He wouldn't want you to do that. You know how he felt about crying."
"A waste of time, energy, and resources."
The words came automatically, the way so many of Fletcher's teachings do. The tears were harder to force back, but I managed.
I always managed.
We rode in silence. I coasted to a stop at a red light and drew in a breath. Time to get on with things. Finn and I needed to talk before we got to Jo-Jo's.
"Tell me about it. Where you were, how they jumped you, why they brought you back to your apartment."
"Sure." Finn moved his beaten body to one side so he could look at me without turning his head. "Dad had told me about the job, of course, so I decided to attend the grand opening of the new wing at the opera house. For moral support."
I raised an eyebrow.
"All right, so my lady friend wanted to go too, and I had some clients to schmooze with," Finn admitted. "Several birds, one stone. Know what I mean?"
"Sure," I said in a wry tone.
Finn continued his story. "So I'm at the opera house, private box, wonderful seats, when I hear a man scream. At least, I think it was a man. Rather light in his loafers if you ask me."
Gordon Giles, after I'd cut the other assassin's throat.
"And I figured you'd done your thing and were on your way out of the building. So me and the lady friend go outside with everyone else to see what the commotion's about. And I spot a guy holding a gun chasing after a slim black figure." Donovan Caine pounding down the hallway after me.
"The news leaks out there's been a murder in one of the private boxes. My lady friend is very, very upset, so I suggest we go somewhere a little quieter where she can calm down." I rolled my eyes again. "You mean where you can get her alone and have I'm-so-happy-I didn't-get-my-throat- cut sex."
A faint grin pulled up Finn's fat, split lips. "We go downstairs to one of the private salons and become otherwise engaged. The door bangs open just as things are getting interesting."
"So they caught you with your pants down."
Finn sighed. "The bastards could have at least let us finish. But they pulled me away, told my lady friend to scram, and drove me to my apartment. I suppose they were hoping you'd show up to save me."
"Did they say anything? Any mention of who they were working for? Why they wanted Gordon Giles dead? Anything?"
"Nothing." Finn shook his head. "They just started hitting me and demanded to know where you were."
I kept driving, stopping at red lights, making the appropriate turns, keeping the car just under the speed limit. The last thing I needed was to get stopped by the police, especially considering the fact Finn and I were both covered in blood. We were almost to Jo-Jo's when Finn asked me the question I'd been dreading ever since I'd stormed into his apartment.
"What-what about Dad?" he asked in a low voice. "What did they do to him?" My heart lurched, but I kept my gray eyes on the road, avoiding Finn's bright, searching gaze. My hands strangled the steering wheel. I wished it was the Air elemental's neck instead.
"Stabbed him to death. I found him in the Pork Pit. He was already dead when I got there."
I left out the part about the Air elemental and the gruesome torture. Finn didn't need to hear about that. Despite his shady deals and occasional need for violence, Finnegan Lane really was a gentle soul. Suits, cars, women, cash, those were the things he enjoyed. Finn was perfectly happy to f**k and drink his way through life, counting his money and scheming to get more. Harmless, by Ashland standards. And the reason Fletcher had trained me to be the assassin and not his son, even though at thirty-two, Finn was two years older than me. I was stronger than Finn. Harder.