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- slaps 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."
Deja 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-slaps 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-slaps 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.