Hands stuffed into my pockets, hood up, and head down, I made my way around the corner to the east side of the block and ducked into the deepest shadows near the garage door. And waited . . .
The waiting was awkward, because it was still early enough that the street was busy, even if it was dark out, and because the rain was falling steady as ever. I felt like a creeper. Probably because I looked like a creeper, no matter how nonchalant and unobtrusive I tried to be. But at least I wasn’t alone. There was a genuine homeless dude chilling in a trash bag poncho on the ground beyond the far side of the garage door. We were like a match set, he and I.
After a good long while, there was a beeping sound from within the garage, a mechanism clicked over, and the door slowly lifted. A dark sedan slowed on the road and waited for the door to open all the way. It wasn’t ideal—I’d have preferred someone leaving rather than someone coming home—but at least this got me in through the gate and off the street.
I waited until the car had pulled through all the way, gave the driver a few seconds to get deeper into the garage, then slunk in and crouched down between the nearest two cars. I waited there, hidden and silent, until I heard the car door, followed by the beep of a car alarm and the footsteps of the new arrival leaving their car. I waited a little longer, listening to the sound of a key fitting into a lock and the gentle whoosh of a door opening on well-oiled hinges. And then I waited a little longer, giving whoever it was some time to move on. Patience is a virtue, after all, even if it’s not usually one of mine.
After a ten count, I stood and walked along behind the bumpers of parked cars, not too slow and not too fast, like I owned the place. Like I belonged. I doubted any cameras could pick up on the bloodstains, and I didn’t want to draw attention to myself by sneaking around and looking generally sketchy.
As I neared the door into the building, I pulled my lock-picking kit out of my pocket and readied the two little tools I would need. I had the door unlocked in less than thirty seconds and slipped into the building. I tossed a glance over my shoulder when the garage door triggered again and picked up the pace, heading for the metal door to the stairwell.
The second I shut the door to Garth’s unit, I was already toeing off my boots, even as I locked the deadbolt. I shrugged out of my leather coat and hung it on the back of a barstool, then unbuckled my sword harness and slung it over the coat. I unzipped my sweatshirt and pulled off my tank top, dropping both straight into the trash can beside the fridge, followed by my jeans, socks, underwear, and bra. I could never wear them again; they would always remind me of that sick fuck Carmichael, of my failure to end his pathetic existence. Even if I managed to get the clothes clean, the memory would remain a dark stain. Besides, the last thing I wanted was to leave traces of that bastard’s DNA in Garth’s washer. Someday soon, someone would get into Carmichael’s loft, and they’d find the bloody scene I’d left there. I wouldn’t risk implicating Garth in any of this.
Barefoot and naked, I hurried through the bedroom and into the bathroom to turn on the shower. While I waited for the water to heat up, I looked at my reflection in the mirror. My straight, dark hair hung around my face and past my shoulders in strings wet with a combination of blood and rain. Be warned that when cutting an asshole’s balls off, the blood can and will get everywhere.
The bathroom was steamy and the mirror started to fog over before I shook out of my daze and realized the shower had been running for plenty long enough to warm up. I opened the glass door, and only when the hot water hit my skin did I notice how chilled I was. That I was shivering.
“Little sister—”
“Not now, Dom,” I snapped.
I gritted my teeth to fend off the sudden swell of frustrated, disgusted tears and snatched the bar of soap off the little built-in recess in the shower’s slate-tiled wall. I lathered it between my hands, then started scrubbing my body. I scrubbed and lathered, lathered and scrubbed. I attacked my hair with a vengeance. I washed myself until my skin felt raw and stung when the water touched it. Until the soap was little more than a sliver. Only then did I set what was left of the bar down. Only then did I feel even remotely clean.
I placed my hand on the wall beside the recess and bowed my head, letting my hair act as a dark curtain shielding me from the world. Letting the water cascade all around me.
I should’ve killed him. The thought buzzed around in my skull like a drunken bee. “Damn it!” I yelled, slapping my hand against the wall hard enough that it made my palm throb. I may have broken something. I didn’t care. I should’ve killed him.
My shoulders shook, and my whole being caved in from the soul out. Horrors danced through my mind, taunting me. I couldn’t help but imagine whatever ghastly, perverted things Carmichael had done to poor little Sammy. The possibilities haunted me. Nauseated me. It didn’t matter that he could still be useful, that he still had information we could use, even if none of it had anything to do with the disease.
I should’ve killed him.
I leaned in, resting my forehead against the shower wall, then turned, wedging my shoulder in the corner. I slid down along the wall until I was sitting on the floor, one knee pulled up to my chest, the other leg outstretched. Forgotten. I leaned the side of my head against the wall and stared at the glass door, watching the rivulets of water stream down in stops and starts.
I should’ve killed him.
14
“Kat?” It was Garth, calling out for me from the other room.
I was shivering again. I was still on the tile floor and the showerhead still rained down on me, though the water was no longer even remotely warm. I could hear Garth’s footsteps drawing nearer. He was in the bedroom now. He was almost to the bathroom.
“Should I join you in th—” He stopped in the doorway, his arm partially outstretched to pet the cat perched on the counter, his words halting right along with the rest of him. The shirt of his uniform was unbuttoned and hanging open, displaying the bulletproof vest he always wore underneath it. He stood there, frozen by shock for barely a second.
“Jesus, Kat.” He lunged into the bathroom and yanked the shower door open, reaching in to turn off the water. He stepped into the shower, shoes and all, and crouched down before me. “What happened?” His hands hovered around me, like he was afraid I was physically injured. Like it would matter if I was. “What’s wrong? Are you hurt?”
I watched him, took in his concern and confusion, wrapped them around me like the fact that he gave a shit about me might soothe the invisible wound caused by my razor-sharp shame. “No—” The word was barely a whisper, and I cleared my throat. “I’m fine. I—” I squeezed my eyelids shut, but it only made Carmichael’s face clearer in my mind’s eye. It only sharpened the sting of regret.
Garth’s fingertips touched my cheek, a gentle caress following the contours of my cheekbone and jaw. “Kat . . .” He was quiet for a moment. “What can I do to help you?”
Much as I wished there were magic words he could utter, some secret touch that could cure what ailed me, I knew better. There was nothing he could do but let me wallow until the mood passed. I opened my mouth, intending to tell him as much, but the words caught in my throat. I sat up ramrod straight and snapped my head to the left to stare at the slate-tiled wall like I could see through it to the kitchen and the front door.
People. I could hear them, out in the hallway. They were moving slowly, quietly, but I could still make out the sounds of them arranging themselves around the door to Garth’s condo. There were only two reasons for a group of people to arrange themselves around a door like that—either they were setting up to sing Christmas carols, or they were planning to bust the door down. I narrowed my eyes. There had to be at least eight of them fanning out in the hallway, maybe more.
“Wha—” Garth started, but I slapped my hand over his mouth.
“Someone’s here,” I hissed. I heard the sound of clicking metal. A terrible, ill-boding sound. An unmistakable sound. Guns. Autom
atic. Big.
The door crashed open, and I had Garth’s gun drawn before he even had a chance to reach for it. “Get down,” I mouthed, anticipating impending gunfire.
Eva jumped off the counter and low-crawled deeper into the bathroom to hide behind the toilet.
Garth caught my wrist as I squeezed past him through the open shower door. “You can’t go out there!” he whispered, his words no less vehement for their quietness.
“I have to.” Whoever just broke in—whether they were sent by the Senate or Initiative Industries, the Ouroboros Corporation’s parent conglomerate—they weren’t going to let us just hide out back here, and they certainly weren’t going to let us slip away. They would find us, and they would kill us.
I’d known it was a bad idea to stay with Garth. I’d known I would be endangering him, and I’d done it anyway. It was my fault that they were here, whoever they were. This was on me, one hundred percent. I owed it to him to make it right.
One of the intruders entered the bedroom, an armed mercenary—human—from the looks of him. I could see his reflection in the mirror. He was armed to the teeth and dressed in all black, from his flak jacket down to his cargo pants and combat boots. I swept the gun around and aimed, threatening to put a bullet in his head before he could train his gun on me. It probably helped that I was naked. That might be what allowed me to get the jump on him.
The merc froze, a quick blink his only movement.
“Why are you here?” I asked, feeling like a moron for wanting to give him the benefit of the doubt. If his orders weren’t to kill me, I’d let him live. I wanted to leave him alive—he was only human, after all, and this life was it for him and his mortal soul—but not at the expense of my life, let alone Garth’s. He was human, too, and one that I cared about. If humans were going to be dying in this condo today, he wouldn’t be one of them. Not on my watch.
The merc didn’t answer. He just stood there, staring at me.
Not a moment later, one of his buddies tossed a small metal can into the room. It started spewing a foggy gas.
I reacted without thinking. I shifted my aim lower and pulled the trigger, shooting the guy I had in my sights in the thigh, then swinging around to get his buddy in the shoulder. I backstepped and slammed the bathroom door shut. “I think it’s tear gas,” I told Garth, crouching off to the side in case the other mercs got gun happy. I grabbed a bath towel off the towel rack and stuffed it into the crack under the door. “There’s eight, maybe ten mercs out there.” They wouldn’t have long after that gunshot. Someone would call the cops, which meant the intruders would get desperate, quick. Not great for us.
Garth nodded, impressing me with his sharp focus. He wasn’t dazed in the slightest, and the glint in his eyes told me he wouldn’t go down without a fight.
“Here,” I said, reaching into the shower and handing him back his gun. As I turned away from him, I slammed the side of my fist down on the iron-esque pole of the now-empty towel rack, knocking it free. Thankfully, Garth had splurged for high-end fixtures; the thing didn’t just look like iron, it was iron.
Now that we were both armed, Garth with his sidearm and me with a two-foot, hollow iron pole, we we’d at least be able to put up a fight. Of course, we’d be sitting ducks stuck in here, little more than target practice for the mercs outside.
“Look up, little sister,” Dom said. “People rarely expect an attack from above.”
I glanced up at the ceiling. This was a top-floor unit; there should be just enough room for me to crawl around up there. I climbed up onto the vanity counter and shoved the iron pole through the drywall ceiling. “Thanks, Dom,” I said under my breath.
Garth ducked, his hands going over his head. “What are you doing?”
“Keep them distracted, OK?” The corner of my mouth lifted, and I quirked my head to the side. “And try not to get shot. I’m going out a different way . . .”
I stared up at the ragged opening overhead. It was just under two feet wide; plenty of room for me to fit through. I reached up, balancing the iron bar across the two-by-fours framing the ceiling, then grasped the supports. I glanced down at Garth. “Give me a boost?”
Dubious, Garth crawled out of the shower and stood, crouching. He kept shooting furtive glances at the door. Not surprising, because I could hear the mercenaries gathering in the bedroom. We had a handful of seconds before that door came down, and unless I managed to get up into the ceiling and surprise them from above and behind, we’d both be dead in not much longer. I just needed Garth to hold them off for a fraction of a second, and holding them off might include taking fire. It was risky, but we didn’t really have any other choice.
Garth wrapped a hand around either of my ankles and lifted. “Be careful,” he said, his voice polished gravel.
I renewed my grip on the two-by-fours, flexed my arms, and pulled myself up into a maze of ducts, wiring, and insulation. I sort of bear-crawled in the general direction of the bedroom. With any luck, the mercs wouldn’t have a chance to do anything to Garth until it was too late and I was already on them. With any luck . . .
I’d just reached the ceiling vent in the bedroom when there was a crash, and the first crack of gunfire exploded below me. Heart pounding, I held my breath and smashed through the drywall ceiling, dropping almost directly on top of one of the intruders. The gas burned my eyes, but so long as I continued to hold my breath, my lungs were safe. It was a short “so long as . . .”
I yanked off the merc’s gas mask as we both crumpled to the floor. Tears streamed down my cheeks, and my eyelids slammed shut reflexively. I forced them open, squinting around me, but the thick yellowish-white gas was almost impossible to see through in the evening darkness.
The guy I’d landed on was gasping and sputtering. He’d hardly been prepared to fend off an attack from above. Taking advantage of his momentary confusion, I captured his neck between my thighs, and as I waited for him to pass out, kicking and clawing at my legs, I secured his gas mask over my face.
The one good thing about the sickly opaque gas was that it rendered my opponents just as blind as it did me. They couldn’t see, but they also couldn’t hear nearly as well as I could. Advantage: me.
As I sucked in a much-needed clean breath of air, I heard competing rat-tat-tats of automatic gunfire and hoped it meant Garth had managed to snag one of their bigger guns.
Even as I was waiting for my first victim to lose consciousness, another of the mercs coalesced out of the poisonous fog, automatic rifle searching for a target. I swung the iron pole like a baseball bat. His knee snapped, and his leg collapsed. I elbowed him in the side of the head almost as soon as he was on the floor, and he went limp immediately. I smacked him one more time, for good measure. The guy I held in a choke hold between my legs followed his buddy into unconsciousness a moment later. I relaxed my legs and kicked him away.
Crawling closer to the guy with the screwed-up leg, I yanked off his gas mask and tossed it in the general direction of the bathroom, then stood, iron rod in hand. Silently, I moved around the room, taking out mercenaries before they even realized I was on them. Like taking candy from a baby. It was almost too easy. The hard part was dispatching them without actually killing them. I had no idea who these guys were or why they were here, but I doubted it was anything more complicated than simply following orders. A simple exchange of money.
I found the final intruder grappling with Garth on the bathroom floor. Neither had gas masks on, and both men’s eyes were swollen shut. Even as they fought each other, they struggled to breathe. Exhausted, a little beat up, and eyeballs and skin raw from exposure to the gas, I whacked the mercenary on the back of the head with my trusty iron pole. He went limp instantly.
Garth lay there beneath the merc for a second, coughing and choking, then rolled to the side, depositing the guy on the floor beside him.
Half blindly, I searched the floor and countertop for the gas mask I’d tossed in there just moments earlier. I found it i
n the sink and handed it to Garth. The gas didn’t seem to be lethal, just really damn painful, so I figured I’d been right about my tear gas assessment and that he would survive. Not that that meant he had to keep wallowing in the toxic stuff.
“Thanks,” Garth rasped before he secured the mask over his face. He looked like hell, all swollen and oozy. I probably didn’t look much better, if the way I felt was any indication. He practiced breathing, slowly pulling in more and more air until he could take long, full, deep breaths. “What now?” he asked, bleary-eyed and weary.
I grabbed his hand and pulled him out of the bathroom. “Now, we get the hell out of here.”
15
The tear gas was quite a bit thinner in the living room, and it cleared out pretty quickly once we shut the bedroom door, opened up the windows, and turned on the kitchen vent. The door to the hallway was open, but there were no gawkers. Any initial snoopers probably ran as soon as they caught sight of the armed mercenaries, and any other potential lookie-loos certainly fled at the sound of gunfire.
“We need to rinse you off,” Garth said, gripping my arm and pulling me toward the kitchen. We’d both discarded our masks as soon as we were out of the bedroom. “You’re covered in chemical burns.”
“I’ll heal,” I said, twisting my arm so it slipped free. Considering the singed state of my skin, a few layers might have slipped free as well. But, damn it, it was my turn to grip his arm and drag him somewhere. “What we need to do is get the hell out of here. There’s bound to be more of them.” Plus, the mercs that had only been knocked unconscious wouldn’t stay that way forever. I pulled him to the wall, where my drawing of the kids’ sick room in the Tent District was still intact, if not exactly as I’d left it.
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