The Kat Dubois Chronicles: The Complete Series (Echo World Book 2)

by Lindsey Fairleigh

  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 in 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.”

  Chapter Fifteen

  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.

  There appeared to be some sort of an evacuation going on, with pairs of people carrying kids out of the room on their cots. I gripped my throat and muttered, “Oh, shit,” under my breath. The tear gas must’ve passed through the gateway. Those poor kids . . .

  Garth stared at the living drawing on his wall, his eyes saucers and his expression rapt. “What is this?”

  I figured it was best to work with a minimalistic approach, explanation-wise. “Think of it like a doorway,” I said, right before I pushed him through the wall. He stumbled onto the other side, then turned around and marched right back toward me. And then he disappeared.

  I smirked, though my heart wasn’t in it. One-way gateways, and all that . . .

  “Find Dorman,” I called through the gateway, hoping he could hear me. “I’ll join you soon.” A moment later, I retrieved the can of touch-up paint from the shelf above the washer and drier in the laundry closet and splashed the entire can on the wall above the ink-drawn gateway. The moment the off-white paint dripped across the drawing, the whole thing crackled like a live wire touching water, and in a blink, it reverted to being just a picture. Just lines drawn in black permanent ink. Nothing more.

  I rushed back to the couch and opened up my backpack, pulling out a wad of freshly washed clothing. I dressed as quickly as possible, ignoring the singed state of my skin, shoved my feet into my boots without bothering to tie the laces, strapped on the sword harness without buckling it, then grabbed my backpack and leather jacket and the bag filled with my soiled clothes from the Carmichael incident. Hands full, I ran to the broken-in door.

  “Garth has a personal vehicle, does he not?” Dom said. That Dom, always the voice of sound thinking and clear reason.

  I paused, then backpedaled to grab the set of car keys sitting in a carved wooden bowl on the kitchen island. Driving out of here would be a whole lot less conspicuous than leaving by foot.

  A muffled feline yowl brought me up short just as I was passing through the doorway. Eva. I’d forgotten about her in all the chaos. From the sound of her desperate cry, she was somewhere back in the bedroom.

  I hesitated. I could just go. I should go. Eva would probably be fine, and I sure as hell didn’t have time to wrangle a terrified cat. But even as I took a step into the hallway, I thought of Garth and how devastated he would be if I let something happen to her.

  “Oh, come on,” I grumbled, dropping my burdens and rushing back into the condo. I grabbed the cat carrier from the laundry closet and ran into the bedroom. The gas was still pretty thick in there, and my eyes stung anew. “Eva?” I called out, coughing as I scanned the ripped-up, body-strewn space. “Here, kitty kitty . . .”

  Another yowl. I was pretty sure it came from the cabinets under the bathroom counter.

  I dashed into the bathroom and crouched down, opening one of the cabinet doors. Sure enough, there was the little calico cat, huddled in the back corner, relatively unharmed. Thank the gods . . .

  I didn’t have time for caution. If she bit me, so be it. I would heal. I reached into the cabinet and yanked her out by the scruff. Thankfully, Eva was little more than a tense, trembling dead weight. I shoved her into the carrier and tucked the whole thing under my arm like an oversized football, then fled from the condo, snagging my leather coat, sword, and the trash bag on my way out.

  I took the stairwell down to the basement and was already clicking the disarm button on the car alarm’s key fob before I’d even opened the door to the underground garage. I didn’t know what Garth drove when off duty, but not knowing didn’t make me miss a beat. I pressed the button over and over as I jogged farther into the garage, following the beep-beep beep-beep.

  “Hot damn,” I said with a breathy laugh when I finally honed in on his car.

  I’m not sure what I was expecting—maybe an SUV or a truck. Not the case. Garth owned a classic beauty, a black and chrome Mustang. The muscle car had clearly been restored and retrofitted with modern amenities like an alarm, because it couldn’t have been a day older than 1967.

  Pushing stringy, tangled wet hair out of my face, I unlocked the driver’s side door and flung my bag, jacket, and the condemning trash across the center console to the passenger seat. I strapped in Eva’s carrier in the backseat b
efore sliding into the car myself. After I stuck the key into the ignition, I shot a quick glance around, then twisted my wrist. The engine roared to life in the cavernous space.

  After a second or two, the Mustang settled on a low, thrumming rumble . . . until I put her into gear and maneuvered her out of her parking spot. I was surrounded by thunder and vibrating power, which only increased as I pulled out of the garage and onto the street. When I shifted into second and pressed on the gas pedal once more, a thrill rushed through me. The old girl had kick, and I kind of loved her.

  I was tempted to really let her open up on the freeway, but it was too risky. I needed to fly under the radar, and getting pulled over was pretty much the opposite of that. My face was all over the news, after all. There was no doubt that any traffic cop would recognize me, and then I’d have to fight my way out of yet another sticky situation, and I really didn’t want to beat up anyone else for just doing their job. Everybody needs money, after all. It’s the world we live in.

  Traffic was shitty pretty much everywhere, not that it was really any surprise—weekdays from two thirty to seven in the evening are pretty much the worst times to drive in Seattle. Aside from the mornings. And any time there was an accident. Or just someone getting pulled over for speeding.

  Most times are the worst times for driving in Seattle, and this time was no different.

  I lasted on the freeway for a single stretch between exits before getting off and navigating my way through the maze of stoplights and one-way streets downtown. It took a ridiculous amount of time for me to make it a few miles, but finally I was parking the Mustang in an abandoned gravel lot beside the freeway, maybe a quarter mile southeast of the Tent District’s eastern gate. I was so close to meeting back up with Garth. So close to sending him away, for good.

  I must’ve been sleepwalking the past twelve hours. It was the only explanation for why I’d let anything happen between us. For why I’d thought any kind of an anything between us was a possibility. He was good and pure, and his life had been free and easy before I’d come along. His life had been safe. I was toxic to him, as bad as the tear gas, and the longer he hung around me, the more likely it was that he’d get dead. I’d let my heart take over, and that had been a mistake. It was time to start thinking with my brain . . . and only with my brain.

  I buckled my sword harness, shrugged into my leather coat, still splattered with sticky blood, zipped it almost up to my neck, and settled my backpack on my shoulders. Hands in my pockets and head down, I hurried toward the Tent District’s eastern gate.

  “Would you mind unzipping a bit so I can see where we’re going?” I sucked in a breath, startled by Dom’s voice. He’d returned to the Bainbridge mirror for the drive to get Lex and the others up to speed and to get an update on Carmichael, and I always felt antsier when he wasn’t the voice of reason in my head.

  “Please tell me keeping that sick fuck alive was worth it,” I said as I unzipped my coat a good six inches.

  “Neffe did a rough patch job on his”—Dom cleared his throat—“wound. She loaded him with morphine, and he’s been very chatty ever since. He might not have been directly involved with the infection, but his dirty little fingers were dipped into enough other projects to make him a wealth of information, not only on what Ouroboros is up to, but Initiative Industries as well.”

  I pressed my lips into a thin, grim smile. “That’s something, at least.” The reality that Carmichael might be able to do more good alive than dead—for now—eased some of the regret and disgust knotted up in my belly. Some, but nowhere near all of it. I still wanted him to suffer, and a morphine-induced haze was a far cry from that.

  “You must be more cautious, little sister,” Dom said. “It would seem the board of directors took your threat more seriously than we’d expected. They must have extra eyes on the board members.” It was his argument for how the mercenaries had found me in the first place—they’d seen me leaving Mitch Carmichael’s building.

  I stopped across the street from the eastern opening in the razor wire–topped chain-link fence surrounding the Tent District and placed my hands on my hips, shaking my head. “But then wouldn’t they have stopped me when I was actually working on Carmichael?” I started pacing, a dozen steps down the sidewalk, then a dozen back up. “Maybe it was an anonymous tip? Someone easily could’ve spotted me leaving his place. I looked like hell . . .”

  “Perhaps,” Dom said. “But that would suggest that the Senate and/or Ouroboros or Initiative Industries have people inside the police force, which is just as disturbing.”

  I paused, considering his words, then continued pacing. “We have to assume they do. Which means Garth can’t go back to work. They know he’s involved now.” I wasn’t sure if “they” was the Senate, the pharmaceutical giant, Ouroboros, or its conglomerate parent company, Initiative Industries. I’d pissed off all three with my revenge stunt a week ago—totally worth it—so it could be any of them. Or all of them. Regardless, Garth now had a big fat target on his back, too, thanks to me. “They’ll kill him,” I told Dom.

  “I’m in agreement. This just goes to show how recognizable you are now.” He was quiet for a moment. “Perhaps it is time to move out of the Seattle area. There are many other neutral Nejerets to visit outside of Seattle. You know Heru will provide any resources you might require.”

  But I was shaking my head before he’d even finished what he was saying. Not that he could see me. “I can’t go anywhere until we stop this disease. Otherwise, all of Dorman’s people are as good as out. We have to show them that Heru’s side is the right side . . . that human lives mean something to us.”

  Dom was quiet for a long moment.

  I picked up the mirrored pendant and held it away from my chest so I could see his face. “You know I’m right. I can’t stop until the board tells me what I need to know. Dorman may have the infection contained for now, but who’s to say that’ll last? And if it gets out . . .”

  “Perhaps you are right,” Dom acceded, his shadowed, silvery stare hard. “But taking on the Ouroboros board on your own is suicide. They’ll be watching for you now. They’ll be waiting.”

  I smirked. “Who said anything about taking them on alone?”

  “I don’t count.”

  I sent him an air kiss. “Come on, Dom, you’re worth a thousand allies.” I shrugged one shoulder. “But I wasn’t talking about you.”

  Dom shook his head slowly. “Then to whom, may I ask, were you referring?”

  I blinked my lashes several times, eyes opened wide with mock innocence. “Why, the most powerful Nejeret on earth, of course.”

  “You can’t trust Nik,” Dom said, voice flat and cold. “He’s unstable. His mind snapped when he fought with Re.”

  “Pffft,” I said, waving a hand dismissively. “‘Unstable’ is my middle name.”

  “I’m serious, Kat.”

  I stared at him for a moment, considering his warning. He only used my name when shit was about to get real. Or had already gotten real. Or was in the middle of the whole “real” situation. Regardless, his use of my name was really fucking notable. Plus, he kind of had a point about Nik and the whole “instability” thing.

  Nik had shared his body with the old god Re for thousands of years. Their coexistence had been peaceful, collaborative, even, until two decades ago, when the two beings had their first—and last—disagreement. Over whether I should die. Re snapped—like, literally lost his marbles and went full-on psycho—and Nik entered into some sort of an internal battle with him, leaving their souls deadlocked and his physical body comatose. When the new gods finally pulled Re’s soul from Nik’s body a few years back, Nik regained consciousness . . . and promptly vanished. He’d been in the wind ever since. Until two weeks ago, when he showed up in my shop with news of Dom’s disappearance. Part of me was still holding my breath, waiting for him to disappear once more.

  Nik might be the most powerful living being on earth, but it was entirely
possible that Dom was right and that his mind was broken. Which would also make him the most dangerous being on earth.

  “I need him,” I told Dom. “There’s no one else.”

  “There’s you,” he said. “In this case, going it alone might be the better option.”

  I shook my head slowly, sadly. “Not this time.” My partnership with Mari had soured near the end, leaving a bad taste in my mouth. I preferred to work alone. Thrived on it. But this time, I knew I wouldn’t be enough, and my days of suicide missions were over. I gave a shit about what happened to me.

  I was ready for a partner. I was ready for Nik.

  Chapter Sixteen

  I didn’t bother with zipping up my coat to hide Dom this time. I wanted him with me, ears and eyes; I needed every weapon I had for what was to come. The board of directors would give me the cure, end of discussion. I was done pussyfooting around.

  Decision about working with Nik made—assuming he’d agree to it—I marched across the street and through the eastern gate into the Tent District, making a beeline for the former air control tower, where I hoped to find Dorman and Garth.

  They were in Dorman’s office, just the two of them, as I’d hoped. They stood side by side with identical stances—feet shoulder-width apart and arms crossed over their chests, Garth nearly a foot taller than the compact Nejeret. Their backs were to me as they stared at the wall, or rather, at the gateway I’d drawn on the wall earlier that day. The one that was still active, giving a clear-as-day window into Garth’s condo.

  I paused in the doorway, hand on the doorknob and eyes narrowed at Dorman’s back. “Funny . . . I could’ve sworn I told you to destroy that thing.”