The White Knight & Black Valentine Series (Book 4): Kill Them All

by Brand, Kristen

  It was embarrassingly sloppy of me.

  Anyway, she called one night to set up a meeting, insisting I come alone. She made it sound like someone else in my organization was a spy, and like an idiot, I bought it. I went to meet her in the middle of the night with no more than my usual caution.

  The address Electric Jane gave me was a roller-skating rink. It was a weird choice for a meeting and incredibly eerie after dark. There’s an inverse relationship between how cheery something is in daylight and how spooky it gets at night. An abandoned factory isn’t nearly as creepy as an abandoned circus, and I’d take a dark warehouse over a roller skating rink any day.

  I picked the lock on the side door and slipped inside, pausing to let my eyes adjust to the darkness. The building had a lingering smell of pizza and popcorn that didn’t quite cover the faint odor of mold. It was completely and utterly silent. After a few seconds of blinking, I was able to discern the shadowed snack bar, the hot dog heaters and slushy machines empty and still. The cheap carpet beneath my feet was covered in a pattern of stars and swirling lines, and the lack of light sapped the color from the clashing neon.

  I crept past the large, looming shapes of arcade games, the huge white eyes of stuffed animals watching me from within the glass prison of a claw machine. Then something darted across the floor, and I froze, reaching for my gun.

  It was a rat with a pizza crust in its mouth, and it squeaked before scurrying under a table.

  Gross.

  Passing rows of lockers and booths with fake leather seats, I moved toward the actual rink. It was a vast, empty expanse of darkness, the disco ball a murky sphere and overhead lights black. The back of the room held a raised platform holding DJ equipment, and waist-high walls lined the oval rink. Though I didn’t suspect Jane at the time, I avoided venturing into the open rink where there would be no cover from gunfire. Some instincts were just too deeply ingrained.

  I had just opened my mind to search for Jane telepathically when a flash of lightning blinded me. A crack broke the silence a split-second later, and the deathly still rink burst into life. Multicolored spotlights swirled around the room, and the disco ball glittered and spun. Bubbly pop music blasted over the speakers, and I winced, preparing to psy-assault the first person I sensed.

  The music volume turned down to nearly nothing, and I spotted Electric Jane bending over the DJ equipment.

  “Jesus, Jane.” I squinted in the bright light. “Give a girl some warning, will you?”

  “Sorry, honey.” She looked up from the equipment and smiled, sparks of electricity flying around her fingertips. “It was dark in here.”

  Jane had bleached blond hair that—as a side effect of her power—was perpetually frizzy. She wore skintight pants and a shirt like a sports bra, both of which were black with bright lightning bolts snaking down them. Fair-skinned and trying to pull off sunglasses instead of a mask, she spoke with a southern drawl.

  I slipped my gun back into its holster at my hip. “How’s Madame Guillotine?”

  “Still speaking gratuitous French,” Jane answered. “Poor woman is taking her gimmick a little too far.”

  We were too distant to talk properly, so I stepped onto the rink. Instead of crossing it directly, I stuck close to the wall along the edge, my footsteps echoing. “So, what have you got for me? I’m curious about what’s important enough to warrant a two a.m. meeting at a closed roller rink. Must be good.”

  Jane stepped down from the DJ platform. “Oh, it’s a game-changer, all right.”

  Instead of crossing the rink to meet me, she backed up, and alarms went off in my head. Even if I hadn’t instinctually realized she was avoiding the range of my telepathy, I sensed an overeager henchman of Madame Guillotine’s enter the side door. From his mind, I learned that a dozen more of them were surrounding the building, and Electric Jane had orchestrated it all.

  Back-stabbing bitch, I thought, but I didn’t say it aloud. I just pulled my gun and fired.

  Jane dove aside the moment she saw the gun, and my shot hit the wall. She ducked behind the DJ equipment, and I fired two more shots. The soft pop music died as bullets punched through the sound equipment, and I raced forward. All I had to do was get close enough to Jane to use my powers on her. Then she’d regret it.

  She lunged around the platform and shot a lightning bolt at me. I barely jumped aside in time, and the bolt blasted a crater in the scuffed floor. See? This is why I didn’t stride across the center of the rink where I’d be a sitting duck. As she raised her hand to shoot another, I jumped over the wall and took cover behind it.

  The bolt hit the wall, which exploded outward a few feet behind me. Chunks of stucco hit my back, and smoke reached my nose. I guess the wall wouldn’t be good cover, after all. So much for my brilliant precautions.

  Crouched low to the ground, I rushed forward. It was a matter of distance now. I just had to get close enough. I spread my telepathic senses as wide as I could, reaching for her mind.

  Her footsteps echoed through the room. She was making a run for it. I risked straightening up so I could sprint faster. She’d betrayed me. That wasn’t just shameless; it was stupid. Did she really think a small-time crook like Madame Guillotine could beat the Black Valentine? Talk about backing the wrong horse.

  As I reached the other side of the room, the air turned dry and crackling. Static made strands of my hair stand up, and I smelled ozone. Jane dashed for the door below a red exit sign, pausing just long enough to fling another lightning bolt over her shoulder. It went wide, striking the ceiling behind me and sending lights crashing to the floor. Jane reached the hallway, and I skidded to a halt beside the DJ equipment and pulled my gun.

  I aimed at her back, but the shot hit her butt. She fell with a cry, and I smiled as I lowered the gun. It would be a lot easier to catch up with her now.

  But before I could take a step, Jane screamed, and every electric-powered device in the room exploded—including the DJ equipment I was standing right next to.

  Nearly twenty years later, I still remember the burning pain on the side of my face.

  Chapter 6

  Where was I?

  My stomach churned, and the inside of my mouth was dry and sticky. I lay on my back, and for a moment, it felt like I was back on the boat, the waves rocking gently beneath me. Wait. My hands were cuffed behind my back. The last traces of drowsiness vanished, jolting me awake and back into the present.

  The last thing I remembered was Jean-Baptiste’s betrayal. What had he done with me? I held perfectly still, observing without opening my eyes. Not a boat; a car. It slowed briefly, and the blinker clicked before it turned. A hip-hop song on the radio ended, giving way to a commercial, and someone changed the channel to rock. Who? I reached out telepathically.

  I couldn’t feel anything.

  That didn’t make sense. Someone must be driving the car. Were they projecting psychic static? Hearing other cars on the road, I spread out my senses. If my powers were working, I should be able to hear the other drivers’ thoughts, but silence met me. My telepathy was gone. The only thing that could explain that was exatrin, a drug specifically designed to nullify mind-reading. Jean-Baptiste must have injected me.

  How had he drugged me? I’d read the baker’s mind, and she hadn’t put anything in what she served me.

  The guava juice. The pastry had been my idea, but Jean-Baptiste had suggested the guava juice. He must have had one of his men sneak in beforehand and drug the whole drink dispenser. The baker hadn’t been thinking of drugging me because she hadn’t known, and Jean-Baptiste hadn’t told Amala about the plan, either. He’d been banking on me reading everyone’s mind but his. I’d respected him enough to give him his privacy, and this was how he repaid me? With betrayal? I’d grown soft in my old age. He didn’t fear me enough, if he thought he could get away with something like this.

  But why? He and I had always had a good relationship. What could he gain from this?

  I swallowed, figh
t back nausea as I wondered if he’d been behind the attack in the Keys. His men were professionals, and he knew the range of my powers. He could have orchestrated it easily. Was he the reason Dave was lying unresponsive in a hospital bed? I couldn’t believe it. After all the years Jean-Baptiste and I had known each other, how could he attack me—attack my family?

  I pushed the questions away for now, until a time I wasn’t in immediate danger. First, I had to get out of this mess. I cracked my eyes open, seeing a blurry gray ceiling. It was wide; I must be inside a van. Was anyone watching me? (Seriously, how does anyone do anything without telepathy?) Deciding to risk it, I opened my eyes further.

  The rear window showed palm trees, restaurants, and hotels lining the road, so at least I was probably still in Miami. The van’s back and middle seats had been removed, leaving me lying on a floor in need of a good vacuuming. From this angle, I couldn’t see the front seats. I’d have to lean back my head, risking exposure of the fact I’d regained consciousness.

  There was no avoiding it. Slowly, I craned my neck, getting an upside-down view of the back of two men’s heads above me. So, I’d have to take out a driver and a passenger. I pressed my arms to my sides, feeling a noticeable lack of my Beretta. My Derringer? I twisted my foot, pressing my ankle against the floor. It was gone, too, and so was my purse. Damn.

  Well, the men should have guns. I’d just have to take theirs, and I couldn’t do that with my hands cuffed behind my back. I could pick the lock, but I needed to get a bobby pin out of my hair first, and that meant I’d have to get my hands in front of me. Pulling that off without them seeing me would be tricky.

  I waited until the van hit a bump and quickly slipped my hands under my butt. Ever so slowly, I lifted my legs and shoulders and worked my hands down toward the back of my knees. The rock music continued to play, but not loudly enough to cover any noise I might make. Pulling my knees up to my face, I ran the cuffs down my calves, around my heels, and over my toes. Got it.

  My abs straining, I lowered my legs centimeter by centimeter. If I could just get to my bobby pin before—

  “Aw, shit,” said a male voice.

  A hand clamped down on my arm and jerked me into a sitting position. No longer needing to fake unconsciousness, I opened my eyes. The passenger had grabbed me. He was white, the driver black, but they both wore the fine suits that Jean-Baptiste’s gang, the King’s Men, were known for.

  “I thought she was supposed to be out!” The passenger’s eyes bulged as he glanced at the driver, whose voice stayed level and calm.

  “Doesn’t matter as long as her powers are gone.”

  “How do you know they’re really gone, huh?”

  The driver gave him a pointed look. “Because we haven’t pulled over and let her go, dumbass.”

  The passenger relaxed somewhat. That’s right, I thought. I’m harmless. You’re in control. His jacket open, I could see his gun barely a foot away from my face.

  “Where am I?” I asked. “Where’s Jean-Baptiste?”

  “Shut up. You—”

  I snatched the gun. He grabbed for it instantly, so I shot him. The driver swore and swerved, jarring me. I pointed the gun at the back of his head.

  “Pull over.”

  He called me an uninspired sexist slur.

  “Pull into that next strip mall, or I’m going to put a bullet in your head,” I said. “It’ll be messy, but this van’s a piece of shit, anyway, so I doubt anyone will mind a bit of blood and brain matter on the dashboard.”

  He pulled over.

  “Park there,” I said.

  The parking spot was farthest from the storefront and surrounded by empty spaces. Hopefully, no one would see us. The passenger was wheezing, whimpering, and spitting blood. It didn’t look good for him. I’d say I hit a lung.

  “You,” I said to the driver. “Give me your gun. Slowly.”

  He reached into his jacket, his eyes murderous.

  “You should know I’m an older woman, and I get muscle spasms. Arthritis or something. No telling when it’ll act up.”

  He looked at me without understanding. I smiled viciously.

  “That’s just my little way of saying I have a twitchy trigger finger. Don’t do anything stupid.”

  He removed his gun and held it out. I didn’t want to take it from him. Cuffed like this, my free hand was too close to the hand holding the gun. He’d probably try to knock it away.

  “Drop it back here,” I said.

  He obeyed. So far so good.

  “So, which of you gentlemen has the key?”

  The driver tilted his head in the passenger’s direction.

  “Get it for me.”

  He reached into his companion’s bloody jacket, felt around for a moment, and pulled out a tiny silver key. This pass-off would be harder. If he dropped it to the floor, I’d have to pick it up, and it would be hard to keep a good angle on him with the gun from down there. A higher surface would be better.

  “Set it on his armrest and then put your hands on the wheel.”

  He did as I said—slowly. Or maybe it just seemed slow. Time had a way of dragging out when you might get attacked at any second. The passenger had gone still. He didn’t seem capable of attacking, but I kept an eye on him as I reached my left hand under my right. Keeping the gun pointed at the driver, I lowered both my hands just enough to take the key. I didn’t take my eyes from the driver as I unlocked the cuffs. It wasn’t as if I needed to look at the lock; I was an expert at handcuffs both practical and kinky.

  I set the handcuffs on the driver’s armrest.

  “Cuff yourself to the wheel.”

  He didn’t move. He must’ve realized his chances of turning this around would plummet if he obeyed. His resistance was getting annoying. If only I could mind-control him, this would be a whole lot simpler.

  “It’s better for both of us if you listen,” I said. “You won’t get shot, and I won’t have to shove your heavy corpse out of the van and drive myself.”

  He told me to do something explicit with a roll of barbed wire.

  “Well, at least your insults are getting more creative. That was much better than the last one.” I jabbed the gun’s barrel into the back of his head. “I’ll be sure to mention it at your eulogy.”

  “Wait! Wait.” He took the handcuffs and clasped himself to the wheel with a lot of swearing. “There. Happy? What else do you want?”

  “Nothing you weren’t going to do, anyway. Just keep driving to wherever it is you were taking me. We wouldn’t want to be late.”

  He sat there, letting that sink in.

  “And I hate to repeat the same threat over and over,” I went on, “but if I have so much as the slightest suspicion you’ve taken me to a fake location when we arrive, your funeral won’t be able to have an open casket. Now drive.”

  He put the gearshift in drive and got back on the road.

  During the next ten minutes, the only time I took my gaze from the driver was to survey the passenger, who didn’t seem to be breathing. I would have preferred him alive, but regrets were less than worthless. I kept the gun pointed at the driver, not wavering even as my arm muscles ached from holding up the gun for so long.

  We entered a residential neighborhood. It was a nice area, the lawns neatly trimmed and lined with pink azaleas and orange lilies, maples and magnolias casting shade over the yards. The houses on the right even had a river behind them. Nothing like waterfront property. What could Jean-Baptiste possibly mean by having me sent to a place like this? And why alive?

  He should really know better than to leave me alive.

  A speed bump came into view, and I braced myself. I couldn’t afford to let the gun stray from the driver’s head for an instant. But before we reached it, he turned into a driveway. We approached a two-story white house built in the style of Miami Modern architecture, which meant it was blocky, old, and part of it was up on stilts. The driveway split into two, one path leading to the garage and th
e other circling around the house.

  “What were you supposed to do now?” I hated that I had to ask and couldn’t just pluck the information from his mind.

  “There should be a boat docked around back,” he muttered. “We’re supposed to deliver you to the people waiting on it.”

  “Then let’s not keep them waiting.”

  He drove slowly around the house. Closer, I could see that it wasn’t a river in the back but a narrow canal. The paved driveway led right up to the water; it must be meant for unloading a boat. To the left of it sat a nice little wooden dock where a white cabin cruiser was moored. A man stood there, smoking as he waited. He wore a tailored suit and tie of olive green, and his hair was graying. Something about him tugged at my recognition. Did he work for Jean-Baptiste?

  He looked up as the van approached, and I kept still, hidden from sight behind the driver. We were still far away. If we could get a little closer before he noticed anything amiss, I could take him by surprise.

  A blurry figure was moving behind the windows of the cabin cruiser. He had backup, and there must be at least one pistol under that suit jacket. Maybe I should have let Eddy come with me, back when he’d offered at the hospital. I preferred odds stacked in my favor.

  Closer now, I could see the thick fingers holding the cigarette and the craggy face behind expensive sunglasses. I definitely knew him from somewhere. He frowned as he peered at the van. Did he suspect anything? Without my telepathy, I had no way of knowing. I tensed and waited.

  He went for his gun.

  I fired through the windshield. It didn’t shatter, just cracked everywhere and ruined my view for the next shot. Pops like fireworks alerted me as he fired back. The driver swore and ducked. I opened the van’s side door and tried to peek out without making a target of myself. The man jumped into the boat, and its engine roared. I squeezed the trigger until I ran out of bullets, but it didn’t stop the cabin cruiser from taking off down the canal. Within a moment, they were out of sight.