"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.
One guy left.
He raised his gun and fired three more times. But his friend was in the way, and the bullets slammed into his back instead of my chest. I pulled myself up and shoved the dead guy at the last man. The body flopped against his wounded arm, and the gun slipped from his hand.
I threw myself at the last guy, but he saw me coming. His fists slammed into my chest.
Hard, solid blows. I jerked back, my foot caught on something, and I fell to the carpet.
He leaped on top of me, wrapping his hands around my throat. I tried to break his grip, but he was stronger. My hands scrabbled on the floor, looking for one of my knives, his gun, anything I could hurt him with.
A leg moved in my peripheral vision, and a foot slammed into the guy's head. The man grunted, and his grip loosened. I shoved him back and rolled out from under him, my eyes flicking over the bloody carpet. There. I grabbed the base of one of the broken lamps. The curved glass had shattered, leaving a sharp, serrated edge about five inches long. Perfect.
The guy clamped a hand on my shoulder and yanked me up, determined to finish choking me. I spun around and slashed his throat.
The glass dug into his flesh, instead of slicing deep and clean the way my knife would have. The edges caught and snagged on his stubbled skin. Nothing easy and painless about it. The man shrieked an ear-splitting sound of keening pain. He tried to jerk away, move away. I thought of Fletcher and followed him. I pulled the glass out, taking chunks of flesh with it, then shoved it right back in. Hard. What had been a trickle of blood increased to a crimson torrent, spattering down my torso and onto my T-shirt, jacket, and jeans.
The man's hand clamped down on my shoulder like a vise, making me wince. Blood and mucus bubbled out of his trembling lips. We stood there. Me driving the glass in deeper and deeper, his hand tightening that much more with every millimeter. His eyes glazed, and after about thirty seconds, his grip slackened. I shoved him away, and he joined his two dead buddies on the floor.
My eyes went to Donovan Caine. To my surprise, he had his leg up, ready to kick out with his foot again. The detective stared at me, then the men on the floor. He lowered his boot.
"Sorry about the mess," I said.
Chapter Fifteen
The corner of Donovan Caine's mouth lifted up into a faint smile-or grimace. Hard to tell since red welts and shallow cuts dotted his features like lumpy, ugly freckles.
The beginnings of a shiner rimmed his right eye, and a bruise had already darkened his left cheekbone. I'd saved Caine from being beaten as bad as Finn, but the detective had still taken several good licks.
"You're the one who's a mess," Donovan Caine said.
I glanced at my reflection in the mirror over the dresser. Blood coated my face like some sort of mud mask Jo-Jo might use at her salon. More blood covered my jacket and T-shirt, blackening the fabric, and drips and drops painted my jeans and boots in gobby, Jackson Pollock patterns. Distinct fingertip bruises ringed my throat, a macabre necklace of purple jewels. I probably had a matching set on my shoulder from the guy's death grip. When you added the blood and bruises together, I looked like I was dressed up for Halloween-as a murder victim.
Not exactly the face I wanted to present to the detective, but I'd looked worse. Much worse. But tonight, something about the blood made me feel old. Tired. Used up.
Just once, it might be nice to go out at night and not have to incinerate my clothes when I got home. Just once.