Elemental Assassin 01 - Spider's Bite

her. My money’s on the second one. Caine already thinks I’m a monster. He’ll want to go after the other two—the ones he doesn’t know.”
    Finn glanced at his watch. “It’s almost three. He’s only got a few hours to make up his mind.”
    “I know. And I hope he makes the right decision. For everyone’s sake.”
    Finn snorted. “You’re just saying that because you want to fuck him.”
    I started. “What makes you say that?”
    “Come on, Gin, don’t play games with me. You’ve got a thing for Donovan Caine. You have ever since you killed Ingles, his partner, and he went all dogged and determined on you. Fletcher told me about the file he compiled on the good detective.”
    My fingers smushed into my sandwich, leaving grooves in the pumpernickel bread. Damn Fletcher. Damn and double damn him. That file was just supposed to be between the two of us. But I should have known he would have told Finn about it. The old man had shared everything with his son—including my curious interest in the detective.
    Maybe it was his dark good looks or the air of confidence that radiated off Donovan Caine. Maybe it was the perpetual scowl that tightened his face. Or the strain of being an honest man that sat on his shoulders like he was Atlas bearing the weight of the world. Or perhaps it was the simple fact he still clung to ideals I’d given up long ago. But something about him fascinated me.
    “Maybe I find him … interesting,” I admitted. “Attractive in an uptight sort of way. But that won’t keep me from killing him if he does something stupid—like try to double-cross us. That is something that’s nonnegotiable, no matter how much fuck potential Donovan Caine might have.”
    Finn raised his coffee mug to me. “That’s my girl. A bitch to the bitter end.”
    I saluted him with my sandwich. “Always.” 

14
    “Exactly how long are we going to sit out here?” Finn asked. “It’s been hours already.”
    Finnegan Lane might be an expert when it came to computers, international banking laws, and getting women to take off their clothes, but patience was not one of his virtues. Another reason Fletcher had trained me instead of him. Assassins who didn’t like to wait did stupid things—and then they got dead.
    “Long enough for him to think we’re not coming tonight and relax his guard,” I said. “Now quit your bitching. You whine worse than a toddler.”
    I peered through a pair of night-vision goggles. Donovan Caine lived in a modest cabin home in Towering Pines, one of Ashland’s rustic-themed subdivisions. The two-story, wooden structure was located at the end of a cul-de-sac and squatted about two hundred feet up on a hill. Stunted pine trees lined the curving driveway that led up to the house, not quite matching the subdivision’s boastful name.
    Finn and I had gotten a fresh car and slipped into the suburban neighborhood just before six. Lucky for us, one of Caine’s college-age neighbors had decided to throw a raucous party. Two dozen cars lined the streets, three deep in some places, while at least a hundred people, most in their early twenties, milled in and around the ranch-style house that was the closest one to the detective’s abode. One particularly drunk frat boy had stumbled by, turned, and thrown up all over the hood of our stolen SUV. I had to stop Finn from getting out and rubbing the guy’s nose in his own vomit.
    “It’s not even your car,” I pointed out. “You lifted it out of a mall parking lot.”
    “It’s the principle of the thing,” Finn sniffed. “This is a Mercedes. You don’t puke on a Mercedes.”
    We sat about two hundred feet away from the cabin, out of range of any surveillance cameras or equipment that might be on or around the structure. Besides the party shack, there hadn’t been much activity on the street. A few folks coming in from work and going back out to get dinner. Some kids wearing football uniforms piling out of a truck. People lugging groceries inside. The usual suburban routines.
    At exactly six o’clock, the light on Donovan Caine’s front porch had clicked on. The detective appeared to have accepted my terms. Or at least wanted me to think he had. I hadn’t spotted any scurry of activity around the house. No cops hidden in the bushes, no plainclothes detectives masquerading as put-upon suburbanites, no SWAT team parked in an unmarked van. But that didn’t mean Caine wasn’t waiting inside with a dozen of Ashland’s