Elemental Assassin 01 - Spider's Bite

lady?” Number One asked. “She’ll get him to talk. Right quick, too.”
    “Really? Like she made the old guy at the restaurant talk?” Number Two said. “Creepiest thing I’ve ever seen, the way she kept ripping off his skin, and the way he kept laughing at her. Even gave Carlyle the willies, and you know what a cold bastard he is.”
    Fletcher. They’d been there in the Pork Pit that night. This guy and Charles Carlyle had seen Fletcher die, probably held him down while the Air elemental did her worst to him. My hands tightened on my knives, and the cold knot of rage in my chest throbbed with anticipation.
    Fletcher.
    “The geezer was tough. The detective here isn’t that strong, are you, Caine?” Number Three said.
    “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-slap s  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