by McKenna Dean
His face fell, a caricature of shock for just an instant, until the shields came down into place once more, much like a portcullis clanging shut. It was fascinating to watch his expression harden into a mask. I couldn’t imagine why I’d been so bold. It had been the wrong move. Blue eyes became steel, and his mouth was tight when he spoke.
“Whoever you are, Miss Bishop, I don’t want any part of you or your organization.” The bench scraped across the floor as he pushed it back.
“Please,” I said, reaching out in appeal. “Please sit down and hear me out.”
Knight rested one hand on the table, glowering with his head lowered like a bull about to charge. He might have looked like a lost little boy sitting at the table when I walked in, but he definitely had a man’s body. Nice shoulders. The thought was so illogical, so inappropriate, I squashed it right away.
He caught his lower lip in his teeth in a snarl. “You killed her.”
His accusation took my breath away. He waved off my protest before I could get it out of my mouth, as though shooing a fly. “Oh, no, not you personally, but you and your kind. Smarmy organizations with secret agendas who want me to work for them and then murder my wife when I refuse. I suppose I’m next, eh? Well, do your worst or bugger off. You don’t know how little I have left to lose.”
“I’m not here to threaten you into taking a job with us.” Taking a steadying breath, I picked up my glass of whiskey and turned it, staring into its depths. I’d cut myself into this game of poker. Now it was time to ante up. “I’m sorry about your wife. And I’m sorry about the dossier on you. I was showing off, and it was inappropriate. This is my first field assignment, and I’m not handling it well. Please, sit down.”
My apology seemed to dampen his fury, yet he remained standing. At least he hadn’t stormed out. His anger just snuffed out, like a capped candle. Dragging a fingernail in small circles on the table’s surface without looking at me, when he spoke, his voice was so low I had to strain to hear him. “We used to meet here. My wife and I. Margo. Before we were married. When I was in town, that is. She was so beautiful. So fair. She was training to become a nurse. She was....” He took a moment to consider his answer. “She was an island of sanity and joy in a world gone mad. I loved her very much.”
I’d spent the last few days pouring over his file, and even without the redacted statements, it was clear Redclaw had access to things beyond the standard security firm. What would working on the kinds of top-secret projects that Knight had been part of do to a man? Especially someone as young and brilliant as he’d been then. A wunderkind, they’d called him. Child genius. I struggled to find the right words—kind words—that wouldn’t chase him away. “The war was no respecter of goodness, kindness, or beauty. It smashed and grabbed like some unfeeling robber, tearing apart lives without caring. You can’t blame yourself for that.”
His sharp glance met my eyes. “Some of us are more responsible than others.”
“Yes,” I agreed. I cleared my throat and held out my glass. “To the kind and good. May we live up to their legacy.”
Knight’s all too expressive face screwed up at this, as though he was holding back a wall of pain with his skin. But I’d gotten through to him. He took his seat and picked up his tumbler. “To the kind and good.”
We clicked glasses. Knight drained the rest of his. I tossed back the entirety of mine, welcoming the slow burn as it made its way down my throat.
Ryker trusted me. I hope he was right to do so.
I was about to find out.
“Redclaw Security is an investigative firm. We find things. Artifacts. People. Information.” I weighed my next words with great care, fingering the metaphorical cards before laying them on the table. I had nothing to lose. “What if I told you we could find out who killed your wife?”
Chapter Seven
For a long moment, I thought my risky gamble had failed. Knight’s eyes blazed with white-hot fury before his expression faded almost into bewilderment. Somehow, that moment of confused indecision got to me more than anything else he’d said or done all evening. As he stared at the room, his face void of all expression, it was as though I’d ceased to exist. Whatever he saw, it wasn’t the activity of the surrounding patrons.
At last, his gaze returned to my face. “You might already work for them.”
That thought hadn’t occurred to me. Catching me off guard, the accusation was almost a sucker punch, but I dismissed the possibility before the full force of his words hit me. It didn’t seem Ryker-like, for want of a better word. I measured my response before speaking. “Perhaps. But if we are, you’ll be able to take us down from the inside. If not, we’re your best chance of finding out who was behind Margo’s death.”
Hearing his wife’s name caused a spasm of pain to flare across his face, but his odd sense of humor soon resurfaced. “For someone just promoted out of the typing pool, you’re very good at this, you know. They might have sent you simply because your ignorance makes every statement ring with the truth.”
I lifted my chin. “Maybe they had a good reason for promoting me.”
He snorted, eyeing the partial bottle of whiskey at his elbow. While he might be more persuadable drunk, I preferred him having most of his senses about him for this decision. When he reached for the bottle, I caught his hand in mine. He looked down at my grip in patent disbelief.
“There are others looking for you. You’d be safer with us.”
“Like I care about my safety.” His words vividly reminded me of the street outside the Blue Moon and a cold snow driving little needles into my skin. His attitude then made more sense now. His hand jerked in mine and pulled away.
Like before on the street corner, his defeatist attitude irritated me. I clapped down some money for my drink on the table and stood. “Fine. Let whoever killed your wife win, then.”
Anger blazed in his eyes once more. It was better than apathy, even if I had to bear the brunt of it. “Who the hell do you think you are?”
I turned his tumbler upside down, the small trickle of whiskey within running down to wet the table. “Someone who hates to see good brains go to waste.”
Sometimes you need to know when to throw down your cards. I turned and walked away.
I’d hoped, but hadn’t expected he’d follow me. As such, I was startled by his touch on the collar of my coat as I pulled it on and then relaxed as he assisted me into it. So close to my ear that his warm breath made me shiver, he said, “‘Take us down from the inside’? Fan of the movies, are we?”
Heat rushed into my cheeks, but I pretended not to notice. “‘Fasten your seatbelts.’” I quoted. “‘It’s going to be a bumpy night.’”
His laughter warmed me more than it should have.
Once outside the bar, I realized I didn’t know what to do with him. No one would be at the office this late at night. I had no means of contacting Ryker, Mr. J, or even Miss Climpson after hours, something I would need to remedy in the morning. At the very least, I needed to know where Knight was staying, and I couldn’t take his word for it, either. I’d have to confirm his address before I left him for the evening. I paused on the sidewalk while I tried to determine the best way of getting the information I needed.
Knight had other ideas. “My car’s along here somewhere. I’ll give you a ride home.”
“That’s not necessary,” I said in haste, before he could lead us to the car.
“You think I’m squiffy.” Knight sounded insulted. “I’m perfectly capable of giving you a lift to wherever you live.”
The hair went up on the back of my neck. There was a kind of breathless tension in the air around us, the quivering attention of a cat about to pounce. From a side alley to our right, I heard the faint scrape of a shoe on pavement, quickly halted.
“I think,” I said, keeping my voice casual as I took his arm and forced him to walk with me, “perhaps we’re not the only people interested in your services.”
A car parked
along the street in front of us turned on its headlights, pinning us in their glare. Knight threw his hands up to shield his eyes while I squinted and listened hard, trying to determine which direction the attack was about to come. My fingers twisted the latch on my clutch, where I’d hidden the ray gun.
Two men sprang out from the darkness on both sides, attempting to pinch us between them. One rushed me, the other tackled Knight. The man who’d grabbed my arm spun me around so hard I dropped my purse. It skittered along the sidewalk out of reach.
My attacker must have thought he could just throw me to the ground, allowing him and his cohort to concentrate on Knight. When he grasped my shoulders, I drove my heel into his instep. It was satisfying to hear his howl of pain vanish with a whoosh of air as I followed with a punch to the gut. When he doubled over, I slammed the point of my elbow into the back of his neck and he fell in a heap to the pavement. Who knew all those years of fending off drunken frat boys and handsy coworkers would pay off?
Knight scuffled with the man frog-marching him toward the car, whose back door stood open, ready to receive him. I grabbed Knight’s assailant by the collar, jerking him backward. It startled the attacker long enough that Knight was able to whirl and punch him in the face. The man cursed and brought his hands up to his nose, but shook off the pain to sweep out with his leg and knock Knight off his feet. Knight went down, pin-wheeling his arms in an attempt to stop his fall.
Blood streaming down over his hand from his bloody nose, Knight’s assailant faced me in the headlights framing my location. He pulled a short knife out of his pocket and lunged. I jumped back with a gasp, barely avoiding his jab. Knight was still down, but spun on his side to kick the knife-holder in the back of the knee, causing his leg to buckle. The knife went flying. I dashed in to give him a hard shove. Already off balance, the attacker tumbled over backward. His skull met the pavement with a dull thud.
It all happened in a matter of seconds. Two were down but there was at least one more in the car, with the headlights trained on us.
Knight got to his feet just as I snatched up my purse. A screech of metal announced the opening of the driver’s side door. Knight grabbed me by the arm and barked a single command. “Move!”
The report of a gun went off so close the echo reverberated in my head. Something tore into my left arm, and for a moment, the sharp pain stunned me into incomprehension. Then reaction kicked in and I shoved Knight sideways, knocking him out of the headlight’s beam. I dove behind him, fishing for the ray gun as I did. The shooter still had the advantage of distance on us. We were sitting ducks.
The driver of the car strode through the light cast by the headlamps, the black metal of his gun glinting in bright beams. My hand closed on the gun in my clutch, and I let the bag fall away as the warm metal molded itself to my grip.
Still too far away for the energy beam to reach him. A few more steps....
A metallic rattle forced me to look in Knight’s direction. He’d snatched up a trash can lid from a nearby bin and held it like some sort of Spartan shield. I had to give him points for courage, but I doubted the lid would stop a bullet.
That wasn’t what Knight had in mind, however. He rotated the lid until it was perpendicular to the ground and flung it away from him. It hurtled toward the gunman like some sort of Roman discus. With catlike reflexes, the gunman flung up his arm to block the flying lid. Roaring his rage, the gunman knocked it to one side. It fell with a clatter to the ground.
I’d already drawn a bead on the shooter. Now I depressed the trigger. The blue circles of energy erupted from the gun, striking the assailant in the middle of his chest. I held my breath as he twitched and jerked—what if the stun effect wasn’t powerful enough to bring him down?
I needn’t have worried. He stiffened and flung his hands up as though struck by lightning. When he fell, it was in slow motion like a tree being cut down, knees buckling first, and then pitching face first to the ground.
A wave of dizziness swept over me and I stumbled. Knight caught me by my right arm.
“You’re hurt! Are you all right? What the hell did you just shoot him with? And what should we do about all this?” Knight flapped his hand at the incapacitated attackers lying all around us. “We can’t just leave bodies strewn about like this, can we?”
“We need to get out of here. Damn it. You owe me a coat, Knight.”
“Someone shot you and tried to kidnap me and you’re worried about your coat?” His incredulity threatened to make me laugh.
“It’s Balenciaga.” That should explain everything.
His disgusted snort said it didn’t.
My vision and hearing seemed preternaturally acute. I felt as though I could go ten rounds with Sugar Ray Robinson or climb Mount Everest. Even the initial burn of the gunshot faded into the background. I knew the high that comes from surviving something dangerous would only carry me so far, though. Knight’s own heightened levels of adrenaline poured off him in waves. At least the attack had one positive side effect: Knight seemed to have sobered up. His fingers were tight on my forearm. He had no idea he would leave bruises. “Is this what working for your agency will be like? Because that was rather intense.”
“No, not every day. Think of it more like hours of boredom interspersed with moments of sheer terror.”
“Ah. Then not that dissimilar from some of my previous jobs.”
I smiled in the darkness at the sudden sense of camaraderie. It had been a long time since I’d felt that with anyone.
The man I’d dropped to the sidewalk was out cold, if, indeed, he was still alive. I thought he might be. I hoped so—the notion I might have cracked his skull left me feeling queasy. Or maybe it was the shock of being injured. Everything had happened so fast. No one had opened a door to look out at the sound of gunfire or fighting in the street. No doubt a typical night in this part of town. I picked up my hat, previously lost in the scuffle, and noted the first attacker lifting his head. I fixed my hat in place and fired the stun beam at him for good measure. He went limp again.
We reached the abandoned car, and I turned off the headlights. After noting the registration number of the vehicle to report it to Redclaw, I closed the door. No doubt it would prove to be stolen.
“Come on. We need to get you to a doctor. My car is just down the block.” Knight pointed down the street.
“Where, exactly?”
He peered about. “Er, I’m not sure. But it can’t be far.”
I opened my mouth to respond, only to stop at the sight of movement farther up the street. I wasn’t sure what I was seeing. Something shadowy slipped in and out of the pools of light cast by the street lamps. At first, I thought it must be a stray dog heading in our direction, but then I realized it was too large. And there was more than one. A lot more.
The little gun quivered in my hand, almost begging me to stand and fight. I shoved it into my pocket instead. We were seriously outnumbered.
Knight must have seen the dawning look of horror on my face, for he glanced over his shoulder to see what had my attention. “What the hell is that?”
I grabbed him by the arm, even as I wrenched the door of the car open again. “Get inside. Now.”
I shoved him into the passenger side of the front seat and climbed in behind the wheel, slamming the door as I did so. Thank God, the keys were in the ignition. Turning them, the engine caught, and I floored the gas pedal. The car peeled away from the curb with a screech of tires just as something thudded against the trunk. In the rearview mirror, multiple shadows leaped and scratched at the back window, but rolled off as the car gained speed.
“What were they?” Knight turned in his seat to watch the forms running behind us until they could no longer keep up. His voice rang hollow with shocked confusion.
I didn’t blame him. I’d seen them with my own eyes and still felt the stunned disbelief. “Wolves. They were wolves.”
Chapter Eight
I raced the car in and out of traf
fic, refusing to allow any sort of slowdown impede our getaway. In my haste, I shifted gears before the clutch was fully engaged, which resulted in a dreadful grinding sound. The speed at which I cornered turns made the tires squeal, and more than once Knight muttered an oath and scrabbled at the dash for support. It wasn’t until I skipped the curb and took out a few trash cans that he complained aloud, however.
“I think you can slow down now.” His voice sounded strained, and he splayed his fingers against the dashboard for support.
I craned my head around. “Do you see anyone behind us?”
“Eyes on the road!”
I jerked reflexively at his bellow. “You don’t have to shout.”
“I’m not at all certain it wouldn’t be better for me to drive.”
I didn’t bother to dignify this with a response. My roundabout approach to my apartment made me reasonably confident we weren’t being followed. Still, I didn’t want to take a chance. Not with the...unusual nature of our pursuers. When I saw a taxi stand, I pulled over at the nearest side street and turned to face Knight.
“We’ll leave the car here and take a cab back to my place. This one might be stolen. It’s best we don’t drive it much farther.”
He nodded without argument, which made for a refreshing change.
As we walked toward the taxis, Knight threaded his arm through mine. I shivered a little at the warmth of his contact, taking in the familiar musky scents of pipe tobacco and cedarwood. Knight was an Old Spice man.
“Much as you like to be in charge, we’ll raise fewer eyebrows and garner less attention if you let me take over from here.”
Though loath to confess it, I found the strength of his arm linked with mine steadying. “Until you speak,” I said. “People will remember a Brit if questioned.”
“I can’t imagine who you think might be questioned about us and why, but rest assured, I can do a passable American accent if necessary. Don’t flip your wig.”
