Because seeing him three times in two days is really pushing the boundaries of my sanity.
And while it’s not clear what he’s up to, my agenda isn’t really a secret. I could’ve waited until they left, but Marius is turning the heat up with his social media bullshit and ensuing lawsuit.
About time I did the same to him.
That might be wishful thinking. While the hole has gotten progressively deeper over the half hour of digging, I’m no closer to finding anything that will help the investigation.
Sherlock calls out from beneath the tent, “You should really get some water, Skye.” He holds a bottle up in his perfectly manicured hand.
“I’m doing just fine, thanks.” I pound the shovel into the dirt with added force to unequivocally demonstrate my boundless energy reserves.
“What are you looking for all the way out here, anyway?”
“Could ask the same of you.” I wipe my damp brow and take a deep breath. “Weren’t you bragging about how I was gonna see you on TV yesterday?”
“You took up all the airtime. Wasn’t much left for the rest of us.”
“Yeah, I’m sure that was it.” I peer into the hole beneath the sign’s right-hand side. It’s about two feet deep. How far down could a trio of teenage girls really bury something? No way it can be that much further.
Or I’ve lost it and this is a terrible idea.
There’s a distant boom. I glance up, expecting thunder or a sudden rainstorm.
But the sky is still crystal clear. My mind then immediately goes to gunshots.
My head is on a swivel, scanning the empty landscape.
I see nothing.
I lean on the shovel and throw a look over at Sherlock. “You guys drop something over there?”
But he and the handful of worker bees still remaining in the tent look equally confused. He says, “Might’ve been an accident up the road.”
“I guess.” Not really buying that explanation.
After another minute or two spent looking around the open expanse, though, nothing else happens. I return my attention to the hole and continue digging to what feels like the center of the earth.
Then my shovel collides against something with a metal ting.
Jackpot.
I get on my hands and knees, unearthing the find with my hands. I’m so focused on the task that I don’t notice Sherlock approaching until he says right over my shoulder, “What you got there?”
“Fuck man, a little privacy.” I huddle over the hole like a squirrel protecting its haul of acorns.
“Just curious what could possibly be worth sweating that much for.”
“Some of us actually work for a living,” I say, still shielding the contents from his prying eyes. “Do you mind?”
“You can’t hide that forever,” he says.
“What happened to courtesy between two professionals?”
“There’s courtesy, then there’s business,” he replies. “And one makes you rich, the other a doormat.”
“Great philosophy, moron.” I don’t move. “Really a net positive for the world.”
“But it’s a positive for—”
There’s another boom. This one’s closer. And this time I have no doubt: it’s gunfire. My head snaps toward the sound. I spot the sun glaring off a rifle’s scope about five hundred yards away, across the road.
I grab Sherlock’s arm without thinking and start to sprint for the truck.
He tries to resist and dig his heels into the dry ground, but I growl, “If you get me killed trying to save your ass, my ghost will haunt you until the end of time.”
Another bullet booms out as we scramble behind the truck. I peek over the hood, watching as the tent erupts in flames. Sherlock’s associates flee for cover out in the open.
Of course it can’t just be regular gunfire. It has to be imbued with magus.
Because it’s just that kind of investigation.
And Sherlock’s employees are going to be picked off like clay pigeons at a shooting range if I don’t do something.
“Get in the truck,” I say, ramming my keys into his soft hand.
“And do what?”
“Keep low and floor it straight ahead.” I yank the door open.
“But what—”
I push him inside as another bullet cracks out over the blue expanse. “And if you screw me over, let it be known that I will come to your office and burn it all down.”
He gulps, crouching low behind the steering column. I slam the door shut and the engine starts.
I take a deep breath as I pull out my Glock.
The truck revs and lurches forward.
A gunshot kicks off the dirt right in front of the truck’s bumper as Sherlock drives straight ahead.
Then I start running across the two-lane road at a dead sprint.
It’s not the best plan in the world.
The sane thing would have been to hop into the truck and save my own ass.
But it’s the only plan that might prevent the rest of these morons from getting killed.
The scope swings above the bushes as the gunman realizes that I’m a total psycho.
I’m still about three hundred yards away.
I bring the pistol up and squeeze off a couple shots. They kick up dirt in front of the shrubbery.
The scope levels at me, unperturbed by my gunfire. He’s a pro.
It’s steady for a second. He’s about to pull the trigger again.
I dive face first into the dirt right before a round explodes over my back. The collision with the hard ground jars every bone in my body. I groan and keep dragging myself toward the bushes on my hands and knees. He has to load the magical charged rounds in one-by-one, but that doesn’t give me forever.
Or even time to catch my breath.
I stumble upright, willing myself across the open terrain even with the wind half knocked out of me.
I hear the distinct click of a round being loaded into the rifle punctuate the quiet midday air.
I stare at the gleaming scope.
Maybe a hundred-fifty yards separate us, now. I’m not getting a better shot.
So I drop to one knee.
Raise the Glock.
And fire. A return shot rockets just over my shoulder mid-volley, so close I can feel the heat of the burning bullet. I keep firing.
I hear a groan, then a thud.
I pop up and race over to the bushes, Glock ready.
The gunman, clad in all black for no reason other than he must want to boil himself alive, clutches at a wound on his chest. It drips blood into the cracked soil.
He reaches weakly for the rifle.
I kick the gun away and pin his gloved hand into the dirt with my boot.
Still gasping for air, I start with a brief, simple question. “Who sent you?”
“Call an ambulance,” he rasps out.
“No ambulance. Talk.”
“Then I’m telling you nothing.”
I think fast, pull out my phone, tap the screen a bit, then put it to my ear. I don’t actually dial a number. “Yes, hello? There’s a gunshot victim out on the road by the town’s southern limits. Yes, near the sign. Medical assistance urgently needed. Thanks.”
I take the phone down and stare at him. “They said ten minutes.”
“Then I won’t have to tell you shit.”
Seems we’re both good bluffers. Except one of us has an actual hand, and the other one is playing with nothing.
I reach down and rip off his mask. He’s middle-aged, graying hair peeking through a wild beard. “Guess what, asshole? I didn’t call anyone.”
He lets out a soft laugh. “Well played.”
“But maybe I will if you tell me what I want to know.”
“No, you won’t.”
I nod my head. “No, probably not.”
“I appreciate the honesty.” He blinks and then coughs, blood staining his beard. “It’s rare.”
“So what does
that buy me?”
“I’m dead anyway,” he says, eyes half-closed. “Hex hired me to watch that Sherlock guy. Said to kill him if he got too close and bring whatever they found back to him.”
“Why?”
“Figured Hex didn’t want to pay that big reward, I guess.”
“And what’s all the way out here that constitutes too close?” I ask.
“He didn’t say anything about this place or anything specific,” he replies, his voice getting fainter, “But I’ve been doing this long enough to know when someone’s found something.” He grins. “And you definitely found something just now.”
“That your professional opinion?” There’s the growl of an engine, and I turn toward the noise. Sherlock is returning in my truck, pulling up to the town limit sign.
The hitman uses the opportunity to kick my legs out.
I flip into the dirt, tailbone breaking my fall. He slashes at my face with a hidden knife.
I barely manage to duck beneath the glinting blade.
Then I pull the trigger.
The last round explodes from the chamber, snapping his head back.
I reach over and check his pulse.
Dead.
Then I collapse in the dust, breathing heavily as I stare at the peaceful blue sky.
Twenty-Seven
After I take a moment or two to catch my breath, I check the hitman’s pockets. There’s no ID, papers, or any further clues. Maybe Marius told him there was something important out here to keep an eye on, or maybe it was indeed just a professional’s intuition as he watched me dig.
Which reminds me. I never got the chance to actually get that damn box out of the ground.
I push myself to my feet and send a text to Javy: body out by the town limits, calling it in
We could just make it disappear, but given that Sherlock and his team of underlings are all witnesses, I’m not confident that approach will fly. So I’ll just have to deal with the consequences.
Mainly it being a waste of time, since it’s textbook self-defense. Well, as textbook as a case involving a hitman firing magus infused flaming bullets from his high-powered rifle can be.
Then I make my way back toward the road, waiting for a minivan to zoom by before I cross the broiling asphalt. The tent is still burning, albeit more cinders and embers at this point than a full-fledged blaze. Sherlock and his associates are nowhere to be found. My truck is parked with the door open pretty close to the sign.
I head over to the hole and glance down.
“You asshole.” It’s empty. Because of course that’s what a slimebag like Sherlock would do after I saved his life.
I glance around the sign to make sure he didn’t just take the box out to briefly inspect it before leaving it for me.
But no, it’s clearly gone.
Fantastic.
Fists clenched, I hop into the driver’s seat, where I also find that the keys are missing.
I’d pound the dashboard, but it wouldn’t do much good. Sometimes chaos wins. Such is the way of life.
So I just lean back into my seat. My shoulder stings slightly as it touches the upholstery. I glance down and touch the singed edge of a cut. One of the bullets grazed me. A half inch lower and my arm would probably have been blown clean off.
Without much to do but wait around for the cops, I dial Sherlock’s office.
A receptionist answers with, “Sherlock Anderson Investigatory Services, how may I help you?”
“Give me Sherlock’s number,” I say.
“I’m sorry but Mr. Anderson isn’t currently available. Are you calling about a case?”
“I told him what would happen if he fucked with me,” I say.
“Ma’am, if you’re unsatisfied with your service, I am happy to forward your call to your investigator. They will be able to update you on the status of your case.” The receptionist sounds more nervous than happy, though.
“I’d start looking for another job,” I say. “Because your boss is about to go out of business.”
Then I hang up and rest my chin on the hot steering wheel. That’s probably just a fantasy. I’m sure Sherlock has an entire team of lawyers as expensive as his veneers that are ready to sweep all his bullshit under the rug.
But I can dream. Right?
With Javy taking lead on the investigation, the questioning is short and to the point. I let him know about the details, including a few things to leave out of the case report, and he writes down my official statement.
It’s a good thing I called it in. That first distant shot? Turns out our hitman got one of Sherlock’s investigators who was looking at something about half a mile up the road.
So even with a team of lawyers, it’s going to be hard for Sherlock to escape this mess.
After the investigative procedures are wrapped up, Javy helps me hotwire the truck. I’d ask him where he learned to do it, but over the course of an unending life, it’s not terribly surprising that he’d pick up something like that along the way.
It’s a long ride back to my apartment—even though the drive only takes about fifteen minutes. The sour taste of defeat lingers in my mouth. I had a good lead, but it’s now gone.
That’s the problem with playing the hero. It’s a thankless business.
And now it’s back to square one.
I head up the stairs to my apartment feeling somewhat discouraged. I barely pet Ella as I come in. After shedding my dusty clothes in exchange for some clean counterparts, I grab my spare truck key and slip it into my pocket.
Then I make a cup of coffee and pace around the apartment.
The boxes of files sit stacked on the table.
They’re not sexy. But they’re all I have left. This is what they call good old-fashioned investigative work. Knocking on doors, reading through pages upon pages of seemingly pointless information for that one little needle in the proverbial haystack.
This might be a giant haystack and a very small needle.
But I’m desperate.
So I take my coffee.
I crack my knuckles.
Then I remove the lid from one of the boxes, and dive in.
I’m so in the zone with the files that when there’s a knock at the door, I almost have a heart attack.
I glance over at the finished pile. It’s stacked precariously high. I split it into thirds to prevent everything from falling over. Despite its growing prominence, the remaining box appears daunting.
I’m also not hopeful about it yielding anything useful.
My efforts thus far have yielded exactly zero new revelations.
I head to the door and look out the peephole.
It’s Javy. Bearing late-night takeout.
I let him in.
“Nice of you to answer my texts,” he says.
I pull my phone out of my pocket. It’s past nine. I’ve missed multiple calls and texts from him asking me if I’m okay and if I was still working the case. “Nice of you to be persistent, then.”
He steps inside and glances over at the pile of papers. “Looks like you’re making progress.”
“Still plenty of fun left for you.” I sniff the air. “Rosso’s?”
“The one and only.”
“Thank god I don’t have to fit into that catsuit anymore.”
“I don’t think you ever had to wear it, if we’re being honest.” Javy grabs a couple plates and sets them on the small folding card table that serves as my dining room table.
“If we don’t keep our word, then what do we really have?” I tear the bag open. The smell of hamburger, cooked to perfection and coated in special recipe barbecue sauce, floats through the apartment.
I had no idea how hungry I was. But I haven’t eaten anything today. It’s been a straight shot through endless piles of work—and digging. I’m halfway through the burger when I look up, lettuce dangling from my mouth, to find Javy staring.
“If I’d known I was feeding a lion, I’d have ordered more.”
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I yank the half-eaten leaf of lettuce out of my mouth and fling it at him. “Some of us have been working.”
“This only proves my theory.” He gingerly flicks at the lettuce. “Lions are carnivores. They hate vegetables.”
I finish chewing. “I didn’t find anything in the files.”
Javy looks at the remaining stack between bites. “Maybe we’ll get lucky with what’s left.”
“Amid all the agreements to promote makeup lines on Instagram for $10,000 a post?” I pop the last piece of hamburger into my mouth and swallow. “Doubtful.”
“Sounds like I’m in the wrong business.” Javy offers me half of his hamburger. I wave him off, but he says, “I already ate.”
“You don’t have to tell me twice.” My stomach growls as I bite into the bun. “I’m curious about something.”
“How I’m effortlessly charming?”
“That and why you came to Ragnarok.”
“A bit of a long story,” he says.
“We’re fresh out of leads and all those papers will still be there.”
“You should’ve seen the scumbags that showed up at the station today requesting case files about Emmy’s disappearance.” Javy shakes his head. “Marius’s endgame is coming. I can sense it.”
“Such a high opinion of PIs,” I say with a grin. “Should I be offended?”
“I heard you can find a good one here and there.” Javy sweeps the trash off the table into the plastic takeout bag. “The others—”
Before he can finish, the front door comes flying off its hinges in a plume of crackling smoke and electricity.
Javy and I scramble into the kitchen for cover as footsteps stomp through the smoke.
And a booming voice announces, “I have come for the one called Tess.”
Twenty-Eight
It’s hard to tell amid the swirling smoke, but if I had to guess, a warlock just blasted down my apartment door.
And is now trying to kill us.
Javy and I huddle in the cramped kitchen. Above us is a countertop with an open wall. Javy has his service weapon drawn.
Beneath my breath I say, “Fuck. Ella.”
As if on cue, she barks. A lightning bolt crackles through the living room, striking the couch. It ignites in flame, casting dancing orange tendrils over the walls.
Smoke Show (Tess Skye Book 2) Page 13
