Ruby Callaway: The Complete Collection

by D. N. Erikson

  “Oh, you have a network. Impressive.”

  This time, Kennett didn’t hold the door open when we exited the Golden Tiger. Outside, Vegas smelled like desperation and false hope, which was better than the grit-stained cigarette ash and expired perfume that passed for air inside the casino.

  I followed Kennett to his car. He had this habit of letting silence simmer, not meeting my comments with an instant retort or an attempt at repartee. Most people couldn’t bear any gap in the conversation, the hint of boredom or stillness.

  Kennett hit the clicker on his keys, and a rental sedan beeped one row over.

  I said, “The cruiser we took here, it—”

  “It’s gone.” Kennett strode to the driver seat. “Impounded for evidence.”

  “My shotgun’s in there.”

  “I read the report.” Kennett started the car before I was even inside. Chivalry had died a quick death. Then again, it had that tendency in my presence.

  I played rough.

  I bit my tongue, trying to choose my following words wisely. Finally, I came up with, “I need that back.”

  “This will do for now.” Kennett reached into the console and pulled out a police issue Glock 22. “You know how to use it?”

  I didn’t bother to answer. I’m sure he could read my thoughts giving him the middle finger, anyway. I reluctantly took the pistol and felt the weight in my hand. Solid construction, sizable fifteen round magazine. Perfectly acceptable in every regard.

  Still, it felt like cheating on an old friend.

  Kennett said, “You’ll survive.”

  “That’s debatable,” I said. “You hear about my capture from Murphy, or through police channels?”

  “Both,” Kennett said. “Dark-haired woman suspected of colluding with the man from Le Petit Bleu.”

  “So the cops don’t have my name and face?” I asked.

  “I think you know the answer.” Kennett nodded sagely, looking out at the Vegas Strip. “You’re a ghost, Ruby.”

  “What’d Murphy want?” I asked, more as a test than a real question. I’d put the truth together on my own.

  “For me to take care of you,” Kennett said, brow furrowing.

  “He’ll be after us.” I adjusted the rat’s nest of hair out of my eyes. “Did the Blood Oath come up?”

  “It might have.”

  “Well, then you know that I’m gonna be toast in about fourteen hours, give or take.” I tapped the Glock against the green LED clock. “You still haven’t told me why you’re here.”

  “Harcourt needs to be extradited back to the Fae Plains. There’s no other option. The LAPD can’t do it. Murphy’s in damage control mode. That doesn’t leave many options.”

  “So I’m the girl for the job.”

  “Not the only one, but you’ll do,” Kennett said as we pulled out of the lot.

  “Thanks for the vote of confidence.”

  As we rolled down the sleepy Strip in the pre-dawn morning, I tried to piece together Kennett’s angle. Good job, rising star. Side gig with Murphy.

  Finally, it all clicked together.

  “This is your way out,” I said.

  “Not sure I follow,” Kennett said. But his eyes indicated he did.

  “I’m going to drag Harcourt’s ass back over Fae Plain lines, then I’m going to do the real heavy lifting, right? As a favor to pay you back. Put Murphy, Benedict and Associates out of business for good.”

  “If you insist.”

  “Well, if you want freedom, then you’d better have a plan, Captain.”

  Kennett nodded to the back of the rental. “Hope you like collisions.”

  I turned around, the sedan’s trunk bathed in the fading neon glow of the Strip.

  Ski masks. Combat shotguns. Bulletproof vests.

  We were gonna break Harcourt out of jail.

  21

  We waited in the coffee shop’s parking lot. Every time a soccer mom drove up in an oversized gas guzzler, my heart beat a little faster. If our shot at Harcourt’s transport van was thwarted by momma bear’s caffeine addiction, I was going to burn down every damn Starbucks in the country.

  Well, every one I could get to before I turned into a Roman candle, at least. Which wouldn’t be many.

  Kennett strapped his vest tight around his chest, the Velcro making a loud ktsch sound as he readjusted it. With the ski mask rolled up around his hair, waiting to be pulled down, he looked the part of a bank robber.

  Except breaking into the vault came second.

  For now, we needed to get Harcourt loose. I tapped the Glock against the vinyl dashboard, watching as the digital clock ticked past seven.

  “You’re sure the transport van is passing through here, right?”

  “He’s the Mayor, Ruby.”

  “Maybe he’s full of shit.” I put my sliced-up hand around my shaking wrist and immediately winced. Lack of sleep—the faint nap under Chubbs’s watchful eye notwithstanding—after a hell of a day was partially to blame, but there was also a nagging doubt looping through my mind.

  I had Harcourt to thank. I’d seen the effects of chaos. The unpredictability of it. Training couldn’t prepare me for it.

  And T-boning a police van in broad daylight had anarchy written all over it. Kennett was insistent that there be no causalities. Not that I went around having shootouts with police. As a matter of policy, that was bad form.

  But I didn’t see a way this ended without someone getting dead.

  And, given the way the cards were aligning, I couldn’t shake the feeling it’d be me.

  “Fear’s not a good look on you, Ruby,” Kennett said, rechecking his vest. “It’ll age you quick.”

  “I wouldn’t know.” My faint voice was still rough from yesterday’s screaming.

  “Then forget what happened,” Kennett said, pulling the mask down over his face. “Because they’re here.”

  The rental sedan eased out of the lot, just as it would for a trip to the store. But we were aimed for the black transport van with LVPD emblazoned across the side. The engine growled as Kennett hit the accelerator.

  Behind the slits in the mask, I saw his eyes take on a strange, hypnotic swirl. The wheel adjusted slightly to the left, our sedan darting to where the van would be.

  Then everything was a massive crunch of screaming metal. The seatbelt snapped hard against my chest, keeping me from flying through the broken windshield as we jackknifed through the intersection. Through the spinning churn, I saw the van chart a wobbly course toward the nearest light pole.

  Sparks lit up the early morning sky, adding to the mayhem. Our sedan finally came to rest in the middle of the road. One car, not wanting to be party to whatever was happening, took the opportunity to dart through the intersection, crunching over a broken side mirror.

  Across the intersection—near the coffee shop—those in vehicles kept aback, waiting for what would come next.

  Time to give them a show.

  I tried to undo my seatbelt but found that the mechanism was jammed. After some fruitless tugging, I said, “A little help?”

  I got no answer. A quick glance to my left indicated why: Kennett was slumped over the wheel, blood trickling over one of his eyes. Above the rattling engine, I couldn’t hear his breathing. With a great effort, given the state of the car’s interior, I snaked my arm over and jammed my fingers against his neck.

  A strong pulse greeted me. Alive, just out cold.

  At least I had plenty of experience as a solo act.

  I fished through his pockets, finding the knife quickly. One deft swipe later and I was free. The passenger door was jammed from the impact, preventing a more traditional means of escape.

  So I kicked out the shattered windshield, feeling each thrust in my bruised rib cage. I reached into the backseat and grabbed the combat shotgun, along with some spare shells. Then, like a true innovator, I crawled over the hood, clawing at my mask to make sure it was covering my face. The police van sat idle, lights st
ill on, near the ruined light post. Thin, erratic puffs of exhaust trailed from the bent tail pipe.

  I racked the combat shotgun. Not quite as smooth as I’d grown used to. Craftsmanship was a lost art. The Glock dug into my thigh as I stalked toward the driver’s side door. Kennett and I were going to converge on both sides, make sure there were no surprises.

  But it was just me, now.

  Breath heating my skin from the fabric clinging to my lips, I slid into view of driver’s side window. The driver was groggy, head rolling like he’d just been hit with a haymaker.

  But the passenger side was empty.

  Two shots rang out, feeling like a mule kick square in the chest. I stumbled backward in the dry, dusty road, boots scraping against shattered taillight glass. Gasping, I didn’t know whether to keep gripping the gun or prevent myself from falling.

  I chose the latter, hearing the shotgun clatter to hot asphalt. With a groan, I tried to keep my balance.

  “Just give…me Harcourt,” I rasped out.

  “Down on the ground. Now!” The officer’s voice came from somewhere behind the van. Vision wobbly, still recovering from taking two to the flak jacket, I tried to map where he might head next. Come around the back and pop out? Or from the front?

  Two options seemed like a million.

  My fingers bounced off my arm as I pawed at my leg, trying to draw the Glock. Somewhere, it registered that the police van’s back door was moving.

  “Goddamn chaos.” I found the grip of the pistol just as the doors swung open and Harcourt stumbled to the debris-strewn ground. Dried blood was smeared over his pale skin like war paint, nose twisted and askew from where I’d broken it yesterday. His dapper suit was in ruined tatters, but he still wore that crooked quarter-grin.

  His tarnished copper eyes caught mine and the grin widened. “It seems you have a choice, dear Ruby.”

  “Stay there,” I said, wincing as I raised the pistol.

  “You’ll have to catch me, love.”

  I saw the officer pop out the back, and I turned, instinct taking over. Squeezed off one shot, the bullet tearing through his shooting arm shoulder. Blood splattered against the LVPD logo on the van. He groaned, slumping forward.

  Harcourt scrambled away, down the street, toward the coffee shop.

  I aimed, but I wasn’t sure how good I’d be at thirty yards right now. And there were too many bystanders.

  Cursing softly, I ran over to the wounded officer and cold cocked him. After taking his service weapon, I began my pursuit of Harcourt, who was already in the coffee shop’s parking lot. He was moving fast for someone who’d been put through the wringer.

  Each step made my chest howl. Coupled with the seat belt, I was gonna have a hell of a bruise collection. Assuming I made it to tomorrow.

  That was a mighty big assumption.

  Harcourt swung the door open to the coffee shop. Confused bystanders hovered around the parking lot, unsure how close was too close for a good rubbernecking vantage point. I charged forward, getting to the door long after it closed—or what felt like it, given the circumstances.

  But it had been only three seconds, maybe four.

  Nervous dread surging through my veins, I charged inside.

  My anxiety proved well-justified. For Harcourt was already behind the counter, holding a cake cutter to the clerk’s throat. She couldn’t have been more than twenty. Her body was stock still, every nerve fighting against the urge to scream or shake. I could see why: A thin trickle of blood indicated the cutter was already digging into her skin.

  “And it seems we are at another impasse, dear Ruby,” Harcourt said, peeking out from behind her tussled brown hair. “Thank you for freeing me.”

  I looked at the young woman, guilt boiling up from my gut. If she died, I couldn’t pass the blame to anyone else. It’d be all on me.

  With surprisingly steady aim, I leveled the Glock at his head.

  “For someone who wants to go home, you’re making things difficult.”

  “Chaos is the canvas upon which I—”

  “Spare me the sermon from the anarchist’s mount,” I said with a growl. “You kill her, you’re never going home.”

  “Then you die.”

  “I’ve lived for a couple hundred years, asshole,” I said. No one in the coffee shop moved or gasped. From their perspective, we were two complete psychos about to gut each other before the workday even got started. Or two robbers who had fallen out, given my attire.

  Although Harcourt’s three-piece suit would’ve been an odd sartorial choice for a heist.

  “But are you willing to die?”

  “You’re what, twenty?” I asked, making no effort to spare my derision.

  “The Fae do not live long,” he said, staring at me, still from behind the clerk, with utter defiance.

  “Some might argue too long, after meeting you.”

  “There is no fun without a little randomness. Spontaneity.” He adjusted the cake cutter, the trickle of blood growing into a small stream.

  “You know what?” I gave him a grin of my own, which must’ve looked positively psychotic given my mask. “You’re right.”

  I flipped the pistol in my hand so that I now gripped the barrel. Making a move toward the counter, like I was going to lay it down, I instead quickly snapped my wrist back, flinging it at his head.

  It smashed against his already broken nose. The cake cutter clattered to the floor with a glorious clang as his hands instinctively rushed to protect his wounded face. In under a second, I was over the counter and on top of him.

  “What’d you do?” I said, right before I reared back. “Why the hell can’t you go back?”

  “What else, dear Ruby?” Blood streamed into his eyes, preventing him from opening them. “I broke the Prince’s most prized toy.”

  “And what was that?”

  “His little telepath.” One eye opened, veiled in crimson. “We were banished together. Chaos is so inviting.”

  With a feral yell, I punched Harcourt in the head.

  Maybe a few too many times.

  But, afterward, covered in blood, knuckles split open, I was still alive.

  So maybe it was precisely the level of ass kicking the current situation demanded.

  22

  Kennett was awake by the time I dragged Harcourt back to the rental car. The LVPD’s morning shift wasn’t on point with their response time—a small favor in a day that had been largely absent of them—which meant no epic chases.

  I threw Harcourt into the back of the police van, clipped the doors shut with the knocked-out officer’s cuffs, and removed the driver from his perch. He groggily protested, but the wound at his temple indicated he was clearly concussed. So it was a weak protest, at best.

  Kennett limped toward the driver’s side.

  “Uh uh.” I pointed to the other door as the sun rose on the horizon. “I’m driving this time.”

  “Very well,” he said, with half a smile. “Hope you know what you’re doing.”

  “If you hadn’t slept the entire time I was kicking ass, you wouldn’t ask that question.” I tried to read the wisps over his head to ascertain whether Harcourt had been telling the truth. Was Kennett indeed a lost telepathic toy from the Fae Plains?

  But it was difficult to reflect when I was also trying to keep the question out of my own head.

  Kennett looked at me funny as I tried to start the van. It sputtered and groaned. “Is there something you want to ask?”

  I stared at the ignition key. “Nope.”

  “You seem…off.”

  “Buy a girl a drink before you start mind-fucking her, all right?”

  The engine caught after the third attempt, growling to life with a loud knocking that made it clear the van wasn’t long for this world.

  But then, we didn’t need it to be.

  Peeling out, I set my sights back on the neon Vegas Strip.

  It was time to take Harcourt home.

  We re
ached the Golden Tiger just as the sky was turning that brilliant shade of crystal blue you can only find in the desert. Not one for subtle entrances, and perhaps absorbing Harcourt’s chaotic philosophy through unfortunate osmosis, I plowed the police van right through the casino’s glass doors.

  We came to a squealing halt in front of a row of empty one-armed bandits.

  Kennett shot me a look, but didn’t say anything.

  “Gotta let the anger out somehow,” I said, slamming my shoulder against the door to coax it open. “It’s unhealthy to keep it inside.”

  I hopped down to the ruined, worn carpet, expecting to be greeted by screams and stares. Instead, what I found was glittery, absolute silence. Except for the automated chimes of the slot machines, the Golden Tiger was a ghost town.

  Kennett must’ve been equally surprised, because I heard him say, “Well, shit.”

  “Maybe they’re closed for renovations,” I said, suddenly feeling like an idiot for coming through the door. The plan had been standard stuff: come in, take me to the money, no one needs to get hurt. A ruse to get to the vault, where the Realm Rift was hidden. Then throw Harcourt across the threshold to the Fae Plains and promptly shoot him in the head.

  And, of course, return through the Realm Rift—popping out in a place where half the city’s cops didn’t want to throw me in jail.

  Foolproof.

  But instead, it was like a cyanide-laced red carpet had been rolled out. Just waltz right in, straight to the vault. There had to be a catch. Not even Eve got to eat the apple for free.

  “Murphy,” Kennett said, with a nasty growl in his voice that scared even me. “He came to clean up.”

  “And he rented out the whole place to do it?” After grabbing the combat shotgun and slipping the Glock into my waistband, I went around back to let Harcourt out. Had to shoot off the cuffs to do it, since I hadn’t brought the keys. He was still asleep. But I kept the shotgun trained on him just to make sure.

  After confirming he wasn’t bluffing, I hauled the slight Fae out, dragging him through the broken glass to the front of the van.

  Kennett wore a glum expression, his lean jaw locked deep in a frown. “They’re saying it’s a biohazard scare.”