Black Widow (22 page)

Fletcher and I picked our way through the debris, quietly moving from one rubble pile to the next until we reached the gravel road where the SUV was parked. We crouched down in a ditch that ran alongside the road, but we were still about thirty feet behind the vehicle, and our would-be killers were far too busy cackling and counting their money to care about anything else.

So we both rose up and stepped onto the road. I crossed over to the other side so that I was to the left of the SUV, with Fletcher still on the right. Once we were both in position, we eased forward, weapons ready.

The robbers were so sure we were dead that they hadn't done the smart thing and hightailed it away from the scene of the crime. At the very least, they should have waited until they were somewhere safe to count their money, not spill the stacks of bills all over the hood of their vehicle like it was the poker table they'd shot up inside the warehouse. Kenny Rogers would have been
so
disappointed in them.

Fletcher and I were about ten feet behind the SUV when I raised my hand and signaled him. Both of us slowed our approach, creeping forward far more cautiously. We had the element of surprise, and we shouldn't have any problems taking the robbers out—

Crunch.

My boot landed on something in the darkness, maybe some glass from a blown-out window that had landed on the road. Whatever it was, the ensuing noise seemed as loud
as a clap of thunder announcing our presence. I cursed and rushed forward, so did Fletcher, but it was already too late.

“Somebody
's here!” Tomas shouted.

Tomas was the one with the crossbow, and he grabbed it off the hood, stepped around the SUV, and held the weapon out in front of him, ready to let loose a barbed metal bolt at whatever moved. He didn't realize that he had moved into the center of one of the headlight beams, making himself the perfect, well-lit target. Idiot. He was already dead.

Crack!

Sure enough, the familiar retort of Fletcher's gun ripped through the air, and Tomas crumpled to the ground, thanks to the bullet that Fletcher had just put into the middle of his forehead. Crossbows were great for snipers. Not so much when you were up against the Tin Man and his trusty revolver.

Will, the Fire elemental, screamed in rage and reared back, ready to throw the ball of flames flickering in his hand at Fletcher.

Crack!

The old man coolly put him down with a headshot as well.

That left the two women, who stood there, mouths gaping open, staring down at Tomas's and Will's still forms like they couldn't believe that the men were dead. Then one of them, Valerie, I thought, shook off her daze and sprang into action, heading for the driver's-side door.

But I didn't give her the chance to get away.

I sprinted for the SUV, and Valerie and I reached the door at the same time. She lunged for the handle, and I punched my knife all the way through her hand, so that the blade
scraped into the SUV's shiny black paint. Valerie screamed and then screamed again as I ripped the knife right back out. She dropped her uninjured hand to her waistband, trying to yank free the gun there, but I lashed out with my knife and laid her throat open with the blade. She coughed and coughed, clawing at the deep, fatal wound, even as her legs went out from under her, and she hit the ground.

The last woman, Sonya, didn't even try to get in the car. Instead, she scooped the money back inside the duffel bag, grabbed it off the hood, and started running down the gravel road, even as she held her gun up over her shoulder and fired at us.

Crack! Crack! Crack! Crack!

Her shots went wild, and I moved to the front of the SUV. Fletcher stepped up beside me. I arched my eyebrows at him in a silent question, and he swept his hand out to the side with a gallant flourish.

“Ladies first,” he said.

I grinned and flipped my bloody knife over in my hand, so that I was holding it by the blade. Then I drew my arm back, took careful aim, and let the weapon fly.

Thunk.

The knife plunged into the middle of Sonya's back, and she yelped and did a header onto the road, the duffel bag of money tumbling from her hand. She didn't move after that.

“Nice throw,” Fletcher said.

“I had a good teacher.”

“Yes, you did. Well, then, let's check and make sure that they're all dead.” He grinned. “Wouldn't want them coming back to haunt us like we just did to them, now would we?”

I grinned back.

We checked the bodies, but they were all dead, and the dry, dusty earth was soaking up all the blood oozing out of their wounds. I pulled my knife out of the runner's back, grabbed the duffel bag of money, and met Fletcher back in front of the SUV. The headlights were still on, casting their yellow beams out into the night. In the distance, behind the vehicle, something shuffled across the road, a raccoon or maybe a possum. Its eyes flashed crimson for a moment before it scurried off into the shadows.

Fletcher looked out over the rubble of the ruined warehouse. “We should call in a tip about this. Anonymous, of course. I want the Colson family to know that they won't have to worry about Officer Malone and her demands for protection money anymore.”

“Speaking of money, what do you want to do with this?” I gestured at the duffel bag. “There's got to be at least fifty thousand dollars in there, maybe more.”

Fletcher peered inside at the bloody, crumpled bills. “I say we give it to the Colson family. It won't bring back their boy, but at least they can start rebuilding their store.”

I nodded. “Sounds like a plan to me.”

The old man stepped forward and zipped up the bag—

That faint rasp drew me out of my memory and penetrated my foggy consciousness, along with something warm and wet
drip-drip-dripp
ing all over my face. I snapped back to the here and now and realized that I was still breathing, still alive, and still curled up in the back corner of the Pork Pit.

16

I pulled my nose and mouth away from my breathing hole, opened my eyes, and surveyed the damage.

My frozen-food fort had completely melted away, leaving nothing behind but singed, shriveled boxes all around me. The fire hadn't touched me, thanks to my Ice magic, but what I could see of the restaurant was a scorched, sooty, ashy mess. It looked as if the fire had swept right up against my elemental Ice igloo, burning everything in its path, before finally running out of fuel and dying down, thanks to the sprinklers in the ceiling.

They were the source of the water on my face, and I tilted my head up, letting the spray wash over me. If nothing else, the warm drops sliding down my skin told me that I was still alive.

So, as the water continued to spew down, I wearily got to my feet to see what remained of the Pork Pit.

*  *  *

As I staggered away from the wall, the depth of the destruction fully hit me.

Everything was a scorched, blackened, and now soggy mess. All the dish towels, foodstuffs, aprons, and napkins had been reduced to piles of flaky gray ash, while most of the silverware had melted to the floor and was now stuck there, as if someone had glued down all the forks, knives, and spoons as part of some weird abstract-art project.

I was so exhausted that I dragged my feet along the floor, sending up clouds of ash and soot that tickled my nose and made me cough. I clamped my hand over my mouth, muffling the sound as best I could, and moved over to where the double doors had once stood. They'd been completely burned away, and I slowly shuffled through the opening, dreading what I knew I was going to find in the storefront.

Utter destruction.

That was the only way to describe it.

The tables, chairs, and booths were all long gone, incinerated by the fire. All that remained of them were a few spindly metal legs sticking up out of the mounds of soot like crosses marking fresh graves. The patches of floor that I could see beneath the chunky, ashy debris resembled jagged pieces of black molten glass. Most of the appliances had actually survived, although the flames had burned so hot and fast that their edges were smushed and droopy, as though they were candy bars that had melted in the sun. The long counter had caved in on itself, while the ceiling tiles had all been burned away, letting me see the twisted shapes that the flames had scorched onto the brick above. Despite the water still spewing from the sprinklers, a few
small fires continued to burn here and there, while exposed wires jutted out from the walls, sparking and cracking with bright blue and white flashes of electricity, just like they had in that warehouse so long ago. Even the bulletproof windows had melted, with thin, brittle-looking bubbles now bulging out of the once-clear panes.

I'd known that the damage would be bad, but to see the Pork Pit, Fletcher's place, my gin joint, reduced to . . . to . . . to . . .
nothing
 . . .

My heart seized in my chest, aching, twisting, and sputtering with loss. A strangled sob escaped my cracked, blistered lips, and I bent over double, my hands fisting in the folds of my T-shirt, right over my heart, as if I could ease my terrible hurt. Tears scalded my eyes, even hotter and harsher than the fire had been. I had thought that nothing could be more horrific than seeing the ruined rubble of my family's mansion after it had been destroyed.

But this—this was
worse
.

“Well,” a low, male voice drifted inside to me. “That should finally shut off the sprinkler system.”

I blinked and looked up. Sure enough, the sprinklers were no longer spouting water. For the first time, I realized that I could see odd, distorted shapes moving outside through the warped bubbles and melted glass of the storefront windows. I didn't know how long the fire had raged, but it was still dark out, except for the steady swirl of blue and white lights on the street. The cops were still outside, and no doubt so were Madeline, Emery, and Jonah.

I wasn't safe. Not here. Not yet.

I ducked down behind what was left of the counter, straining to hear what was going on outside.

“We can't go in just yet,” that same male voice rumbled again. “It's still too hot in places, and the structural soundness has probably been compromised.”

He laughed at the bad joke he'd made, and his sly chuckles told me he didn't want to come inside and actually hose down what was left of the blaze. Not really. Like the police, the fire department had its share of corruption and took bribes to put out fires . . . or not.

“Of course not, Chief,” Madeline answered him. “I trust your judgment. It's already such a terrible tragedy. There's no need to add to it by putting your firefighters in danger.”

“I'm glad that you agree,” the fire chief replied, the relief apparent in his voice. He knew that Madeline was the one in charge, not him. “Dawn is only a few hours away. I should be able to send my guys in there then. In the meantime, we'll set a watch over the building. No one will go near it, much less get inside.”

Silence.

“Oh, I'm not worried about anyone going inside,” Madeline said. “Just someone who might come out.”

This time the fire chief was the one who paused before answering. “I don't think there's any . . . worry of that. If that gunwoman was in there like you said, there's no way she could have survived. It was one of the worst blazes I've ever seen. You saw how long it took us to put it out. I still can't believe that she set fire to her own restaurant, but you just never know about people, do you?”

“Unfortunately not,” Madeline replied in a smug voice.

They must have moved away from the storefront because I didn't hear them say anything else. But one thing
was for sure—I couldn't go out the front doors, and the fire chief was probably on his way to set a watch on the back alley right now.