Playing with Fire (8 page)

Chapter Eleven

When Patrick lost his patience, it was a three-step process.

Step one was smiling—a lot of smiling and charm and a perma-expression that spoke of nothing but puppies and rainbows. Step two was scarier, when he lost the smile and his eyelid twitched a little, but he maintained enough control to resemble a human being. Step three was, well, what Fiona was looking at right now.

It wasn’t pretty.

They’d hunkered in what could only be termed an underground lair, a sort of makeshift headquarters that was equal parts five-star hotel and ammunitions depository. Her hands were tied behind her back, pulled so tight she couldn’t move them at all, her firing range severely limited and cordoned off by some strategically placed blast shields. There were also three fans pointed at her, presumably to keep some of her heat from radiating around the room. Good. She hoped Patrick and all his henchmen were fucking miserable.

She’d woken up this way, tied and gagged like some sort of animal, her head thick and her throat thicker. Based on how full her bladder was, she must have been trapped like this for hours. She used that to her advantage. The physical discomforts were so much easier to face than the emotional ones.

Pain over despair. Suffering over sorrow.

“I’ve been patient long enough.” Patrick sneered. His face was a grotesque mask of anger. Whatever plastic surgeries had been used to enhance his looks had two forms: calm and horrific. She could actually see a white line across the top of his forehead, a surgery scar that looked as though she could pull it and peel away the thin veneer he presented to the world. “I mean it, Fiona. You will do this for me. There will be no killing involved unless you keep acting like a stubborn and spoiled little brat. All I want is for you to use your powers a few times.”

“No.” That simple word, her mantra for the past few hours of interrogation, was all that kept her holding on. “I’m not going to do it. I’m not a murderer, like you.”

“Dammit, Fiona. You’re mine. I
made
you.”

It was oddly paternalistic, the way those words came out of his lips. They’d come full circle: first lovers, then exes, now a strange, asexual pairing of Dr. Frankenstein and his monster.

Except that wasn’t it at all. Based on everything they knew about the conversion serum, her powers were the direct result of something inside her. Some primitive genetic code, some characteristic only she possessed. She wasn’t a useless twit.

She was the fucking Fireball.

“You did not make me, you ass-wipe,” Fiona spat out. “I made me. Eight years ago, you tried buying my affection with the conversion serum because you were afraid I’d realize what a shit you were. Well, guess what? I finally figured it out. And you know what else? If you’d stuck by me after you found out I couldn’t be your sex toy anymore, if you’d helped me figure out this power and how to harness it, there’s every chance I’d have become the weaponized monster you want me to be. But you abandoned me.”

“That’s what this is really about, isn’t it? Not the firepower. Not me asking you to do one little favor. You can’t handle the fact that you’re only good for one thing, and every man on earth knows it.”

“Bullshit.” Fiona felt a surge of emotion, the predictable anger that unavoidably accompanied this man’s presence in her life, but something more, too.

Pride. That’s what this was. Pride in herself and what she’d accomplished—who she’d become—despite the odds, despite her rough beginnings.

Although her restraints tugged painfully, she straightened, lifting her head so that she could meet his stare dead-on. Forget Patrick. Forget Ian. She was not a piece of ass to be sampled and tossed aside. Yes, she’d made more than her fair share of stupid mistakes. And yes, she’d spent almost her whole life believing that the only affection she deserved were the scraps handed out as men rolled out of bed, selfish and sated.

No more.

I deserve better. I can fight back.

“Your problem has always been that you underestimate me,” she said, her words gaining momentum. “You might look at me and see nothing more than a collection of female parts, but there’s more to me than that. I will make you pay for this.”

The speech would have been more effective if she’d ended it by shooting some fire at Patrick’s head or blowing up the protective shields his men stood behind, but she had to settle for a glower and a small sense of triumph.

Patrick clapped, slowly at first and then gaining speed. She half expected his henchmen to join in, but not one of them dared move. “Bravo, my little pet. You’ve come a long way in a few short years. You’re practically dripping with confidence.”

“Thank you,” she managed. “I find it wears well.”

“But you underestimate my powers of persuasion. You might be squeamish about killing people, but I’m not.” He flicked his hand. One of his thugs stepped into a side room, returning with a man held by the scruff of his neck. The man’s head drooped so far she could only make out a crop of dark curls, dried blood marking a path all along the front of his shirt.

Ian.

“We found this gallant knight coming to your rescue,” Patrick said, laughing. “Is this little boyfriend of yours what you meant by making me pay? I had no idea your standards had fallen so far.”

All of her discomfort, the pressure in her bladder and the pull on her arms, disappeared.

Ian had come for her.

“Oh, God—Ian, are you okay?”

The guard lifted Ian’s head then, and Fiona could see that he was barely holding on to consciousness. His glasses were gone, and she could make out his eyelids fluttering, his mouth swollen, bruised, and crusted with blood. They’d beaten him senseless.

“I’m sorry, Fiona. I’m so, so sorry,” was all he said.

Patrick waved. The guard threw Ian’s already limp form to the floor, and he crumpled into himself. It was awful to watch, but seeing him there, barely holding on, gave her the confidence she needed. Not only could she fight back, but dammit, she
would
. No one treated the man she cared about like that without her permission.

“You wouldn’t dare,” Fiona said, her voice a low growl. “If you so much as touch another hair on his head, I promise I will hunt you down and shoot off every single body part you favor.”

Patrick laughed softly. He reached down and caressed Ian’s head, and Fiona’s pride picked up when Ian mustered up enough energy to pull away, baring his teeth.

“I would and I will. I’m not a bad man. I don’t like taking unnecessary lives. I’d love nothing more than to give you your little pet when you’re done. A…reward, shall we call it?”

“I’m not doing it.”

As soon as the words left her mouth, she regretted them. Patrick drew back and kicked Ian. Hard. The heavy boot slammed into his lower back with a dull
thud
, nothing like how it sounded in the movies. This was less like action-packed theatrics and more like the sickening sound of internal organs giving way.

Patrick pulled back again, and Fiona screamed. A shot of fire escaped her hands, shooting backward and striking one of the blast shields.

It wasn’t intentional, but it worked.

“Don’t touch him again, please,” she sobbed. “I’ll do whatever you want. Just stop hurting him.”

“No, Fiona,” Ian muttered, his words coming out in a bubble of blood-red spittle. “Not for me.”

She closed her eyes. “Right now. Let’s do this.”

Patrick smiled and lowered his foot to the ground. “Good girl. I knew you’d come around.”

Let the bastard think whatever he wanted. Fiona knew whose side she was on—and for the first time, she knew who was on hers.

“Well, since that’s all settled, let’s get this thing going. And just so you know, I’m willing to consider this a partnership in every possible way. You help me. I help you. We don’t have to be enemies.”

Too late. They already were.

…

Her task was fairly straightforward.

She’d imagined some sort of elaborate heist or a robbery that took half the population hostage, but it seemed Patrick had an entirely different set of ambitions in mind.

“I want you to create a riot,” he’d said. “Through downtown, running all the people away from Main Street.”

“I don’t understand. Can’t your little elves do that?” she’d asked, testing her arms painfully. Every muscle in her upper body felt stretched to twice its original length, but she would bear it. Two of the thugs had lifted Ian and put him in one of the cars. There was an awful lot of blood; a gash along his temple seemed to be its primary source. Her pain was nothing compared to his.

“They can, but that’s not the point. I want you to do it.”

At first, Fiona thought there was some sort of catch she was missing. She was supposed to start at the top of Main Street, setting fires in buildings, trash cans, cars—anything that would pull people out of their offices and homes. And she was supposed to keep going, pushing them down the street until every building was emptied.

It seemed petty, rioting like this, but then Patrick had never been known for his open-mindedness. She figured she could pull off the semblance of a riot fairly easily and with a low body count, thanks to a pretty good working knowledge of how fires started and grew. Keep the flames contained, visible but not spreadable. She could do that.

But as they were on their way to the site, Fiona in the back seat of one of Patrick’s dark luxury cars and with two layers of durable leather fireplace gloves duct-taped over her hands, she asked, “And then we’re done? I do this for you, you give me Ian, and I never have to see you again?”

“Absolutely. I’m a man of my word. Your little boyfriend will be waiting at the end. Assuming you perform your task, you two can ride off into the sunset together.”

She didn’t like that answer, and even more misgivings took over. There was no way in seven levels of hell, with two to grow on, that Patrick was a man of his word. She knew it. And he knew she knew it.

“Where will you be?” she asked, not trying to hide her suspicion. “While I’m doing all your dirty work, I mean.”

He’d waved a hand. “Around. I promise not to get in your way, if that’s what you mean.”

It wasn’t what she’d meant, and she still didn’t know quite what to make of the entire situation, but now that she stood in place, she wasn’t sure what else to do. She wasn’t some sort of criminal mastermind. All she knew was that Ian was in danger, and it was up to her to save him.

The top of Main Street didn’t have much beyond an old railroad depot and a large collection of transients, none of whom seemed to care that she was treading on their turf. Most of this part of Ashland was built at the turn of the century, when railroads crisscrossed through the state. The buildings were brick and old and full of charm, a couple even on the National Register of Historic Places.

Burning them down was probably a federal offense. But then again, so was running through the streets, setting fire to trash cans and inciting a riot.

She knew, because of Patrick’s thinly veiled threats, that two of his men were behind her, waiting out of sight with a pair of handguns pointed at her back They were the same chickenshit men from before, but there were also a few more posted along the way. And more importantly, one of them had been left to watch over Ian.

The sound of a gunshot rang through the air, the signal for her to start down the street. It wasn’t hard to work up the energy for her first shot. She was still so full of fury at Patrick and all the stupid men who did his bidding. She did, however, question her ability to keep going for the complete two mile stretch. She’d never tried using her powers for such a sustained length of time. Anything could happen. A meltdown. Loss of power. Hell, it might even kill her.

And that was okay…as long as it didn’t end up killing Ian, too.

She found an old metal garbage can that looked like it had roasted a few tins of Van Camps in its day, and fired. There wasn’t much in there to burn, but it served its purpose, especially when she kicked the can over and let it roll into the street, a burning bush of an altogether different composition. At the sight of it, one of the homeless men approached, his hands outstretched.

“You need some help, darling?” he asked.

Fiona’s heart sank. This was going to be harder than she thought.

“Thanks. I’m okay,” she said softly. “But can I offer you a tip?”

His look was puzzled, but at least he listened.

“Get your friends and get away from the center of town. Head for the river, preferably. Things are about to get pretty ugly.”

“You see things, girl?” he asked, innocent enquiry in his eyes.

“Worse,” Fiona admitted. “I do things.”

She heard the not-so-subtle cough of one of the gunmen in the wings and moved on, hoping the homeless man would take her advice.
No deaths, no casualties, no injuries
. If she could accomplish that much, she would be okay. All the stuff with the police could be handled later. Surely they had a contingency for crimes perpetrated under extreme duress?

From the darkness of the sidewalk, she got off a few shots—a window frame here, an empty box there. The feeble starting flames weren’t enough to illuminate the darkened street, and she ran through the shadows, a silent arsonist. She didn’t feel any physical pain other than a growing stitch in her side, but still her breath came fast and sharp. Her anguish was of a different kind.