I swallowed. “Then what—?”
“You’re a threat, Stone. Without the brass, the system crumbles into chaos. We can’t protect the city if we’re arguing among ourselves. Fighting one another, chasing one another. I’d hoped to talk some sense into you.”
A tremor ripped down my spine. “So you’re going to kill me.”
She winced. “Are you going to give up this obsession with the brass and come back to work?”
“I can’t,” I said, shaking my head. I also tested for the Break and found its power easily. No spark of blue or sense of disruption. Good. “Not until I find out who Leonard Call is. Not until I know the other Clans are safe from whoever’s targeting them.” Something else struck me without warning, and a small cry escaped my lips.
Kismet tilted her head and frowned. “What?”
“You were listening.” Cold fury washed through me. Not at her but at my own damned self. For utterly failing to keep Phin’s most precious secret about the Clans. “You know.”
For a moment, she stared, head shaking lightly. Then understanding dawned. Her lips parted, but the gun never fell. “About the bi-shifters? I know what you told Wyatt, about their special status and abilities. But one coincidence does not a conspiracy make, Stone. You need more proof.”
“I can get proof.”
“Through proper channels, with the help of the Triads, and approval of the brass? Going by our book?”
“If I get the proof I think I will, then the brass will be out of a fucking job.”
“What could they possibly gain by murdering the Clans?”
“I probably could have asked them if you hadn’t smashed that flash drive.”
Another standoff ensued. She didn’t want to kill me; that much was evident in her hesitation. She also didn’t want to believe me. As a Handler, she was duty bound to the Triads and to protecting the city’s innocents. She had to weigh the potential truth in my words with what she believed to be best for everyone. She couldn’t believe me without proof. I couldn’t get the proof for her without breaking every rule of conduct and exposing the heart of the Triads to outside forces.
Even if I was convinced that heart was diseased.
“What’s the move, boss?” Tybalt asked.
Kismet flinched. I had my answer.
“Leonard Call,” I said. “He’s the key to Park Place. Don’t forget.”
“I won’t,” Kismet said, raising the gun.
She nodded sadly. “Anything.”
“Tell him I’ll see him soon.”
Confusion twisted her mouth. I focused on the main floor of the factory—what I recalled of it, at least—and let the Break tear me apart. I heard Kismet cry out, and then the roar of the gun. Didn’t feel a gunshot, only the scattered floating of teleportation.
The eye-watering stink of gremlin piss greeted me when I materialized on the factory floor, adding to the ache between my eyes. Evidence of its recently vacated residents littered the floor. Bits of nesting material were scattered around. Fumes wafted from the tops of the open vats, as potent as a bottle of one-hundred-fifty-proof Jack.
Four levels above me, a door opened and voices shouted. I ducked behind one of the vats, with no idea how to get out of there. Teleporting again was dangerous, and my headache wasn’t going away. A maze of broken-down conveyor belts fed into and out of the main room, past the vats to other rusty machines. Any one of those holes was a potential exit.
A loud splash above surprised me. Gremlin piss sloshed over the edge and hit the floor near my feet, toxic in its sweetness. I held my breath, listening. The voices were gone. No footsteps. No whisper of clothing or squeak of footsteps. I wasn’t being chased.
That was … bad.
The image of rats fleeing a burning apartment complex came unbidden. When your quarry goes to ground … Shit.
I ran. Two of the conveyor belts emerged from squares in the far wall, each at least four feet wide. I concentrated on them, on closing the distance of thirty feet as quickly as possible. My heart hammered in my chest, my ears, my throat. I leapt onto the nearest conveyor, scraped both arms on the twisted metal, and dove through to the other side.
Behind me, the vat of alcoholic gremlin piss exploded in fire, odor, heat, with enough force to shove me forward into something hard. My head cracked against it. Lights sparkled. Heat and pressure swirled all around, and for a moment, I couldn’t breathe. Couldn’t move.
Couldn’t think.
I don’t know how long I was unconscious. Probably minutes, because the fire hadn’t spread all the way to my side of the separating wall. The heat surrounded me like a blanket, suffocating and thick. Seared fumes filled the air, mixed with smoke, and made it almost impossible to breathe.
I’d landed on my back. Bent and fractured equipment loomed above me in gloomy darkness, threatening to fall under its own weight. I rolled onto my right side, ribs aching, head throbbing, and searched for another exit. Anything that didn’t require braving the vat room and its spreading fires.
The fumes caught me, and I began to cough. Deep, wrenching coughs that turned my stomach inside out and left my throat raw.
A second explosion followed the first, shaking the ground with its force. Metal screeched and bent. Potential shrapnel loomed everywhere, no place safe. I scuttled forward on my hands and knees as a third blast toppled the wall inward. Scorched metal slammed into me and knocked me sideways.
Searing heat and agony mixed with intense pressure as the dying factory fell down around me. Burying me alive.
Chapter Fifteen
6:25 A.M.
I don’t think I lost consciousness after the final blast. I just floated for a bit, trying to breathe. It didn’t hurt, and it should have. On my back in pitch darkness, I couldn’t move.
With bruised and swollen fingers, I traced the edges of rough stone and smooth metal that started around mid-thigh. The fabric of my jeans was damp—probably blood. I couldn’t see to check. I just hoped the crushing debris hadn’t cut an artery. Severe cuts and broken bones would heal, thanks to my body’s Gift, but not if I bled out first.
Crackling fires continued to burn out of sight, feeding on every ounce of fuel the decimated factory had to offer. The air was humid and thick, like a closed-up basement, and reeked of burned alcohol. It made me want to cough or sneeze or both. But doing so would probably hurt like hell, so I fought against the sting in my nose and tickle in my lungs. My throat was raw, and my head felt like it weighed fifty pounds. I just had to hold on until help arrived.
If help came. The two people most likely to help me were otherwise occupied. Wyatt was likely being babysat on Kismet’s orders, and Phin was busy playing superspy with the bad guys.
I shouldn’t have been so blithe. I should have sucked it up, played along, and pretended to be on the Triads’ side. But no, I was too damned confident in my ability to escape. I hadn’t expected them to come in with a backup plan pulled from a favorite Hunter mantra: what you can’t capture, kill.
I thought I’d get away.
Funny how things never work out the way I plan. Instead of being miles away, I was flat on my back with both legs trapped beneath several hundred pounds of concrete and steel rubble, and several tons more tottering above, waiting to fall and smash the rest of me into pulp.
