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stepped inside. Brutus’s backup. And I realized he wasn’t just going to kill Giles. A dead-end trail and no witnesses meant he’d have to take out Donovan Caine, too. Killing Giles and blaming me was one thing, but I didn’t need the heat of a dead cop on top of that. Especially an honest one like Caine, who was something of a folk hero in Ashland. The cops, even the crooked ones, would lean on everyone they knew to get Caine’s killer. The insatiable appetite of the press and public pressure would force them to. Donovan Caine and Gordon Giles definitely needed to keep breathing tonight.
I quickened my pace and charged through the door. Gordon Giles squatted half in, half out of his seat, his blue eyes wide with panic and fear. Donovan Caine stood tall and erect. He just looked furious.
The man with the gun turned at the sound of the door opening. I stepped forward and sucker-punched him. His nose crunched under my tight fist, and blood spattered onto the curtain-covered walls. The man cursed and stumbled back. I used his own momentum to spin him around, pull him toward me, and hook my right arm around his shoulder. My knife pressed into his throat.
“Nobody moves or he dies!” I hissed.
He was going to die anyway, but they didn’t need to know that. Gordon Giles didn’t move. Donovan Caine’s hand fluttered over the gun in the holster on his hip. Cowboy.
The would-be assassin jerked against me, trying to break my hold. More hot pain blossomed in my shoulder, but I ground my teeth together and shut it out. I jabbed the knife tip into his throat to dissuade him from further movement.
“Who are you working for?” I snarled in his ear.
“I don’t know what you’re talking about.” Sweat trickled down the back of his neck, mixing with my own. He stank of garlic.
“Bullshit. You were assigned to kill Giles if I didn’t.”
Giles gasped, and his ferretlike face paled. Donovan Caine’s hazel eyes narrowed, and his mouth flattened into a hard line.
“Tell me who you’re working for, or I am going to cut your throat right here, right now. Brutus isn’t coming to help you.”
The man stiffened at the mention of the other assassin’s name. For a moment, I thought he might tell me, might give me the information I needed, but he arched his back, and I knew he’d made the wrong decision.
“Go to hell, bitch,” he spat out the words, along with a mouthful of blood.
“You first.”
I cut his throat. Hot, sticky blood spurted out onto my hands. The man gurgled and clutched at the open wound. Gordon Giles screamed once, a high-pitched, girlish sound better suited for an enthusiastic cheerleader than a middle-aged man. He swayed back and forth. His eyes rolled up in the back of his head, and the accountant toppled over in a dead faint. Donovan Caine had a stronger stomach. The detective went for his gun.
Before Caine could get his weapon free of his holster, I shoved the dying man forward, sending him into the detective. Then I turned and sprinted out of the box.
I ran back the way I’d come, pounding up the stairs to the executive floor, grabbing the cello case, bursting through the doors, and running out on the balcony. As soon as I stepped onto the stone patio, I hurled the cello case over the side into the river and rushed toward the hidden rope.
I’d heard Donovan Caine’s heavy footsteps in the stairwell below me. No time to be cautious, to be safe. I’d have to climb down the side of the cliffs and hope Caine was a lousy shot or didn’t cut the rope before I reached the bottom—
“Stop right there!” a male voice boomed.
I froze and looked over my shoulder. Donovan Caine advanced on me, his gun leveled at my chest with the steadiness of a man who knows he’s an excellent shot. I turned and raised my hands, even as I took a step back toward the balcony.
“Who are you?” he snarled. “Who are you working for?”
“I honestly don’t know,” I said in an even voice. “Things
I quickened my pace and charged through the door. Gordon Giles squatted half in, half out of his seat, his blue eyes wide with panic and fear. Donovan Caine stood tall and erect. He just looked furious.
The man with the gun turned at the sound of the door opening. I stepped forward and sucker-punched him. His nose crunched under my tight fist, and blood spattered onto the curtain-covered walls. The man cursed and stumbled back. I used his own momentum to spin him around, pull him toward me, and hook my right arm around his shoulder. My knife pressed into his throat.
“Nobody moves or he dies!” I hissed.
He was going to die anyway, but they didn’t need to know that. Gordon Giles didn’t move. Donovan Caine’s hand fluttered over the gun in the holster on his hip. Cowboy.
The would-be assassin jerked against me, trying to break my hold. More hot pain blossomed in my shoulder, but I ground my teeth together and shut it out. I jabbed the knife tip into his throat to dissuade him from further movement.
“Who are you working for?” I snarled in his ear.
“I don’t know what you’re talking about.” Sweat trickled down the back of his neck, mixing with my own. He stank of garlic.
“Bullshit. You were assigned to kill Giles if I didn’t.”
Giles gasped, and his ferretlike face paled. Donovan Caine’s hazel eyes narrowed, and his mouth flattened into a hard line.
“Tell me who you’re working for, or I am going to cut your throat right here, right now. Brutus isn’t coming to help you.”
The man stiffened at the mention of the other assassin’s name. For a moment, I thought he might tell me, might give me the information I needed, but he arched his back, and I knew he’d made the wrong decision.
“Go to hell, bitch,” he spat out the words, along with a mouthful of blood.
“You first.”
I cut his throat. Hot, sticky blood spurted out onto my hands. The man gurgled and clutched at the open wound. Gordon Giles screamed once, a high-pitched, girlish sound better suited for an enthusiastic cheerleader than a middle-aged man. He swayed back and forth. His eyes rolled up in the back of his head, and the accountant toppled over in a dead faint. Donovan Caine had a stronger stomach. The detective went for his gun.
Before Caine could get his weapon free of his holster, I shoved the dying man forward, sending him into the detective. Then I turned and sprinted out of the box.
I ran back the way I’d come, pounding up the stairs to the executive floor, grabbing the cello case, bursting through the doors, and running out on the balcony. As soon as I stepped onto the stone patio, I hurled the cello case over the side into the river and rushed toward the hidden rope.
I’d heard Donovan Caine’s heavy footsteps in the stairwell below me. No time to be cautious, to be safe. I’d have to climb down the side of the cliffs and hope Caine was a lousy shot or didn’t cut the rope before I reached the bottom—
“Stop right there!” a male voice boomed.
I froze and looked over my shoulder. Donovan Caine advanced on me, his gun leveled at my chest with the steadiness of a man who knows he’s an excellent shot. I turned and raised my hands, even as I took a step back toward the balcony.
“Who are you?” he snarled. “Who are you working for?”
“I honestly don’t know,” I said in an even voice. “Things
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