Chapter 22
Chapter Twenty-Two
I signal Mina away.
She slips into a dark corner, lowers herself to the concrete and watches, ears pricked and eyes fixed on me. Keeping her safe and ready as a last resort is essential.
The doors screech across the floor as they are wrenched open. Bright afternoon sunlight floods the building, cutting through the gloom, and dust motes whirl in the sudden draught.
Even if I had never seen the blonde before, I would know these people are neither standard security nor freight-yard workers. They are clearly not locals. Their combat gear is government issue, their boots are far too clean for the yard, and restraint cuffs dangle from their belts.
The blonde has abandoned the expensive suit and heels. She wears combat trousers and flat boots, her curling hair dragged into a tight ponytail.
She looks far more dangerous than she did in the interrogation room.
They have found us too quickly. Somewhere between the repaired road and the loose cladding panel, we triggered a camera or an alert ward I failed to see.
“She’s the woman from my interview. One of Preston’s lot.”
“You said she would appear,” Cáel replies.
“I did, didn’t I?”
Cáel raises his hands towards them, easy and unhurried, and flashes a smile that steals my breath despite the circumstances.
“Now then,” he says pleasantly. “I’m a governor of Velmora, here on diplomatic business.
I have full diplomatic immunity. If we’ve trespassed, I apologise, and we can resolve this like professionals. Stand down.”
I wait for the inevitable “you shouldn’t have come here” and “you have no idea who you’re dealing with”.
The usual preamble.
The blonde does not bother.
She does not even glance at Cáel. She motions her goons forwards and strides straight past him, gaining speed with every step until she breaks into a run.
She is running at me.
She swings for my face.
Right, then.
Something inside me unknots. I have been strung tight for far too long.
As it happens, all I needed was someone to hit.
I slip the punch and grin.
She comes again with a sneaky low shot at my ribs. I twist aside, and it whips past my coat. As she passes, I drive my elbow into the side of her head.
She stumbles and mutters something colourful.
That was for the slap.
She is good.
I am better.
She resets and charges again. This time, I give myself space and back towards a loose cluster of old iron chains hanging from the ceiling.
I file that away.
When she throws her next punch, I snatch a length of chain and whip it across her forearm.
The iron lands with a crack.
She yelps, retreats and cradles the arm against her chest.
“Sloppy, Blondie.” That appears to be precisely the wrong thing to say. Or the right thing, depending upon one’s aims.
She screeches and comes at me again.
The chain catches her ribs, coils around her side and introduces itself to her left kidney. Her breath leaves her in a harsh oof that echoes from the corrugated walls.
Her eyes flick past me for a fraction of a second.
That is all I need.
I drop.
A haymaker whistles over my head, close enough to stir my hair. The enormous goon behind me would have taken my head off with that punch.
Two against one.
Good.
I spin, seize Blondie’s wrist as I rise and drag her into his path.
They collide like snooker balls and collapse in a tangled heap.
A laugh escapes me as I watch them go down.
They struggle upright.
I wipe iron dust and sweat onto my trousers and wait.
Behind me, Cáel grapples with another attacker—boots scraping, bodies striking metal, breath forced out in short grunts. He sounds as though he is coping, but I keep my attention on the pair in front of me.
I slip back among the hanging chains. Good cover. They have to think about their angles and where they place their feet.
They split apart to give each other room.
Blondie launches another punch, and I do what always surprises people.
Instead of retreating, I step into her.
The sudden closeness destroys her reach. Her fist whistles past my shoulder. She blinks, recalculates, but my hand is already buried in her ponytail.
Old-fashioned?
Dirty?
Absolutely.
Effective?
Every time.
I am neither proud nor picky. Hair is fair game. I wrench her head back, position her face with care and wait.
The big man’s fist does the rest.
It lands squarely on her nose.
Her head snaps back. Blood erupts, bright against her pale skin, and she crumples as though someone has flipped a switch.
I step aside and watch her strike the floor. “Mina. Secure.”
Mina bounds from the shadows and drapes herself across Blondie’s chest. If the woman wakes, she will find roughly twenty-six kilograms of Belgian Malinois pinning her down, with Mina’s playful ‘love bites’ waiting should she make any sudden poor decisions.
I face the man.
Dark hair. A scar at the corner of one eye.
The quieter interrogator.
He glances at Mina and his crumpled colleague without the slightest flicker of concern, then steps over Blondie towards me and treads squarely on her hand as he passes.
Even Mina grumbles at that.
I circle wide, careful that neither of us trips over my dog, and we square up properly.
He is a boxer.
I adjust.
Trained fighters watch your hands. It is instinct. They dislike it when you stop using them. They rely upon knockout punches and hate few things more than being kicked in the head.
A person who cannot stand cannot fight. I learned that a long time ago, from somebody who meant it unkindly.
I shift my stance, swing from the hip and drive my shin into his thigh.
He grunts.
I do it again.
And again.
The third strike catches the side of his kneecap.
His right leg folds.
He staggers and shifts his weight onto the left.
“Oh,” I say. “Did that hurt? Sorry about that.”
He sets his jaw and hops forwards, no doubt constructed from pure spite. His fist rises.
I grab another chain.
Before he registers what I am doing, I loop it around his punching arm and neck, then wrench it across his body. The chain’s fixed point gives me leverage he can’t match. His damaged leg buckles, and he drops heavily onto one knee.
He claws at the chain, trying to wrench himself free.
My sleep mark meets his sweaty forearm.
The mark warms beneath my skin.
His resistance vanishes.
I whip the chain in a wide loop and clear it from his neck before he pitches face-first onto the concrete.
Breathing. Unconscious.
Fine.
I lift my head.
Cáel holds a man in a headlock with controlled efficiency until his captive goes limp. He lowers him carefully, then looks towards the man sprawled beside the chain. “That was an interesting technique,” he says.
“Yeah, it is. I always fight a little dirty.” I scan the building. “There were four of them.”
“One ran.”
“Right.” I straighten and rub my thigh. The muscle protests beneath my hand. “I only hope he hasn’t run straight to Preston.”
“They attacked me.” Cáel’s voice is flat and hard. “I have diplomatic immunity. They had no right to touch me, let alone you.” He pauses. Anger radiates from him in quiet waves.
“Do you want to question them?” I ask.
“No. They’ll know nothing useful, and I already know whose people they are.”
I hold his gaze and wait.
“The man I fought works on Preston’s estate security detail,” Cáel says. “He was present when I arrived in Elyrion.”
That settles that.
“I’m sorry.”
“Don’t be.” He looks at the bodies, then back at me. “At least now I know where I stand.”
We check the three operatives, confirm that they are breathing and fasten their wrists with their own restraints. Cáel removes a communication unit and photographs their identification while I search Blondie’s jacket.
Inside, I find a key card marked with the freight site address and a government infrastructure code.
So they didn’t have to break in. They have authorised access to this building, and not to admire the rust.
Before we leave the Iron District, Cáel sends a coded report of the attack through the Velmoran diplomatic channel and instructs his security office to bypass every Elyrion contact.
It had not occurred to me that he had Elyrion contacts to bypass.
Of course he does. He has been working in this city for weeks.
Then he uses the same connection to call Vivian and Thea. “The guest house is compromised. Leave now. Take the diplomatic case and meet the secure transport away from the estate.” He pauses, listening. “Yes, Elmo is fine. We’re both fine… Yes, now. Go. Leave everything except the essentials.”
Relief eases the tightness beneath my ribs. I had been so focused on the anchor and the fight that I had not considered how exposed they were.
I clip Mina into the back and pull onto the smooth road. Rather than double back past the track worker’s cottage, I take a different route. I turn off twice, change direction again and watch the mirrors until I am satisfied no one has followed us.
Cáel remains silent.
I let the quiet stand.
As I drive, I take what comfort I can find.
The Iron anchor lacks the swelling pressure of the two that exploded. If it fails, it fails in a rail yard, and the couple in the cottage should be far enough away.
That is one anchor out of however many remain, and it is the only good news I have.
Somebody has been letting themselves into that building with a key card and a bag of cheap rune chalk, mending a thing they cannot see and calling it a repair.
They will do it again. They may be doing it now, somewhere else.
And the next one might not be standing in a rail yard.
I drive towards the Bone District.