King Among the Dead - Lauren Gilley Page 0,83

short run, but underground politics were too strong and chaotic for the death of one man to grind everything to a final halt. The gears would turn, the machine would run, and someone would step forward to take Castor’s place as the most powerful.

But that wasn’t what Beck was worried about. Right now, this was wholly personal. Whether he’d had only months to live or not, Castor had killed Simon – had offered Simon up to his conduit. And Beck was going to settle that score, no matter how crazy and risky.

Castor and his entourage reached the main floor, and headed down between two churning assembly lines. The machinery was belching white steam again, and visibility was reducing. Castor’s path would lead him right past their hiding spot.

Beck shifted forward without making a sound, braced his gun loosely in both hands, and waited.

Rose wasn’t one for prayers – she’d never lived in a religious household, and Beck’s talk of the heavens was largely academic, and practical, based on what he’d seen of conduits. But she prayed now. Graceless, uncertain, desperate. Please let this work. Please keep him safe. Please let us escape.

Even if anyone was listening, she didn’t figure she was the sort of person who had prayers answered.

“…streamlined the process,” Castor was saying as he passed beneath them, talking animatedly with his hands as the dazed and terrified dealers trailed along behind him. “The new dosage is twice as potent as the old, but we’ve tweaked the fillers. Much less chance of an overdose with the new binders–”

Beck had a suppressor screwed into the barrel of his .45, and it hardly made a sound when it kicked in his hands. A quiet pffft of displaced air.

Castor tripped, body going taut. Blood exploded forward, a red blossom from the exit wound. Then he collapsed.

A direct hit. A perfect shot.

Rose grabbed Beck’s jacket and tugged him down out of sight. No one had even turned toward them yet. No one had seen. “We have to go,” she hissed, and pandemonium erupted just a few yards away. Shouting, swearing, screaming. Someone barked clipped orders, and it would only be a matter of moments before a search began for the shooter.

Beck slipped his gun away, and pulled his favorite tactical knife. Met her gaze – his eyes almost feverish with triumph – and nodded. “Just like we planned.”

Someone halted the assembly lines with a sound of squealing gears, and, like before, the steam billowed and swelled, thick as rain-heavy clouds along the floor. Rose could hear feet running over the concrete, the muffled shouting and screaming, but visibility was down to near zero again.

The perfect conditions for an escape.

Beck jumped down to the floor, leading the way, and Rose hurried after.

A guard reared up out of the mist, on her right, one of the shirtless, cudgel-bearing toughs used to keep the drug packagers in line. He looked toward them, and then the mist swirled around him, screening them. Rose had a knife in her hand, but she kept moving, and they were past him, and it was a mad rush toward the vent.

For a moment, she thought – stupidly – that they would get away. No one had seen them, no one could find them in this dense fog.

But then the steam parted around a black-clad figure, and Beck got his knife up just in time to intercept a strike headed right for his face.

It was one of the death squad boys, tall, and powerful, and deadly serious. Beck’s knife caught him in the wrist. The hand spasmed open, and he dropped the gun he was carrying, but a flicker of muscle in his cheek was the only sign the pain had registered.

He brought up his other hand without hesitation, and made a grab for Beck’s face, fingers hooked, ready to gouge at his eyes.

He either hadn’t seen, or had dismissed Rose.

A mistake.

She ducked low, whirled under his guard, and punched her knife into his torso. Deep between his two lowest ribs.

He did make a sound, then: a deep gasp.

Beck cut his throat, shoved him back, and he toppled off into the steam and was lost.

Another reared up to take his place, and another, coming at them from opposite sides.

Rose caught Beck’s gaze, one fast exchange, and felt her mouth curve to echo the tiny smile he gave her. Then they spun away from one another, backs together, blades raised.

The guards were strong – too strong for her to have fought them bare-handed.