The Mech Who Loved Me(106)

"Thank you." She knew how much it cost him to allow her to do this.

"It's me!" she called, hurrying toward the Nighthawk and flashing her guild credentials. The embossed silver hawk came in handy sometimes. Ava breathed a sigh of relief when she recognized him. "Kennewick, thank heavens. I need to speak to the leader of the garrison. Immediately. You can't retaliate."

Ahead of them a roar of fury went up.

"Stand back!" someone bellowed, but a missile was launched over the crowded Nighthawks and smashed onto the cobbles among them. A bottle perhaps, one filled with oil. Flames whooshed out of the midst of the Nighthawks, and one of them screamed as they all parted. 

The shield wall began to fail and howling rioters plunged through the gap, swallowed whole by Nighthawks. Truncheons went up and down, and she heard the crunch of breaking bones mingled with unearthly screams.

"Guild master's here himself!" Kennewick replied, wiping sweat from his face. His eyes were wild. "You can't go through, Miss McLaren. It's too dangerous."

Garrett is here? That could only be a good sign. The guild master was experienced in handling confrontations, and he knew how to control his Nighthawks. Ava grabbed Kennewick by the arm, forcing him to look at her. "Get me to Garrett now. I don't care how dangerous it is. If I don't talk to him, things are only going to get worse."

Maybe it was the intensity in her expression, or the firmness of her tone, but Kennewick nodded.

"He's just behind the shield wall." Kennewick took her hand and escorted her through the back ranks of Nighthawks, using his body to protect her. "Make way! Make way!" he yelled. "Important message for the guild master."

The smoke was thicker here, and she flinched as one of the men dragged a burning Nighthawk out of the legion. The scent of burning flesh made bile crawl up her throat, and she clasped her lace gloves over her mouth and nose.

Men pressed around her, bodies threatening to trample her at a moment's notice. It was so damned hot too. Barely any oxygen in the press. That hollow roaring sensation she knew so well dulled her hearing. Not now. Ava pressed onwards, her breathing coming a little faster, and a gasp catching in her throat.

"Message for the guild master!" Kennewick bellowed. "Make way! Make way!"

"Garrett!" Ava screamed, pushing against a man who stepped back and nearly knocked her over. "Garrett!"

"Jesus, lass." Doyle, Garrett's second-in-command, appeared out of nowhere and caught her by the arm. "What are you doing here? Get yourself well away. This crowd's about to go up like Guy Fawkes night. We've got nearly two legions of Nighthawks on the scene."

"I know!" She caught his forearm, her breath coming short and sharp. "I need to speak to Garrett. He can't let the Nighthawks retaliate! This is all planned. Someone wants to set the Nighthawks against the mob, and if we retaliate then we're playing into their plans!"

Thought flickered behind Doyle's rheumy eyes. He was the only human within Nighthawks ranks, and tended to be a touch old-fashioned. "Aye, well, they just shot Tommy Henderson-straight through the head. He's dead."

Straight through...? "What type of bullet did they use?"

Doyle paused. "A firebolt."

Firebolts had been designed by the humanist faction before they overthrew the Echelon. Each bullet was filled with a mix of dangerous chemicals separated by a thin metallic layer. Upon impact the chemicals mixed, and the bullet exploded.

They'd been designed to kill blue bloods.

And maybe it was happenstance, but maybe it wasn't.

"Where'd the bullet come from?" she demanded, her mind racing. "From the mob?"

"I don't see why-"

"Just bloody tell me," she snarled.

"We don't know," Doyle replied abruptly, as though years of discipline inclined him to agree with a commanding tone. "Up high, Garrett thinks. Maybe one of them climbed a statue and used the height to pick off one of our own." A horrified expression crossed his face, and she realized he'd been there. He'd seen it happen.



       
         
       
        

A single bullet designed to set off a chain reaction. She'd been naïve once-before she started working for the Duke of Malloryn-but she wasn't anymore.

"I need to see Garrett." What were the odds the bullet hadn't come from the mob itself, but from some strategic vantage point?

Garrett was a patient man, and he had years of experience under his belt. The Nighthawks were trained to deal with combative forces, and had settled riots for years. They knew not to retaliate.