Crucible Steele (Daggers & Steele Book 5) (25 page)

He jabbed. I ducked and dove. He spun and aimed a wild kick my way. It connected.

The breath from my lungs squirted out of me like air from a balloon. I crashed into a bank of cabinets, which disintegrated into a cloud of rotten splinters and mold spores under the weight of my back.

Bonesaw jumped at me, and the earth shifted. I rolled and pretended Daisy was a broadsword, slashing at the mountainous ogre’s neck. My trusty nightstick hit true, but without the desired effect.

Bonesaw gurgled and drove a fist into my chest. My ribs moaned in protest. Bonesaw lifted another fist.

A pair of massive, iron hands, joined together into one great fist, blurred through the darkness and smashed into the side of Bonesaw’s head. The ogre grunted and stumbled.

The fist hands rose and fell again.
Wham.
Again and again.
Wham. Wham.

Bonesaw crumpled and fell to the ground, thankfully to the side of me, otherwise my already tender ribs might’ve gone on strike.

Quinto pulled his hands apart and shook them out. “Man, that smarts. And I thought
I
had a thick skull.”

Rodgers materialized out of the darkness, with Shay trailing behind him. He offered me a hand.

I took it. “Slow, buddy, slow. I’m still not sure how many of my internal organs have failed.”

“He only got in one punch, didn’t he?” said Quinto.

“I know it’s dark,” I said, “but you
do
see how large he is, right? Makes you look like a shrimp.”

“Please.” Quinto rolled his eyes.

I moaned as Rodgers helped me up. “Alright, fine. He makes you look svelte. Bet you never thought I’d use that word to compliment you.”

Shay came over and put her hand on my arm. “Be serious, Daggers. Are you ok?”

I nodded. “I’m sore, and I bet I’ll have a wicked bruise tomorrow to show for my efforts, but I’ll live. Should’ve wrapped myself in pillows before going toe to toe with him, though.”

Shay stepped across the wreckage and eyed Bonesaw’s still form. Her eyes widened. “Forget pillows. You would’ve been better off with armor.”

She stiffened, lifted her head, and turned. Her lips parted and her eyes met mine. Even the darkness couldn’t hide the cloud of thoughts solidifying inside her mind.

Before she’d opened her mouth, I’d already developed a sneaking suspicion I wasn’t going to like whatever she had to say.

40

By the dim light of a shuttered lantern, I watched Quinto dip a heavy pole over the side of our skiff and push. Our boat skimmed over the dead calm waters of the cistern with the same silent ease of motion as a barracuda. Only the entrance and exit of the pole from the water’s surface made any noise at all, and that was little more than a muffled slurp.

Over and over Quinto pushed and lifted and pushed again.
Slip. Slurp. Slip. Slurp.
I wondered if the big guy ever got tired. Not from lifting the pole, but from moving his own arms. I briefly considered offering my services, but given my beating at the enormous hands of Bonesaw, my current garb, and the role I still had to play, I figured I’d offered enough tonight.

Quinto noticed my gaze. “What?”

“Nothing,” I said with a snicker. “You sure know how to work a pole, is all.”

Quinto snorted. “I’m not sure if that’s supposed to be a stripper metaphor or a dick joke.”

“I know. It works both ways, doesn’t it?”

“Not if either is supposed to be funny,” said Quinto.

Rodgers, who sat between me and his partner, made himself known. “You know, Daggers, if anyone here’s qualified to work a pole, I’d think it would be you.”

I stared at him blankly.

“You know,” he said. “Because of your getup? Get it? Pole?
Polearm?”

“What happened to you, man?” I said. “I thought you’d been making progress on your quips. That joke fell flatter than an unleavened pancake.”

Rodgers sniffed and looked back over the side of the boat. “Well, I liked it…”

Steele’s voice wafted over from the skiff’s prow. “Are you three done? Because the tactical advantages provided to us by this boat are rendered useless if you all don’t shut your traps.”

Shay had a point. The entire reason we’d brought this thing along was to help us avoid detection while wading and splashing our way through the cistern, although it had been a good choice, regardless. Apparently, the water level near the Earl was far deeper than I’d have guessed based on my previous expedition. Without the skiff, we would’ve been up to our necks in ice-cold water—or up to our ears in Rodgers’ case. But frigid cold I could deal with. Electrocution was another matter. That made silence golden, because as they said, loose lips sink ships—though I don’t think the turn of phrase originated with our particular quandary in mind.

Besides, it wasn’t just
our
asses on the line now. The whole department had gotten involved, and the Captain’s reputation potentially hung in the balance.

Upon leaving the abandoned house and part-time dungeon, and after we dragged, pushed, pulled, carried, and nearly threw our collective backs out moving Bonesaw’s unconscious form to the nearest police lockup, we booked it back to the 5
^th
Street Precinct where we gathered every bluecoat we could find. Given it was about three in the morning, that wasn’t nearly enough, so we sent runners to go wake more runners so they in turn could go wake more cops and give them our urgent messages. With a series of instructions sending teams of officers to every cistern entrance within a five mile radius of West and Smith Transport, we headed back east ourselves in the direction of the shipping facility—but not before making a quick stop at the Metro.

Believe you me, the goons out front were not happy to see my face, but as a team, we made them see reason.

From there it was over to Cornwall Heavy Industries, where despite the name, we were able to locate a boat small enough to fit through the cistern overflow passages near the river. It wasn’t a rowboat, but honestly, Quinto and his pole seemed as quiet an option as any.

I glanced at our shrouded lantern. I tired of dim lighting, but on the bright side—literally—dawn must’ve been on the verge of breaking topside. That would be a welcome sight if I made it out of the underground tunnels alive.

The walls, barely visible as they were, faded into nothingness, and I knew we’d reached the final branch. I gestured to my right, and Quinto followed my cue.

I hoped I was right. Not about Laz—I’d convinced myself of his culpability—but about the location of the Wyvern hideout. On my perusal of the cistern blueprints, I’d noticed a large basin east of the Earl. I hadn’t paid it any mind at the time because I hadn’t been searching for chambers large enough to house a smugglers’ base of operations. It wasn’t until my revelation about Lazarus that I’d realized the basin lay right along the path between Laz’s own lookout and the overflow exits by West and Smith.

I looked down at my arms, all shiny and rippled. My shoulders already ached from the weight.

“You sure this is going to work?” I asked Steele.

“It should,” she replied in a hushed voice. “Any charge shot your way should pass through the chainmail, bypassing you on the way to the ground.”

“Words like ‘should’ don’t exactly inspire a lot of confidence.”

“Fine. It
will
work.”

“Too late,” I said. “You’ve already planted the seed of doubt.”

Shay sighed. “Look, I know the bulk of my schooling is in magical practice and theory, but I grew up in a scientific household. Steel has a much lower electrical resistance than living flesh. Any electrical discharge coming at you will flow through the mail. The key is to make sure there aren’t any gaps or imperfections in the suit. That’s why traditional foot soldiers didn’t hold up well against mage warfare, but you’re covered from head to toe. Speaking of which, you should put on your mask.”

“Honestly, Daggers,” whispered Rodgers, “it sounds as if we’ll be in more danger than you. I mean if any of that lightning makes it past you…”

I went over the plan in my head. “Yeah, you keep telling yourself that.”

“Guys…” Quinto nodded down the tunnel.

I turned and looked. My senses had been dulled by the pitch black interior of the cistern. Luckily, Quinto’s hadn’t.

There, in the distance, I saw light.

I tossed a blanket over the lantern to shroud the last vestiges of our presence, and Quinto poled us forward, silent as sharks.

The compound grew as we approached, the fever dream of a tropical rainforest aborigine with a fear of confined spaces. Huts, with roofs of sheet metal rather than straw, hunched over the water on wooden posts, with long, snaking docks connecting one to another. Skiffs and rowboats sat in waiting, tied to bollards but still in the calm cistern waters. A larger barge, loaded with shipping crates, was also moored nearby. Given its girth, I could only assume the thing had been constructed underground in the tunnels.

Despite the size of the compound, I didn’t see many signs of life, nor hear them. Most of the shelters appeared empty, and the huts far outnumbered the boats. There was, however, activity at the central portion of the underground village.

Near the barge, I spotted cranes and hoists. By those were cages, large things with thick iron bars, some of them suspended in the water by the cranes to a depth of a few inches. The docks there were larger and covered with a dark, matte paint. Fencing and chain stretched across much of it, almost like cattle runs.

A muted roar drew my eyes to one of the crates suspended by chain in the water. The holes at the top, which I’d noticed at the manufacturing warehouse, had indeed been used to secure it, but then they emitted a puff of smoke. The water at the base of the crate bubbled and steamed.

There I spotted a distinctive figure with long black hair and a scraggly beard.
Lazarus.
He directed a group of three young men, all wearing the same boots as Cobb, toward a cage. One held rags, another a large bucket, and the third a catch pole. They opened the front, and the one with the catch pole bent over and jabbed aggressively. He disappeared inside the cage, and when he emerged, he dragged with him—

“Is that a…?” Steele’s whisper faded in disbelief.

I’d never seen one in person—I doubt many had—but there was no doubt about it. A baby red, in the flesh—or scales, as the case might be.

In my mind’s eye, I saw Cairny’s script on the clipboard. Griggs’ wound. Lacerations, three of them, on the leg. As if from a claw. And ash, in the shipping containers, which transferred to his boot.

“The
Wyverns…”
I said under my breath. “They didn’t even bother to hide it. They’ve made their intentions known from the start.”

Rodgers seemed a little slower than me on the uptake. “Hold on…are you telling me these guys are smuggling
baby dragons?”

“Why not?” I said. “Following the accords of the Castellian Ranges War, dragon breeding is barred by international law. Given their rarity and their legal status, I imagine each one would be worth a hundred times their weight in gold.”

The Castellian Ranges War was waged before my time—before the founding of the Wyverns, unless I was mistaken—but as I remembered from my history classes, it had been a bloody, vicious affair, featuring the use of trained attack dragons to such devastating effect that everyone involved had agreed to ban their use after the fact. I’m sure the conflict had weighed heavy on the minds of the Wyvern founders, with this eventual goal in mind.

Said founders would’ve needed several things to start their business, though. Seed capital, for one, and a lot of it. The kind you could generate through a successful weapons and drug smuggling business. Time as well, given dragon gestation and maturation periods. And a source of dragon eggs, of course.

That last part bothered me, although if the Wyverns had babies now, they must’ve acquired some of the eggs long ago, probably around the time of the district attorney’s efforts to end the Wyvern’s reign. The bigger question was, who was buying the babies?

That, however, wasn’t my problem. Lazarus and the rest of the Wyverns were. They hadn’t noticed us, thanks in part to the frightened cries of the fledgling dragon at the end of the catch pole and the roars of the one stuck in the suspended shipping crate.

We slid into a spot next to one of the docks. Quinto reached out, grabbed a post, and pulled us to a stop.

Despite the fact that she’d been recently kidnapped and now faced with living, breathing—rather, fire-breathing—fledgling dragons, Steele remained as cool as a cucumber.

“Only three gang members we can see, plus Lazarus,” she said. “That’s good. Manageable. Everyone remember the plan?”

Rodgers, Quinto, and I nodded, but I couldn’t shake my fear. “You’re sure about this?”

Shay met my eyes and lay a hand on the fine mail over my arm. “If I wasn’t, Daggers, I’d never have suggested it. Honestly, taking on that Bonesaw brute alone was a greater risk.”

I slid my mask—a chainmail hood with a metal grate over the face—into place.

“But,” said Steele. “The mail will make noise. Go fast. Go hard. Rodgers. Quinto. Stay close behind. You need him to draw the fire, or lightning as the case may be.”

It briefly crossed my mind that Rodgers, Quinto, and I, all ten year veterans who’d seen more hair-raising conflicts and scuffles than we could count on our collective fingers and toes, were taking orders from the youngest, most inexperienced member of our crew. A woman, no less. Then I remembered it was Shay, that she knew her shit, and that I’d be a fool not to trust her.

I pulled myself onto the dock and cast a glance Laz’s way. He continued to direct the group of three Wyverns, who’d almost forced the young dragon into her new cage.

As Quinto and Rodgers pulled themselves onto the planks behind me, I set off at a run.

As was so often the case in times like these, when my existence balanced on a razor’s edge, my mind emptied itself and intuition took over. Adrenaline coursed through my veins. My heart quickened and sweat beaded at my temples. My muscles fired. My legs pumped back and forth in line with my arms. I ran. I closed. I anticipated.