Exception to the Rule
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You Can't Go Home Again...Mill Springs, 50 miles.The hand-painted sign greeted her from the side of the road, part of an advertisement for Hillside Gas & Food. Beneath it perched a more precarious seasonal sign declaring Hunters Welcome. Meanwhile, no signs of further interest in the Taurus, no random acts of stupid motorists in her path, no signs of construction on roads turned classically wretched at the state line...another hour and she'd be there. Not bad, considering the state of the car--and that she'd turned off the interstate to travel quieter roads as soon as the opportunity arose. She'd also taken advantage of another short break to apply a metallic blue eye shadow and pull her almost non-existent bangs aside with a tiny plastic barrette, and to play with her long-buried accent. I'm Baw-nie Miller... The hilly Pennsylvania woods unrolled before her, full of waxing fall color; the number of dead deer by the road reminded her that it was indeed the Whitetail's most active season. Just another of the memories she'd put behind her that now flooded back full force, erasing the intervening years as if she hadn't crawled out of this place on pure grit and desperation. Foolish to have brought the camera...she needed no pictures of this area. But she snarled back at those memories. This trip wasn't about the past, no matter what Owen might think. It was about the present, and a woman in danger. It was about the way Kimmer had changed her life so she was the one who could deal with such situations--instead of running from them. It was about the way she needed to put gas in this game little car. As promised, the entrance for Hillside Gas & Food appeared just beyond the next curve, although the sign over the gas pumps had taken some wear and now read Hillside Gas & Foo. The pumps themselves were old enough that they didn't take credit cards; gas purchase was purely via honor system. Kimmer filled the nearly empty tank and pulled the car away from the pumps and off to the side. She checked to see that her little red barrette hadn't slipped, took a deep breath that somehow felt necessary, and headed for the store. Bells announced her arrival. She found an older man behind the counter, thinning white hair in a half-hearted comb-over, cheeks raspy red from the same rosaceae that had roughened his nose. He nodded when she told him "Fifteen dollars," and went to wander briefly through the store, trying to decide between caffeine in frappachino or caffeine in Mountain Dew, smiling slightly at the man's instant curiosity and his following gaze. A little bored, a little nosy...harmless combination. Just enough of a proprietary nature to let her know he owned the place. The glass-front shelves held plenty of dairy and plenty of beer, but nothing so esoteric as her favorite cold coffee; she grabbed the soda instead. A few desultory cans of soup caught her eye; she snagged one, hefting it thoughtfully. Lunch? Peanut butter crackers would be easier to eat on the road... Reluctantly, she decide to return the soup to the shelf--but the door bells jangled and when she glanced up at the new customers, surprise rooted her to the spot. Two of them. Tall and blond and sturdy. Kimmer snapped off an inward curse, and not a nice one. The very people she was trying to avoid on this road... And as Ryobe Carlsen held the door for his cousin Carolyne, he said with straight-man humor, "I don't know about you, but I'm ready for some good Foo." The man at the counter gave a hearty but insincere laugh. "Gotta get that sign fixed one of these days." Kimmer eased back slightly. She would just stay here and examine the soup can until they left, head bent, body language small and inconspicuous--while still taking advantage of this first opportunity to scope them out in person. Knowing better than to think too hard about it, but just taking the impressions and trusting them. Carolyne Carlsen...a tall woman, figure hidden beneath a worn sweatshirt with a patchwork design on the front, pretty features marred by smudgy circles under her eyes and a wrinkle of worry on her brow. Tense, for certain. Tired, and not the kind of woman who easily withstood this kind of stress. She headed straight for the back corner of the store that held the bathrooms, lugging a shapeless crochet purse. Still...not as worried as you should be, Kimmer silently told the woman's retreating back. Not given the tail Kimmer had shaken that morning. Whatever the trip had held for them, it didn't seem to have affected Carolyne's cousin. He moved with relaxed strides--not the fluid power of some strong men, but with a matter-of-fact presence. Only in retrospect did she see the strength and confidence there. She bet he fooled a lot of people. He grabbed some Oreo cookies and a couple of colas, paid for his purchases and the gas he'd just pumped, and leaned against the counter to wait for Carolyne, somehow failing to knock over any of the gimmicky cardboard displays of fishing lures, Steelers memorabilia, and spiced jerky sticks. His driver's license photo hadn't done him any more justice than such pictures ever did. They hadn't truly conveyed the astonishing lines of his face, a perfect combination of strong Danish bones and lean Japanese angles. Kimmer deliberately loosened her suddenly tight grip around the soup can. If there was one thing she knew how to do, it was to admire a man as object, not as individual. Even this man, radiating his presence so loudly that Kimmer felt the heat from here. And the longer Carolyne took, the more obvious it became that Kimmer just stood there. She abruptly crouched down, pretending to examine an item on the lowest shelf. Pork and beans, extra flavor nuggets! As near as she could tell the flavor nuggets were lumps of lard. Yum. Rio tore open the Oreos and popped one into his mouth; after a moment he inclined the bag toward the store owner, who caught on with delayed surprise and shook his head. Kimmer heard another car pull into the small gravel parking area; she thought nothing of it. Not until she saw the doubt on the store owner's face, and the small step he took back from the counter. Not until Rio Carlsen glanced out the door, straightened, and put the cookies on that counter to murmur, "Watch those a moment, will you?" Damn. Did I miss a secondary tail? No one could have found them through Scott Boyle, who knew less than Kimmer about Carolyne's destination. And it was hard to believe anyone with Rio's background could miss a tail all the way between here and Albany... Could just be a local tough with bad timing... Kimmer stood just as Carolyne came out of the ladies' room, all her attention on the palm pilot upon which she swiftly worked her stylus and none at all on the enlarging population of the store. Two men strode through the door, all but taking up all the air in the room. Not local toughs, oh no. BeeGees. Bad Guys. Goonboys. All the same to Kimmer, interchangeable and less-than-affectionate nicknames. These particular goonboys were big, well-groomed...a definite city look to them. And while they might have thought they'd struck a casual note with their polo shirts tight over beefy muscle and barely worn jeans, their intensity of purpose came through loud and clear. Carolyne missed it as she came to stop at the end of the counter, frowning fiercely at her notes and completely unaware that as soon as they arrived, they aimed that intensity of purpose right at her. They should have paid more attention to Rio. Kimmer did. She hid a small smile at his minimalist tactics...for he merely stuck out his foot, and sent the foremost goonboy sprawling across the floor. The cardboard Steelers memorabilia display went down, striking Carolyn; she leaped back, head jerking up and eyes going wide as she suddenly realized the situation developing around her. "Caro," Rio said, not raising his voice at all as he stepped in front of the second goonboy, "get in the car. Lock it and go." "I'm calling 9-1-1," the store owner blurted, groping around under the counter, his gaze darting from Rio to the second goonboy to Carolyne. Carolyne looked startled. "I can't go without you--" "Do it," he said, and this time his voice held a steely tone that widened Carolyn's eyes. Probably her first glimpse of Rio Carlsen, spy boy. Kimmer had seen the like often enough; she stayed small and quiet--and ready. But Carolyne had already lost her chance. While Rio stood in the path of the second man, his stance almost as casual as he'd been with his cookies at the counter, Kimmer eased around the end of the aisle in time to see the first man getting to his feet, his face ruddy with anger and embarrassment--and also filled with more determination than Kimmer liked to see in a goonboy. Beside the counter, the second man growled something low and threatening; Rio responded without heat. "I don't think so." And then Kimmer left the moment to him, for Carolyne had gone into retreat, skipping backwards toward the bathroom she'd just vacated as her assailant lunged at her. Can of soup. Bad guy. No brainer. Kimmer pitched the can with a wicked arm. As chicken noodle bounced off the man's head, Carolyne finally turned to flee, running along the wall coolers, taking out a display tree of chips, and heading for the door. Good. She was their weak spot, and now she'd bolted out of reach. Kimmer pulled the short, stout toothpick blade from her pocket and flicked aside the stubby leather sheath, covering the short aisle in a quick pounce. A glance showed her that Rio had shifted again, keeping himself between Carolyne and her would-be kidnapper but also effectively blocking the door so she couldn't escape. Just hold him off a moment-- Her own goonboy rolled on the floor with a surfeit of cursing, blood gushing from his ear. Kimmer just barely heard the store owner in the background, shouting into the phone. "Send someone, quick! There's a big fight in my store--there's blood!" There was indeed blood. There might even be more. Kimmer landed knee-first on the goonboy; she thought she felt a rib give way beneath her. It got his attention; he might have flung her right back off again if he hadn't felt the cold flat of her knife on his face, pressing down against his cheek with the tip brushing his lower lashes. He blinked again, letting his lower lashes brush the knife to confirm its presence. For an instant he considered taking his chances; Kimmer pushed the knife down, dimpling the skin but not cutting it. "Let's be quick about this," she said, Bonnie Miller's accent fully in place. "Unless you'd still like to be here when the police arrive?" "Who the hell are you?" His words came out muffled thanks to her knuckles against his mouth, but she found them understandable enough. "Someone who wants answers," she said. And who doesn't want anyone else to hear me get them. "How'd you find them?" His eyes, already quite full of seething anger, made room for perplexity. "All right then, how'd you find her?" Understanding dawned. Cooperation didn't. She twisted her fingers in his collar, glanced back over at Rio as he staggered back into a display of small Styrofoam coolers. He took his opponent with him, and she looked down again, meeting enough of a sneer that she sneered back and drew a careful pinprick of blood from the tender flesh of the goonboy's lower eyelid. He squirmed, surprised, bucking slightly beneath her. She hissed at him. "Don't do that, you jerk! Or are you already blind in that eye?" He stilled; she leaned closer, lowering her voice as the store owner drew closer in horrified fascination, the phone drooping from his hand; she covered the short blade of her knife with her thumb, hiding it from prying eyes. "Did you tail me?" "You?" He'd gone still; no doubt he could feel the little trickle of blood down the side of his face. "I don't even know who you are." "Ex-softball pitcher," she told him, not taking time for the curse that leaped to mind at the realization that Carolyne had more than one set of goons on her tail. "What'd you think of my curve ball?" | TOP | |
SMOKESCREEN: Chameleon
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Yup. He's definitely going to be a problem.
Sam stuck her hands deep in the pockets of her baggy cargo boarder pants, fully decked out as Punk Boarder Chick: blocky black and red long-sleeved Burly Girl shirt, skater beanie pulled down over jet-black hair with electric blue streaks. Stud in her nose and tongue, hoop at her brow, tiny hoops climbing the outside rim of her ear. Battered ice-blue Fiberlight skateboard at her side. Only Sam knew she was none of those things. Oh, the accessories were real enough, as was the practiced sneer of youthful attitude. But underneath this assumed appearance the real Sam had thick, wavy copper hair in need of a trim, a flaring jaw, and a chin with a little notch she didn't much like. The real Sam had only two earrings per ear, and her nose... Nuh-uh. Her nose had only the original number of holes in it. But the Boarder Chick guise served her well, hiding her in plain sight. Very much unlike the man making his too-casual way down the street. Does he really think no one's going to notice him? Tonight she hung under the corner street light and exchanged boasts and insults with the kids who'd gathered to eye the liquor store halfway down the block. Down the block in the opposite direction, a scarred residential area still clung to life. The houses were small, the yards non-existent, and the paint peeling. One of those houses provided rooms for the streetwalkers hanging off the curb not far from here--sometimes Sam pretended to be one of them. Nearby, a recently closed-down crack house already crept back to activity. And in the middle, the quiet gray duplex with the clean yard, a single hanging flowerpot on the front porch, and the very many excellent locks on the door... That was the house Sam protected. It was a refuge, camouflaged as neatly as Sam herself. Battered and desperate women fled to this place, this new version of the underground railroad. They started their long journey here, moving from house to house until they could emerge in another city, in another state, as another person. Sam spent her days and some of her nights tailing subjects for a local P.I., but she filled her free time here. Taking advantage of her unusual skills to do what others couldn't. At first she'd only done it because she knew she could...and because it also filled time that might otherwise feel suspiciously empty. But after seeing some of the refugees... Now she protected them with a fulfilling passion, fully aware of the irony of it all. A woman of a thousand identities but no real personal life, helping protect countless women who risked everything to find new lives. And as long as she didn't run into anyone watching the world through a camera, her endless guises hid her from the world, let her move through it unnoticed, blending in where ever she happened to be--as whoever she wanted to be. Unnoticed, and ultimately, unknown. Sam I am, ever unseen. The women who passed through this refuge remained just as anonymous. Even, theoretically, the high-profile woman who'd recently moved to deeper hiding places. The woman had been terrified of her husband, and she'd warned the Captain--the only name Sam had for the ex-cop who ran this house--that he would cause trouble any way he could. That he would rampage through this city in a temper tantrum of Godzillan proportions, flinging threats and blowing through women's shelters hunting for her. And he had. He still did. Wary and unwelcoming, Sam eyed the out-of-place lurker as he moved closer to the refuge. The threats had spread until the woman's identity became obvious by who made them, and Sam didn't blame her for running deep. Even she'd heard of the man, a gangster with old world ties and godfather aspirations. Carl Scalpucci. The East Coast had proven too challenging, so he'd moved to the western part of the state--here where the shadow of the coastal players landed darkly enough to give him power, and yet left him independent. He was cruel. Ruthless. And not the least bit reluctant to show it. Scalpucci was hunting hard enough that he just might end up here; he couldn't know that his wife had already moved on to a secondary house. That made the refuge and everyone in it vulnerable to one evil man's threats--and it left Sam the perfect person to keep an eye on things, night after night, without giving away the fact that anyone watched it at all. One day a slight young man of color, the next this pale goth boarder. It left her in the perfect place to watch this man cruise down the sidewalk, holding something at chest level. As he came into the light of a street lamp, she suddenly recognized it as a camera. Dammit, he's been taking pictures all this time. She eased away from her corner gang, dropping the skateboard to rest one foot on it. Considering him. On closer examination, she doubted he was one of the outraged hubbie's evil henchmen after all. The evil henchmen would be better than this--if they even bothered with surveillance. And this man definitely didn't have the knack for going unnoticed. There was something about the way he held himself--an unconscious presence, an awareness of self. He had no cockiness in his walk, just a forthright manner that made Sam doubt he could fade into the background if his life depended on it. Which it might, if he got himself mixed up in the business of this street. Not necessarily a bad thing. If he wasn't one of Scalpucci's people, then he was hunting his own wife or girlfriend. Bad timing for someone to get this close, now--he could lead Scalpucci straight to the refuge. He had to go. He discovered her attention; he eyed her for a moment, and decided he didn't care. Which was, of course, the whole point to the Boarder Chick guise. She got to stare sullenly at him, and she didn't need any more excuse than his presence on her turf. She got to study him, from the subdued black cross-trainers to the chinos defining his butt to the lightweight bomber jacket outlining his shoulders. Physically, he could have done the job--could have been sent to intimidate. And even emotionally--there was something to the set of his jaw under that thick, dark mustache, and the way a slight frown shadowed his eyes in the street light. This man had a mission. Sam wasn't much for mustaches, but this one suited him. So did the stubble darkening his jaw, but neither would stop her from chasing him away. Husband on the hunt or reporter on the prowl, the refuge didn't need him and his camera. She pushed off against the sidewalk, a lazy kick that took her exactly as far as she'd meant to go. He looked at her as she arrived, and she flipped the board up without looking, catching it against her thigh. "You taking pictures of the crack house or the whorehouse?" "Neither," he said, which both surprised her--she'd expected a lie--and dismayed her. Yep, he was trying to zero in on the refuge house. "Doesn't matter." She shrugged. "They'll both figure you've got them on film. The beeper boys really take offense at that sort of thing." He raised an eyebrow. It, too, was dark and thick. Expressive. He looked down at the camera and said, "It's not film, it's digital." "Even better." Sam snorted. "The crunch of a digital camera against asphalt...mmm, yeah." She crossed her arms. "They like the crunch of breaking bones, too." This time he took a closer look at her, studying her with an acuity of gaze that made her wonder if he somehow saw through her guise. No one ever had, but she'd always known someone might. She hadn't expected the rush of adrenalin that came with the possibility...or the startling hint of anticipation. She fought an unexpected impulse to be herself, to show him the Sam I Am and see what how he looked at her then. But she stared back at him, bluffing it out. He shook his head, barely perceptibly. She thought he smiled slightly, but the corners of his mouth hid in the shadow of his mustache. "You're trying to scare me off." It sounded like a question, leaving the unspoken matter of why. She didn't let his bluntness throw her. "Yeah," she said. "You don't belong here. You come around taking pictures, someone's going to get upset at you. That'll cause trouble. Then everyone's on edge and it's not so safe for us to hang out here. We like hanging out here. We don't like watching nervous cops scrape dead losers off the street." "Loser," he repeated flatly. She shrugged. "You want I should go with the word I was actually thinking?" "Don't go to any trouble." "Not as long as you go away." He shook his head, once, his gaze back out on the street. Already distracted. "Can't. Maybe if you skate yourself back to the corner, no one else will bother with me." He looked over her head to the corner and nodded at it. "Your friends seem to have the right idea." Sam glanced over her shoulder. Off to the liquor store they'd gone, joshing and roughing each other up along the way, hoping to scam some beer. "I can catch up. You been listening to me at all? The part about dead losers?" She let a little desperation into her voice. Totally unfeigned, too, because if he didn't get smart she'd have to pull out her secret weapon: getting loud enough so the unsociable neighbors did indeed notice their intruder. And she didn't want to do that. In spite of the implications of his presence, he hadn't yet set off her abuser alarm bells. He hadn't gotten loud or rude with this pushy young boarder...he'd just been entirely undeterred. And now he tipped his head, pondering her; the motion let street light illuminate thoughtful dark grey eyes. "You're worried." She snorted. "Hell, yes. Things get messy around here, cops hang around for weeks." He looked back over at the houses, clearly not sure just which one was his target. Reluctant. "Messy," Sam told him. "Messy, messy, messy. Any minute now. Whatever you're looking for, mister, you won't find it here." "Actually," he said lightly, turning that perceptive grey gaze back on Sam, "I think I will. But not tonight. You've already drawn too much attention my way. Then again, you knew that when you came over, didn't you?" She offered him a knowing little smile, a no-regrets smart-ass kind of smile. "Yeah," she said. "Maybe I did." | TOP | |
Checkmate
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Chapter One Berzhaan. What a mess. Political unrest from within, political pressures from without, a country seething with unreleased social pressures and unspoken dangers. It was exactly what Selena Shaw Jones needed. Distraction. She stood on the crest of a rubble-strewn hill in Berzhaan and knew herself for a coward. She stood amidst the revered ruins of the Temple of Ashaga and knew she should have been at home, working things out with Cole. She shouldn't have retreated like a wounded child, unable to face the truth. It wasn't a reaction typical of her--of the controlled, perfectionist FBI Legal Attache who traveled the world to develop counter-terrorism programs in other countries, and to create teamwork between those countries and the United States. Of a woman with extensive experience and training in dangerous situations, from fraught negotiations to firefights. Emotionally, unexpectedly wounded. And no idea how to deal with it. So Selena had indeed retreated, all the way across the ocean to the brand-new Legat office in Berzhaan's capitol, Suwan. So brand-new that her support staff had not yet arrived, and she spent most of her time with the U.S. Ambassador, strategizing ways to build trust with a wary Berzhaani prime minister--or with the prime minister himself, attending flashy government functions to establish her presence here. The rest of the time she spent learning the lay of the land--figuratively and literally. It was one reason she'd come to this shrine of ruins. The other...she'd heard this was a peaceful place. A contemplative place. A place where even a distressed Special Agent might sort out her thoughts. She looked back down the steep hill she'd just ascended, a challenging obstacle course of rocks both large enough to climb over and small enough to turn an ankle. The village below looked peaceful, unchanged by its proximity to the shrine. No tourist attractions, no shacks lining the road offering trinkets to rich Europeans and Americans. Just families, going about their lives. As it should be. One of Selena's jobs was to keep things this way, wherever she went. The house closest to the foot of the hill boasted a large back yard, unenclosed. A dormant garden covered nearly a third of it. Goats stood idly in a pen at the back, and the stone-walled house boasted a tidy, weed-free exterior. Peaceful. A little boy darted around the side of the house, young enough to stumble every third step and also young enough that he didn't care. He played with a string of scrap material, letting it flutter in the wind. Selena's eyes burned, unexpected and startling, almost as unexpected as the sudden closing of her throat. He was the reason she'd come. He was also one of the reasons she'd run. Family. Children. Plans and hopes and visions of a future with Cole that included cribs and baby mobiles and a thousand pictures of that first crawl, that first step, of a plump little mouth forming those first words... Selena whirled away, taking a few abrupt steps toward the temple. She carefully wiped her eyes and re-tied her modest and respectful head scarf against the stiff winter breeze. She refocused on surroundings of ancient stone and ancient, eternal flame. Stone walls defined the courtyard, covered with moss and lichen, their once-square edges crumbled into softness. Built against those walls, low, dark religious cells waited for the return of the pilgrims who had once flocked here. Before her, a square shrine stood stolid against the years, precisely fenestrated to reveal the eternal flame within. This, the Temple of Ashaga just outside Berzhaan's capitol city of Suwan, held the muted awe of generations. A quiet place; a revered place. Just what she'd wanted. Needed. Then...why wasn't it helping? Because it definitely wasn't helping. Selena deliberately turned to matters more directly at hand. Distraction. Berzhaan had wedged itself between the tumultuous Middle East and acquisitional Russia, swapping between freedom and occupation too many times in the last century. It made for a country in turmoil, seething with unrest and jam-packed with diplomatic complications that filled Selena Shaw Jones' hours and let her tumble into bed exhausted, knowing she was doing her best to keep terrorism away from the little boy down below as much as from those children in the States. If only Razidae would let her build the network between their countries that would allow the communication, intelligence-gathering, and local counterterrorist education that it was her job to establish... A faint noise caught the edges of her attention. Was that--? No. She was on edge, that was all. She'd had no way to know when Cole would return, and no intention of waiting him out in their oh-so-empty condo. She'd asked for this overseas assignment to get perspective on her life. And while she'd already earned Ambassador Dante Allori's highly relieved respect with her ability to translate the most delicate political statements and to quietly, politely persist in her efforts to woo reluctant Prime Minister Omar Razidae, she still failed miserably in her own personal goals. There he'd been. Her husband, kissing a beautiful woman right out in Constitution Park. Big deal, she'd told herself. He was a CIA field officer--Jason P. JOXLEITER in the CIA's eyes, and his friends got a kick out of calling him Jox. He was a field officer down to the silly all-caps assigned surname, and that meant putting up a front--wherever he was, whoever he was with--to suit his cover. Except he was supposed to be out of the country. And while he never told her details of an assignment, she always knew his location. Always overseas and not with the CIA's Foreign Services Bureau that worked U.S. turf, and she always knew just where. Then if something went haywire in the world, she knew whether to worry. It was the one stable thing in their relationship, the one thing she could always count on. Not this time. And how many other times had he lied? How many times had he used CIA guile against her? Another harsh sound scraped up from the small village at the bottom of the hill; Selena turned into the wind to look down upon the picturesque area, frowning at the gusty blast that obscured any additional noises from below. After a moment in which she saw nothing out of place, she turned back to the temple, walking slowly around the shrine. She put her hands up to one of the openings, feeling the mild heat through her finely stitched black leather gloves. It wasn't enough to warm her. The depth of her feelings frightened her, kept her from thinking clearly. Ironically, if the sounds she'd heard had actually been gunshots, she would have felt perfectly able to deal with them--the Athena Academy had given her that much, and more: her cache of fluently spoken languages, her self-confidence, the background to excel at Harvard Law School and then as an FBI legat assigned to situations as tricky and demanding as Berzhaan's. The accomplishments to be tapped as an Oracle agent. Selena knew how to handle herself in court, behind a translator's smooth detachment, and in the field. What she couldn't seem to do was stop the way her throat constricted into tight pain at the thought of that moment in the D.C. park. The intensity of the betrayal, coming only months after she and Cole had recommitted to saving their troubled marriage, after they'd talked about--and acted on--starting a family... Damn it all anyway. She'd believed him. She turned her back to the shrine, hoping the warmth might penetrate her long black leather coat. Her visit here wasn't helping her frame of mind in the least, and she'd run out of time. She had to return to Suwan before her two o'clock appointment with Ambassador Allori and Prime Minister Razidae. Reluctantly, she stepped away from the shrine to pick her way downhill though the rocks, glad for her lightweight hiking boots and sturdy khaki hiking pants. Not exactly formal enough for her embassy work, but she'd learned to come prepared. A sudden report on the wind stopped her short; she looked up from the rock-strewn path to narrow her eyes at the village below. There was no mistaking it this time. Weapons fire. Automatic weapons. Behind the house nearest to Selena, the young boy darted out across the rocky, close-cropped land to crawl between the crooked slats of a goat pen a hundred yards behind the house. The four goats there parted to accept him as if used to his presence. If there hadn't been an abrupt burst of activity at the back of the stone-walled house--a quick flurry of what looked like a woman trying to exit until rough hands hauled her back in, her shriek of protest clearly audible as it rode the wind up the hill--Selena might have dropped her gaze back to the rocky footing and circled away along the curve of ground to the spot where she'd parked the little Russian Moskvich sedan. But now she knew for sure. Trouble. Not ordinary domestic trouble, no indeed. Kemeni rebels? And if it was, was this a calculated large-scale action, or a handful of over-eager rebels causing trouble? There was no telling. Turmoil gripped this country like a lover. Kemeni rebels--supposedly backed by the U.S., although Selena knew better--increasingly threatened Prime Minister Omar Razidae's government. Russia had become keenly interested in this territory; they, too, were wrongly convinced that the U.S. treated with Razidae with one hand and fed arms and money to the Kemeni with the other. The Q'Rajn terrorists, convinced of the same, wanted the States out of Berzhaan altogether, and had taken their fight to U.S. soil to face recent defeat at the hand of Selena's Athena classmates. And then there was everyone else in the world, keeping an eye on Berzhaan's undeveloped oil resources. All the while, the people of Berzhaan struggled to survive, caught in the middle. And down the hill from Selena, a small boy cowered behind his unconcerned goats, probably not realizing they were truly no cover at all. Selena did a quick weapons check. Sturdy Beretta Cougar .45 DAO in her pocket holster, several slim knives secreted at ankle, waist, and right collarbone--where she could dip into her sweater from the neckline and acquire steel before any threatening agent even thought to consider whether she might be anything more than the sleek, tailored American she appeared to be. Then she headed down the hill, striding firmly in spite of the footing but not drawing attention to herself by running. As she moved, she pulled a hairband from an inner pocket of the coat and reached beneath the silk scarf to gather her long, layered hair at the nape of her neck. She drew her Beretta, holding it down at her side where the folds of the coat obscured it and she could easily keep it hidden if her concerns were for nothing. She didn't expect to keep it hidden. As she neared the base of the hill and angled for the stone house, the boy darted out from behind the goats and ran into her path, babbling in his native language so quickly--with a young child's creative use of words--as to challenge even her excellent Berzhaani language skills. She put a finger to her lips and then his, startling the child, and in that moment of silence she said, "Slower, bibcha." His eyes widened with surprise all over again; his gaze darted over her from head to toe, taking in her attire and her head scarf, her appearance--dark blue-green eyes, razor-cut chestnut bangs emerging from the scarf, and all-American features--and trying to reconcile it all with her use of his own language. She crouched before him, her gun still lost in the black leather folds of her coat. "Tell me," she said. "Why are you frightened?" He touched the bright red leather piping on the front edge of the coat, following it briefly with his finger as if to confirm this was indeed something out of his ken--but his round, light tea-colored little face with its pointed chin looked about to crumple. "There, now," Selena said, fairly brusquely, fighting her natural inclination to soothe him--it would only release those tears, and then she'd learn nothing. "When a brave young man such as yourself runs to greet me, I must listen. What have you to say?" The boy hovered on the edge of tears for another moment--and indeed, one slipped out to track its way down the baby fat of his cheek. But he pressed his lips together and then said, "Bad men are in the house. Don't go in there! Auntie told me to run and hide, just like we practiced." "I saw you." Selena couldn't stop herself from wiping away that single tear where it had out partway down his face. "You hid very well. Do you think you can do it again?" "With Spotty and Eleny?" She could only assume these were two of the goats. "Further," she said. "In the temple, where the pilgrims used to sleep when they stayed there." He shook his head, flinching at the sound of breaking pottery from within the house. "I'm not allowed--" "This once, you are," she told him. "Mama said--" She put her finger to her lips again, and gave him a slow, reassuring smile. "I'll tell her it was my fault." He returned a solemn, dark-eyed look, lower lip protruding slightly with the effort of his decision. Selena all but held her breath, waiting--knowing he might well be unable to trust her, as much as he'd been willing to warn her. The Beretta felt solid and familiar in her hand, and just as suddenly like it could not possibly belong there while she spoke to this child. Abruptly he bit his lip and nodded. "Will you hide, too?" "Yes." She stood; the wind tugged at her open coat. She wished she could pull off her sweater to give him--he wore only a thin wool jacket over his own baggy, loosely knit sweater--but to do so would reveal her knives and her gun, a revelation likely to break the tenuous connection between them. "But I'm going to hide somewhere else, somewhere I can get help for your people." This made no sense, of course. But she hoped he would grab for the reassurance without working through the logic. She didn't give him much time to think about it, not as a muted cry reached her from the still-cracked back door. "Go now!" She pointed up the hill. "As fast as you can! Someone will come for you when it is safe." This time. For this child truly to be safe, Selena would have to accomplish much more than this chance, unexpected interference with one besieged house. After the briefest hesitation, the boy sprinted away, his barely coordinated limbs putting much effort into the action. So young... Selena smoothed her scowl away and reached for focus. She was on the job now, albeit in a fashion never formally acknowledged. She eased up to the side of the house, up to the small window with open shutters on the outside and a film of curtains covering the glass from the inside. She winced as something else within the house broke, something wooden and splintering this time, followed by another cry of fear. The window showed her little...a gash of sunlight over the floor where the front door had been left open, a chair overturned against the wall, a bread plate smashed near the entrance to a back room. No one in sight. Great. She'd have to slink around and hope another window would reveal how many intruders had-- A stutter of automatic weapons fire sounded from down the street. More than just this one house at stake. And from within, a woman screamed, a full-bodied shriek of fear and denial. No more time. Start with this house, worry about the rest later. She moved swiftly to the front corner of the house, confirmed that no one waited out front, and made it to the doorway itself. A quick peek-retreat revealed the main room of the house to be abandoned; from within the room beyond, a man shouted harsh demands for cooperation and the sharp slap of hand against flesh struck Selena's ears. Bastard. Of course he was going to rape her. Of course. And in this society where the conservative chador was no longer required by law but still often used by custom, rural women still paid every price for rape above and beyond the violation of the act itself. Selena did another peek-and-duck, still saw nothing, and eased into the house with silence as her shield, her coat whispering around her in swirling folds of leather. A quick glance through the doorway beyond showed her a tiny bedroom, one man in Kemeni green and tan colors pressing a diminutive woman into the corner while his loosely gripped Abakan Russian assault rifle--Abakan...strange choice--pointed at the floor, his avid gaze riveted on the bed. There a second man crouched over a wildly flailing woman, struggling to shove aside the copious material of her modest chador robes. As Selena retreated, taking a deep breath, her gun held two-handed and ready, another resounding slap marked the man's impatience. Selena surged around the door frame and shot him in the ass. | TOP | |
Beyond the Rules
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Chapter One
He's still there. Still following us, dammit. Kimmer Reed glanced in the rearview mirror and gave an unladylike snort completely at odds with her shimmery taupe jacquard tunic, her carefully understated makeup, and the lingering taste of an exquisite lunch on Captain Bill's Seneca Lake cruise. The big man filling the passenger seat of her sporty Mazda Miata immediately understood the significance of such a noise. Rio Carlsen turned his gaze away from the typically picturesque wine country scenery speeding past them--spring green everywhere--to stretch a long arm across the back of Kimmer's bucket seat, glancing behind them and bracing himself as she took an unsignaled left turn. "Suburban. Big. Old. Can you say 'eat my dust'?" Kimmer shook her head, short and firm, eyes on the road. She could outrun him...but she wouldn't. She took another left, accelerated down a barely traveled alley on the outer edge of Watkins Glen, shot across a one-way feeder road, and downshifted to take the next left at speed. "This isn't a Hunter assignment. This is my home. There are rules." Rules about how to live...rules for those around her. Rio's hand strayed from the back of the seat to stroke the hair at Kimmer's nape, a short dark fringe that showed well enough how her hair would explode in curls if she ever freed it from its close cut. A reassuring touch that could turn smoldering in a moment...but right now it wasn't nearly as casual as it might seem. It connected them...and it transmitted his readiness. He said, "Let's go explain the rules, then." Another glance showed her that the idiot had stayed with her, bouncing along the rough roads on spongy shocks--if anything, closing the distance between them. "He's persistent enough. This isn't casual." Rio glanced behind them. Kimmer knew that quiet tension in his body, the tall rangy strength he hid so well in his amiable nature. "The question is, is this about you or is this about me?" "Your turf was overseas." The Miata slewed back out onto the main road, a two-lane state route between Watkins Glen and Rock Stream. "And you're ex-CIA." "Hey," he said, wounded. "I'm good ex-CIA. I might have made an enemy or two. And it doesn't make sense for it to be you--you don't exactly work on your home turf." "Not if I can help it," she grumbled, not bothering to point out the irony that she'd met him on a job she hadn't wanted simply because it was too close to her childhood home. Her long-buried, long-hated childhood. She blew through a stop sign--not a significant risk on this particular stretch of road--with her eye on the upcoming turn, the one that started off with a decent paved road, turned abruptly to dirt, and even more abruptly came to an end, a service road made obsolete by underground utilities. She thumbed the switch to bring up the Miata's barely open windows. "Check the glove box, will you?" "God, is it safe?" Kimmer smiled. "Probably not." With care, Rio flipped the latch, hands ready to catch whatever spilled out. "Switchblade," he reported, ably maintaining his equilibrium as Kimmer hit her target turn at speed, luring her pursuer along behind...enticing him to carelessness. "Tire gauge. Knuckle-knife thing. And this." She glanced. "War dart." He grinned, for the moment truly amused. "War dart. Of course it is." His wasn't the grin she associated with Ryobe Carlsen, former CIA case officer and skilled overseas operative. No, this particular grin belonged to the man who'd left the Agency after a bullet took his spleen and kidney. Eventually he and Kimmer had collided during one of Kimmer's assignments; eventually he'd turned just this same honest get a kick out of life grin on Kimmer. In response she'd turned the fine edge of her no-nonsense temper back on him, and-- And now here he was at Seneca Lake. Kimmer's car hit the rough seam between asphalt and dirt. She'd gained ground with the turn; she spared an instant to warn Rio with a predatory expression that really couldn't be called a smile. Rio braced himself. Kimmer hit the brake, slinging the car around in a neat one-eighty and raising enough dust to obscure the rest of the world. She didn't hesitate, but punched down the accelerator, heading back up the road just as fast as she'd come down it. They ripped out of the dust and back onto asphalt, passing the Suburban. "I think I lost the dart--" Rio groped along the side of his bucket seat. "Got my club," Kimmer said. Miniature war club, iron set into smooth red oak wood, sleek with time and use. She handled it with great familiarity and precision. "You brought your club?" Rio said as they whooshed past the Suburban. "On our date?" "As if the whole world is about you. Of course I brought it." Kimmer didn't warn him this time; she hit the brake, gave the wheel a calculated tug, and ended up neatly blocking the road. She reached for her seat belt before the car had even rocked to a complete stop. "You coming?" | TOP | |
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