by Aimee Hix
“Sticky hands.”
A kid’s exercise designed for them to learn focus and connection. For me, a sop to my leaden muscles and need to warm up.
A good ten minutes of sticky hands and I was as warm as I could get.
“Water break and knuckle ups.”
Knuckle ups in the weighted gloves were going to be torture. I took a minute too long with the water break and heard my workout playlist kick in, drowning out the horrid pop music pumping in through the open back door. The dance studio had the same problem as the dojo—crap ventilation. It got humid and hot and even worse, the pizza parlor on the other side of the dance studio was a constant waft of baking bread, which made the dancers and the martial artists crave carbs.
I did knuckle ups until my arms started to shake and Adam called time.
He’d set Bob up and we began to run drills with him yelling out the change ups. Faster and faster until I wasn’t hearing and reacting so much as I was absorbing them and they became an extension of me.
When the music cut off, I saw that there was a crowd of elementary age ballerinas and moms watching through the plate glass window. Most had a look of disdain on their faces, especially the moms, but a few shined with delight. Those girls would be out of tutus and into gis before the month was out. I smiled and waved, sweat covering me from hair to ankles. One girl pressed her hand up against the glass. She was the tiniest of the bunch, and I motioned her in.
She ran and pulled the door open, her body a triangle to the door and ground as she leveraged all her weight to get it open.
She smiled at me shyly from where she leaned against her mom’s leg while the skeptical woman talked with Adam. I motioned her over again, stripping off my gloves. I showed her the basket of the smallest sparring gloves, multicolored. I looked down at her teeny sneakers, no fancy cartoon characters or sparkly gems, just plain Chucks, black.
“I have a pair just like those.” Nodding at her shoes. Her eyes got wide as I dug into the pile, pulling out a pair of black gloves.
I fitted just one on her, slipping her little fingers through the opening and then out the top. The sparring gloves left the fingers free to make the ridge hand and spear hand movements.
“Make a fist like this,” I said, flexing my hand open and closed. She followed my motion and made a tight fist.
“Awesome.”
“I didn’t know girls could do hitting stuff,” she said, her voice surprisingly strong for her delicate features and limbs.
“Well, it’s not just hitting. There’s a lot that goes into martial arts. Like learning how to stand and do forms. Hitting is called sparring, and you only get to do it when you’ve learned how to not hurt people first. Sparring is about learning self-control and working with a partner.”
I saw Adam nodding. He and the mother had been watching me interact with the little girl.
“Having a partner is important. Sometimes you have a partner at school, sometimes you have a partner when you play.”
“Why don’t you have a partner?” she asked.
“I do. I have lots of partners. I have one at work. It’s my dad. And I have a partner when I train … a real one, not just Bob.” I gave the workout dummy a gentle push. “Adam, he’s the teacher here, is my partner.”
And Seth was my partner. Except we weren’t acting like partners. We didn’t seem to know how.
The little girl waved to me as she left, her other hand in her mom’s, tutu bobbing. The mom held a pamphlet and a few forms.
“Have you ever thought of teaching here? I’m always looking for part-time teachers with the right skills.”
I shook my head. “Not even for a minute. I’m terrible with kids.”
“That little girl would disagree. You didn’t talk down to her. You read her to figure out her personality. Those are the best ways to deal with kids. And having a woman teach some of the classes gives the girls someone to look up to, someone to aspire to be like.”
That would be a lovely addition to the community—a bunch of little girls with emotional walls who cursed like obscenities were being outlawed and had deeply codependent relationships with high-fructose corn syrup.
“You became a cop because you want to help people. Kids are just little people.”
UGH! Why did he have to be so logical and level-headed all the time?
“I’ll consider it,” I said, “but don’t hold your breath.”
I was easing my hoodie back up my arms, trying and failing to not move my shoulders. The muscles were burning from the workout.
Adam handed me a protein shake with the cap undone. I tilted it to the side to check the label for any artificial sweetener.
Adam shook his head. “I can’t imagine what it’s like having to check everything you eat or drink to make sure it’s safe. Or having to look at everyone as if they might be a bad guy.”
“I once told Ben that the job was seeing people on their worst days. That’s true. And not everyone is a suspect.”
“Still.”
I got the point he was trying, clumsily, not to make out loud. “My walls have nothing to do with the job. I’m not on the lookout for people to hurt me, Adam. I just … I know how easy it is for other people to not be who you want them to be. And how quickly you can lose someone who means more to you than your own life. Some people I don’t have the choice to hold them at arm’s length. But I get up every day and I get on with my life. And sometimes that means helping people learn that they trusted the wrong person.”
I gulped down the protein shake that was rapidly warming and becoming more metallic tasting.
“Thanks for the workout, Adam. And the advice.”
He smiled but he still looked unsure. “Drive carefully.”
I had no idea how I’d garnered so many caregivers in my life but there was no denying it.
I tossed my workout bag into the backseat of the truck and cranked the engine to get the heat going. The winter’s weather had been weird, mild for stretches then cold enough to bloom into two two-foot blizzards in one week. As we headed toward spring, it had turned rainy and the temperature had hovered in the mid-forties. While I’d been in the dojo, the temperature dropped and with the near constant drizzle, Adam had been right—the roads could have a good sheen of black ice. I was opening the weather app to check the temp when a text from an unknown number came through.
U have something i want i have something u want i’m willing to make a trade.
Just my luck to get some kind of weird espionage sext.
Wrong number.
I dropped my phone into the cup holder and began to put my seatbelt on when another text blipped through. I almost ignored it, but espionage sexts made for funny stories.
Bitch give me back my shit or ill kill your brother
My stomach bottomed. I could feel the adrenaline begin to surge in a swirl up my torso and down my limbs, my sore and fatigue muscles hummed to life.
Ben’s scared face appeared on the screen, his mouth covered in duct tape.
When? Where?
Ill get back 2 u
I turned off the truck and shoving my phone into my hoodie pocket, I clenched my fists tight, struggling to control the panic I had no immediate means to expel. Deep breaths in and out helped amp down the fight or flight, allowing my brain to take back over. I dug the phone back out of my pocket and called Jan.
“Turn the recording on, Jan.”
All police phones had the ability to record calls for evidentiary purposes. I was going to use the functionality to cut through a shit ton of red tape.
“Detective Boyd, this is Fairfax County Police Consultant Willa Pennington. A moment ago, I received a text from an unknown number. The text indicated that the person sending it believed I had something of theirs. It’s my supposition this is related to the Damian Murphy murder. The text
also stated that whoever sent it has my brother and that he will be killed if I do not return the property in question. As you are aware, my brother, Benjamin Pennington, is a minor. I give you permission to track my cell phone and obtain all records you deem necessary to trace the text back to the sender.”
I paused, listening to Jan recite her badge number and all kinds of other authorization codes before cutting off the recording. She then began yelling orders to the bullpen of detectives who weren’t daring to complain, especially when hearing there was a minor involved. That was the magic word—minor. I doubted the idiot who killed Damian knew or cared, but he’d bought himself a lot more trouble getting my brother involved. This was a straight kidnapping now. He’d demanded a ransom and the rules I had to abide by changed.
“What do you need me to do?”
“I need you to have plausible deniability, Jan. I don’t want you to do anything to jeopardize your record or your retirement. You do the by-the-books stuff and I’ll do the rest.”
I was a hair away from pressing the button to hang up when I heard her say, “Be careful, kid.”
But careful was the last thing on my mind. I’d been careful. I’d played by the rules. I’d been a good cop and a good PI. I was about to be careless.
I left the warmth of the truck and walked back through the door of the dojo.
“I need your help, Adam. I don’t need a teacher or a conscience. I need a soldier who won’t ask any questions. Can you dig that guy back out tonight? Ben’s life depends on it.”
“I’ve always got your six, Willa” he said.
Chapter
22
We sat in the truck in the parking lot of the big box store where I had picked up supplies. I was eternally grateful for suburbanites who needed nearly anything their minds could decide on and didn’t want to wait for the one-day shipping it took on the internet.
Adam had suggested his more than impressive firearms collection but neither of us wanted to risk Ben being collateral damage. I hadn’t seen any signs that these people had guns so I made the calculated decision that we’d do this the old-fashioned way—unarmed combat. I had no idea how many people we’d be dealing with when it all came down, but we had cop back up if shit got ugly and, frankly, having a former Special Forces, five-time world martial arts champion as backup, a six pack of energy drinks, and a rage like I’d never felt before just waiting to be unleashed meant I was confident I had the upper hand.
I looked at Adam. “Want to go on the offensive?”
“I’m generally not fond of it. I’m concerned about how calm you are, Willa.”
“I have to be calm, Adam. I’d love nothing more than to lose my shit but that puts Ben at risk.”
He sighed. “What did you have in mind?”
I lifted my phone. I had a handful of numbers memorized. Most I used daily but this one, it was for special occasions.
“Gordo, you have a unique set of skills I need.”
“I’ve repeatedly asked you to call me Agent Gordon, Miss Pennington.”
“I don’t have time for foreplay, Gordo. Ben’s been kidnapped and I need your help.”
“Where and when?”
“Can you get to Seth’s apartment in the next thirty?”
“Whatever you need.”
“I’ll be in touch.”
I disconnected knowing that he’d be exactly where he promised, exactly when he promised. Seth trusted him with my life last fall and I was now trusting him with my brother’s life.
“It’s probably not the time but … is everything still okay with Seth?” Adam asked.
I choked on the energy drink I was pouring down my throat and sprayed a mouthful all over the inside of the windshield.
I coughed up another of what felt like a gallon of the beverage from my lungs and felt around for a cloth to wipe the sugary liquid off the glass. If Adam thought I was … I didn’t want to think about it too hard.
“It’s as fine as it can be with him at an undisclosed location and me here.”
“The guy on the phone?”
I eyed him and needed to torture him just a bit. “How do you know Gordo is a guy? Might be a woman. You’re the last person I’d expect stereotypical assumptions from.”
He kept eye contact with me. “I’m serious.”
“Agent Gordon helped out on the case last fall. He’s the ATF’s NoVA urban warfare command. He also sponsored Ben for an internship over the winter break.”
Adam nodded, “You’ve built up quite the cadre of experts. Remember, we’re all people too, Willa.”
“No offense, Adam, because you know I love you, but right now your feelings aren’t high on the list of things I give a shit about. Whatever it takes to get my brother back in one piece.”
I popped the top on another energy drink and downed it. I wanted fight or flight on steroids. Steroids. That had to be what the guy wanted. The steroids had the advantage of being almost as good as cash but with the big problem of being evidence too.
I couldn’t fake steroids like I could another drug. I had no idea what form they were in at the stage Damian made off with them. I wasn’t faking the physical object he wanted. I was just going to have to bluff through the situation until I got Ben’s location.
I stared at the phone. Where the hell was this asshole?
I stared at the phone again. Ben’s location. I could track the GPS in his phone if I had my own. But I hadn’t had time to replace it. I had been too busy. What else could I do? Unless … .
I redialed and the phone picked up before the first ring had barely started.
“Gordon, you’ve got the app Ben created for your team, right? On your phone?”
“Yeah, why? Oh.”
Ben always thought I didn’t listen when he talked about programming but I did. And I definitely remembered him blathering on and on about the team coordination app he’d created. And he’d have used himself as the guinea pig.
“Hold on,” Gordon said.
The silence was disconcerting. I was old enough—and amped enough, thank you energy drinks—to be anxious for the sound of some clicking or anything to indicate Gordon was doing something, anything. I knew he was, that he was working frantically, loading the app and logging in. Ben would have made it hyper-encrypted and required passwords of suitable complexity that a normal human would fumble a bit—all things you definitely want when a team member is in trouble and the cavalry needs to fucking find him before he gets dead.
I put the can down in the cup holder. I couldn’t let my emotions run away with me. Not until we got Ben free. Then I was going Kraken, Wild Bunch, and The Crow on his kidnapper’s ass.
“I got him.”
“Where? Can you give me a location?”
“It doesn’t work like that. Not exactly. I can ping his phone but this is designed for use when we’re all together. He hadn’t gotten it to the point where it gives me a GPS location.”
That was not news I wanted to hear.
“Okay, so we’re still in wait mode?” I blew a breath out in frustration. I was fairly vibrating with the desire to inflict violence.
“Listen, I’m at Seth’s place. I’ll put in a call to a friend of a friend. Since I can get to Ben’s phone, she should be able to get me the GPS.”
“Who—”
He cut me off. “It’s better for all of us if you don’t know. She’s got the access and she’ll do it for me.”
I nodded, forgetting Gordon couldn’t see me. “The spare key is in Seth’s motorcycle compartment. Code is 120789.”
“What do you need?”
“The spare bulletproof vests. You’ll find loaded clips in the safe next to the vests. Bring them. All of them. I’m sending you my location.”
I disconnected the phone and dumped it into the spare cup holder in the console
. Adam was glaring at me. “What happened to our no-guns plan?”
“No guns is my plan for you. Anybody gets shot it’s going to be by me. That leaves you free and clear if the DA, who already hates me, is feeling like issuing charges. One of us in lockup is enough.”
“And the bulletproof vests?”
“I’m counting on this idiot being an idiot and bringing brawn and no brains to this fight. But in case I’m wrong, I want to make sure you and Ben have some protection if things get bullety.”
“Dammit, Willa. You need a vest too.”
I turned to him. “Let me be clear, you are doing me a favor, which means I’m not getting you killed. Theo would never forgive me nor should he. I’m definitely not letting Ben get killed. There are a few people on this planet I would cheerfully lay my life down for and Ben is number one on that list. Besides, a vest doesn’t fit over my torso holster and the holster doesn’t fit over the vest. Can you get that roll of duct tape out of the glove box?”
He looked at me funny. “What do you need duct tape—” His hand stilled on the dash. “Are you actually pulling a Die Hard?”
“I’m wrapping my knuckles with it.”
He shook his head and opened the glove box, pulling at the tape. “You got a knife?”
I snorted. “Any particular attributes you need besides sharp?”
“You’re a scary person.”
I slammed my hand on the steering wheel. “I’m never going to be in a position where I can’t defend myself again, Adam. I am no one’s victim.”
“Willa, I met guys on the team who were not good at compartmentalizing. Their jobs bled into their personal lives. They couldn’t turn it off at the end of the day. Don’t go there, please.”
“My job hasn’t bled into my personal life. My job is my personal life. My dad, our home. It’s all personal. And what I said about being no one’s victim goes double when it comes to my brother. I am no-joke, dead-serious, not-fucking-playing tonight. I don’t care if I have to shoot someone, stab them, or rip off my own damn arm and beat them to death with it. I’ll do the therapy on it later.”