Rio should have said something smart, like he’s had a long life or he’s still got three lives to go or he’s not even my cat, but instead he froze, a moment of startled reaction while he calculated ways to keep OldCat safe or at least free from immediate demise.
Pigeon Man snatched the initiative and flung OldCat not into the wall but at Rio’s face.
OldCat shrieked a feline curse and landed with claws set to shred—but immediately leaped away, tail double its normal size and sticking straight up in the air as he yowled his fury. And when Rio looked down at Pigeon Man, ready to let the man know he’d done nothing but really make Rio mad, he suddenly recalled Pigeon Man’s frantic movement beneath him, and just as suddenly realized what it had to mean, giving himself just enough warning to try to throw himself away and out of range but not enough warning to actually do it.
The wayward stun gun came into action, stabbing at his leg and then a second jolt directly on the tender skin of his side, exposed where his shirt had ridden up. His body jerked into an involuntary cry; his vision turned gray and sparkly and his ears roared. He fell to the floor feeble and twitching, his face mashed uncomfortably against the hardwood and his muscles feeling like so much overcooked noodle.
Stun gun. Dammit. Again.
Pigeon Man left him that way, disentangling himself to head straight for the kitchen to shuffle around the few items sitting out on the counter, and then to the tiny dining area to clear the messy table in one sweep, scattering the contents so coins and former pocket contents came rolling to a stop by Rio’s nose. The man made a cursory search through it all and demanded, “Where is it?”
Rio tried a few words. They didn’t work. Just as well; they hadn’t been words the man would like. Carefully, slowly, parts of him still quivering from the electrical assault, he stated the obvious. “’Sbroke!”
The man kicked him—more like an afterthought than a deliberate, targeted blow, and Rio was glad he didn’t hear anything crack. “Moron. I’m not talking about the camera. I mean the recording.”
That was enough to get a surprised grunt from Rio, a wordless, “What?”
“The recording,” Pigeon Man repeated in rising impatience. “Hank said it was in the kitchen. A nice cozy brother-sister chat detailing our operations. On keychain memory.”
If Hank had said even that much—as absurd as it was—then he must have been in trouble. Or desperately trying to get out of it. Rio fought through his bleary mind, just as desperate to put two thoughts together.
He didn’t get the chance. The phone rang, an urgent and startling sound. And again, from the kitchen floor where Pigeon Man had flung it in his mad search. Pigeon Man hesitated, as if whoever was calling would leave a message such as “Rio! I left the keychain memory stick under the mattress!”
At the fourth ring, the answering machine clicked on. “Rio, heads-up!” Kimmer, out of breath and obviously on the move. “BGs on the loose. I’m on my way—” and then the honk of a horn, the distant squeal of tires and Kimmer’s muttered curse as the line went dead. Eventually the answering machine clicked off and commenced the every-fifteen-seconds beeping noise it would make until Rio was insane or until he got to his feet and shut it up.
Pigeon Man stood frozen for a few indecisive moments, then dove into the living room and tore through the neat contents of drawers, shelf and beneath cushions. Change clinked on the floor; something broke. Rio rolled to his side, slowly gathered his legs to where he might consider rolling over on those, too. Twitchy, tingly muscles, still zinging with nerve pain. In a brief moment of silence in the search-caused destruction, the answering machine beeped.
Look, little man. Search away. Given another moment, and Rio would be back on his feet. A moment longer and Kimmer would pull into the driveway. She might not even brake before reaching the living room.
But Pigeon Man had a keen awareness of the time. He gave up on the living room and ran back to Rio, disrupting Rio’s newly found balance by snatching his sweater—an attempt at lapel-grabbing, except the sweater mostly just stretched. “Where’s the goddam record—”
Rio drove himself up with every bit of still-uncoordinated strength he had, and his head connected with Pigeon Man’s face. Pigeon Man flailed wildly and fell back, and Rio would have pounced on him had he not also bounced back from the impact. By the time he untangled himself, Pigeon Man had spewed a string of blood-spitting curses and bolted for the still-open front door.
Oh, no. No, you don’t, you sonuvabitch. Rio clawed to his uncooperative feet and staggered after Pigeon Man, determined to at least get a license plate number and stumbling down the front porch steps upright more by coincidence than design—just in time to see Pigeon Man hot-footing it between two houses across the street. No license plates here, not even any cars. Rio’s knees gave up the fight and he didn’t try to stop it, just gave thanks he was on the lawn and not the concrete of the sidewalk. And that’s just where he was moments later when Kimmer’s Miata slewed to a stop at the bottom of the driveway.
Kimmer saw him from down the street and accelerated the short distance to her driveway, coming to a controlled skid of a stop even as she shoved the stick into neutral and yanked the parking brake. Rio on his knees, bright blond hair in severe disarray, eyes glazed and a puffy bruised abrasion along one of those magnificent cheekbones that almost obscured the set of deep parallel scratches there. She dropped to a crouch before him, taking in the open front door, the quiet neighborhood. In the distance a car engine gunned to a peak, dropped into the next gear and faded away. “What happened?” she demanded.
“Sonuvabitch,” Rio muttered, and Kimmer suddenly knew where she’d seen that look on his face before. The floor of a remote building, with Carolyne sobbing beside him. Stun-gunned. She saw, too, the fury lurking in his dazed brown eyes and she knew then that he was all right. She patted his cheek gently and stood, extending a hand. “C’mon,” she said. “We’ve got places to be.”
“House,” he said, somewhat apologetically. He took her hand and let her put some muscle into getting him to his feet. Once he was there she slipped her shoulder under his and took him as far as the porch step railing.
She glanced at the door. “Pretty bad?”
“Bad enough.” He sounded more like Rio, then. Getting over it.
Kimmer bounded up the stairs and closed the door. No point in letting OldCat out. “Then we’ll have something to do when we get back.”
Rio snorted most expressively, and she helped him out to the car.
Kimmer left the scene somewhat more sedately than she had arrived, but not by much. She blew through Watkins Glen before Rio stirred in the passenger seat, making subtle adjustments to the seat belt she’d buckled for him. When he glanced over at her he finally looked alert, if still mad. “Where are we going?”
“Schuyler Hospital in Montour Falls. Hammy Hands got away, but Brown Suit ended up in his own damn cuffs.” She glanced over, assessed him as ready to listen, and gave him a quick recap of the events in the park. “Owen’s there, and so’s Chief Harrison. They’re…not happy…that I ran off to check on the house.” To check on you. “Doesn’t matter. Even if I wasn’t expected there, I’d want this. Brown Suit will probably need surgery on that knee, and I want to talk to him first.”
“Pigeon Man wanted a recording.” Rio looked a little surprised that he was only now remembering to relay this information. “A USB keychain stick. He might go back to the house—”
“Let him.” Kimmer navigated hilly Route 414 with familiar confidence, pushing the speed limit to a significant degree and ignoring the casually gorgeous scenery. “What’s he going to find? And I gather the place is already a mess.”
“Gomen nasai.” Rio touched two fingers to his abraded cheek in a rueful gesture along with the apology. “You looked like an avenging goddess, running up that lawn.”
Kimmer snorted gently. “That was stun-gun haze,” she told him. “What do you know about this recording? Anything? Neither o
f my guys said anything about it.”
“Only that Hank said it existed. Supposed to be a record, and I quote, ‘detailing our operations.’” He checked his ribs, gave a dismissive little shrug.
“Hank.” Kimmer felt her voice go hard, her body stiffen, her fingers tighten on the wheel. “Brown Suit said something about Hank.” About squealing like a pig. About going down with Kimmer. “That’s why I’ve got to talk to him.”
“Does Owen know?”
Kimmer shrugged, managing to release the angry tension she’d gathered. “Depends on what Brownie has said since I left him.” They headed into Montour Falls and quickly hit the light at Steuben, where she turned left and drove along the hospital complex, already hunting a parking spot as they approached the turnoff. “If not, he’s about to find out.”
The E.R. held only a smattering of people. One early drunk, reeking from across the room and apparently left to sleep it off. A young woman with a tearful toddler whose cheeks were flushed with fever. An uneasy uniformed cop who spotted Kimmer and came to attention, his thumbs tucked in his laden equipment belt. She went to him.
“Ma’am,” he said. “They’re in the back.” His formality came from offense rather than respect; he thought her a troublemaker.
Well, he was right.
The cop gave Rio a wary eye but said nothing, and Kimmer could see him forming the decision to let the chief handle this one. He’d just do his job and get Kimmer to the right room.
Enclosed rooms in the small E.R. were rare enough, but Brown Suit had been given one. The cop opened the door, stuck his head in to murmur a few words and then stepped back to indicate that Kimmer should enter. Rio followed as a matter of fact, nodding to Owen and the chief.
Kimmer kept her initial attention on Brown Suit. An air brace encased his knee, and handcuffs secured him to the hospital bed. Kimmer wondered if they were still his very own cuffs. He’d been stuffed into a hospital gown, and his expression had a tight, resistant look that spoke of his pain and his determination to avoid revealing anything. He’d probably refused pain meds for that very reason. She turned her attention to Owen, giving him a nod that said she knew they’d talk about all this later. And then turned to the chief, a very tall fellow who might or might not have to duck under the average ceiling fan. Middle aged, but not showing it except for the gray at his temples and the creases at the corners of his eyes, he had one eyebrow raised and an expectant expression.
And reasonably so. “This is Rio Carlsen,” she told him. “He’s had some experience with law enforcement.”
And Rio, bless him, did that polite bow that his grandmother had drilled into him, shallow enough so as not to seem entirely out of place in American society but effective all the same. He also held out his hand and answered the chief’s obvious unspoken question. “Ex-CIA,” he said. “No inclination to get in the way.”
The chief shook his hand, offering a brisk nod in return. He might have asked what Rio was doing there at all, but let it go, even as his eyes raked the scratch’n’abrasion combo on Rio’s face.
Maybe later.
Owen said, “We’ve just begun our conversation with Mr. Doe. There was some delay while they checked him for damage.”
“Oops.” But Kimmer didn’t even feign regret.
“You might want to have an X-ray or two yourself,” the chief suggested, not particularly kidding. “You were on our watch. We don’t take injuries in the line of duty lightly.”
“Nor do I,” Kimmer assured him. “I’m fine, but if you’d prefer I have someone take a look, that’s fine, too.” And it was. Out in the field, she could operate in a damaged state for as long as she had to…or at least for as long as her body let her. But when it wasn’t necessary, playing macho got her nowhere. She couldn’t afford to have her body fail her through negligence.
By now Brown Suit wore a wary expression tinged with annoyance. “If you’ns aren’t planning to talk to me, maybe you could take this elsewhere?”
“Tsk,” Kimmer told him. “Crabby without that morphine, aren’t you?”
And the chief gave her a startled glance as if about to ask her how she knew; Owen only smiled slightly. But Harrison left the question behind and got to the point with their prisoner. “Mr. Doe,” he said, putting a dry twist on the title, “We’ve got your prints. I’m comfortable with the notion that they’re on file. We’ll figure out who you are. Once we do, we’ll also figure out the identity of your accomplice. You’ve got nothing to lose by telling us his name…and everything to gain.”
Brown Suit snorted, then winced. “Don’t see how you figure that.”
“Because,” Kimmer said, easily filling in the chief’s train of thought, “if you make us jump through the hoops, we’re going to be intensely irritated with you. And if you cooperate…there are so many ways your life could be easier.”
Another startled glance from Harrison, this one more successfully concealed. He nodded to himself. It looked like approval to Kimmer; she relaxed slightly.
Brown Suit feigned boredom—not an easy task under his physical circumstances. Kimmer had to give him points. He wasn’t, she thought, so unwilling to talk. Not personally. But he had reasons to avoid it. Beneath his tension and pain peeked a glimpse of fear.
Harrison said, “You can thank Ms. Reed for the fact that we’re not simply throwing the book at you. If you’d completed your attack on the governor, you’d be in a much different position right now.” Brown Suit barely stifled his surprise—but then, Kimmer knew he hadn’t been there for the governor, and she hardly needed her knack to see that surprise anyway. The chief missed it. He said, “We need to know the identity of your accomplice. I suppose once the feds get here they’ll want to know what you hoped to achieve. The governor is hardly a figure of controversy.”
Not exactly true; there was the whole abortion issue. But not relevant, either. By now Brown Suit was settling into complacency, finding security in the chief’s misunderstanding.
Time to rattle him.
Kimmer said, “Your friend didn’t find what he was looking for.”
She got his attention. She got Harrison’s attention. She got Owen’s attention. Only Rio remained relaxed, watching Brown Suit closely. Kimmer added, “But we have his photo, as I imagine you know. Or should I say, as I imagine you’ns know?”
Owen stood a little straighter, an obvious change in a man of his robust nature. He inclined his head at Harrison and said, “We’re here as a courtesy.” Don’t step on any toes.
“Actually,” Harrison said dryly, “I just wanted to keep an eye on her.”
Given the last week or so, Kimmer could even appreciate that. She watched him, waiting for him to verbalize the decision his body language told her he’d already made, while Brown Suit waited with hope, expecting turf wars to win out over cooperation and knowing full well it was to his own advantage that they do. Finally Harrison nodded. “Run with it,” he said, and he, too, was watching the unspoken curse reflected on Brown Suit’s face.
She circled to the other side of the bed so Brown Suit would have to split his attention while Harrison could watch them both. “You didn’t even know the governor would be here until you came looking for me,” she told him. “You and your friend in the park and the incompetent muscle who tried to nab me yesterday and who came looking for the photos today. Didn’t you do any recon at all? Or did you just rely on tracking my car?”
“Those aren’t real questions,” Brown Suit said disdainfully, but the glint of worry in his eyes told her she’d gotten it all right. “If you want to tell stories, try pediatrics.”
“Here’s a story,” Kimmer said. “Someone sent you. Someone big enough that you don’t dare reveal your ties to him, because whatever we can do to you, he can do worse. Your goonboss. Well, guess what? When we figure out who you are and who you’re working for without your help, that person is still going to blame you. And when we do figure it out, it’s going to hit the news. You boys didn’t do your
selves any favors with your timing.”
“In fact,” Harrison said, a bit of a drawl in his words, “you’ve drawn quite a bit of attention to yourselves.”
The thought alarmed Brown Suit, and Kimmer capitalized on it. “By now there must be statewide news flashes—and the national news is already poking around for footage. Or did you think no one would notice when the governor ran back to his limo surrounded by bodyguards? Did you think no one there would have cameras?”
She was guessing, but Harrison’s quick glance in her direction told her she’d hit the mark. There was footage, all right. Kimmer and the BGs, clinched in battle. Owen shifted, exchanging his own glance with Kimmer. For Chimera’s sake, he’d have to find a way to suppress national exposure of any footage that showed her face.
Or steal it, if he had to. Hunter was as zealous about protecting its own as any international agency.
“It’s us or them,” Kimmer told Brown Suit. “And I think you know which way you’re better off.” She stopped, considered her words a moment, and smiled a feral smile at the man. “At least, as long as you’re not where I can get you.”
Chapter 7
Kimmer threw the knives one after the other, an old piece of plywood set up against the inside of the barn as her target. Two of the cheap knives thunked into the wood and stuck; the third clattered dully against the dirt floor. She’d had the knives ordered from a catalog she found on the counter of the sporting goods store in town. She’d told the proprietor they were a gift and he’d done nothing more than warn her that the inexpensive nature of the knives would make them harder to learn with….
He’d been right. But she kept working on it, and she slowly got better, and she saved her money for some real knives. Once she was good enough, she’d let her brothers catch on to her covertly acquired skill…she might even have to sacrifice a knife or two to demonstrate. But it would be worth the expense if they kept their distance.
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