She looked down at herself, uneasy. Even baggy hand-me-downs no longer disguised the fact that she’d changed this last summer. Those were real breasts now, and not just little buds. And even if her hips would never bloom into a truly womanly figure, the curves were obvious enough. She ran a hand from collarbone to hip, feeling the changes—areas of softness over the tight muscle she cultivated with her own fierce training. Some of the girls in her class had lost their interest in boyish games, but Kimmer threw herself into every gym class, every opportunity to sneak into the school’s tiny, smelly weight room.
And now she’d used what time she considered safe for her knife practice, and she gathered them up and hid them away, flipping the plywood over to look like the scrap it was. She badly wanted to draw a man-size target on it, but doing so would only truly give away her game if it were found. So she hid the knives and turned to the battered workout bag she’d made—a feedbag stuffed with dirt and straw, hay twine crisscrossed up and down its length just to keep it together. She put old socks over her hands to protect her knuckles from the rough material, grateful enough that the bag had been left alone. Her brothers liked to use it, she thought. Otherwise they’d tear it into bits.
It creaked underneath the pounding she gave it, swaying gently on the long sisal rope that swung from the rafters. She’d done some reading. She’d learned to strike at a point just on the other side of the bag, to drive her energy through. She practiced kicks until they seemed natural, learned to balance on one leg as easily as two, learned to keep herself centered. She drove herself at the bag until her arms burned and her thighs tingled and her feet and fists ached from impact.
Because now…now Kimmer had something to protect. Those breasts, those hips…. They might not be much compared to what the other girls of her age were showing off, but they were all hers.
“Hey, Pizza.”
Kimmer whirled, her feet planted, her fists up and ready. “Jeff,” she said flatly. Oldest brother, still not come into his growth, but then, none of them looked like they’d get much bigger.
Normally she heard them coming. Normally she slipped out through the ragged spot in the corner, or under the floorboards by the feed room. Today she’d made a mistake…she’d lost herself in the pure physical exertion, in the thrill of feeling that in this one thing, she had control. She’d given him the chance to come up behind her, to call out to her. Pizza, for the port wine birthmark over the side of her face. Short for Road Pizza.
Except today Jeff was alone, and though he’d been heading her way; when she whirled on him he stopped short. He had a slightly puzzled expression, as though he’d run into someone other than who he’d expected to find here.
Kimmer realized, with a tiny bloom of triumph, that he was actually uncertain of her. That in the absence of Hank and Tim and Karl and even the oft-present Leo, he actually hesitated to approach her.
But she didn’t push it. She didn’t let him see her awareness. She dropped her gaze and her fists and she took a step back. Just as suddenly, Jeff’s normal bravado slid into place. He grew an inch or two and habitual scorn dropped on to his features. “Get to the kitchen,” he said. “There’s dishes piled up.”
Kimmer nodded mutely, standing off to the side as was her habit, carefully waiting for Jeff to leave—and he knew she wouldn’t try to come past him. But beneath her cowed posture, she examined that nugget of empowerment, the thrill of knowing that for that one instant, she’d been the one with the edge. She ran her thoughts over that feeling in the same way she might run her tongue over the sharp edges of her teeth—probing, finding the strength…finding the satisfaction. She pulled that feeling deep inside, determined to nurture it. To savor it as fuel for the next moment she—
Rio’s voice reached her dimly. “Not now.”
Kimmer realized that her feet pounded against the treadmill footing, her pace fast, her bruised leg aching and everything else reaching that peak between burn and wobble that let her know she’d done enough if she wanted to be in good form the next day.
“Not kidding,” Rio said, his voice gone a little flat. “Not now.”
The treadmill. In the gym. In Watkins Glen. The day after her fight in the park. Brown Suit hadn’t been identified yet, Hammy Hands and Pigeon Man had stayed out of sight. And life went on. She was at the gym running on the treadmill because she didn’t feel like running in the morning rain.
But the anger still burned within her, fueling her body, fueling her awareness that she’d ended up in the middle of something that hadn’t been her doing. Not her choice.
Enough is enough. Kimmer flicked a wrist sweatband across her forehead before thumbing the treadmill down to a fast walking pace with a quick, familiar manipulation of the control keypad.
“Hey,” Rio greeted her, still running along on the treadmill beside hers. A slower and more deliberate pace than the one she’d been lost in. His face looked terrible but the rest of him looked oh-so-fine. “You’re back.”
“Such as I am,” she agreed, and blew a drop of sweat off her upper lip.
Rio nodded over his shoulder, and Kimmer, still walking out her warm-down, turned to the figure who’d been in the corner of her eye.
The woman took it as an invitation. She wore a spiffy gray pantsuit, the jacket of which didn’t quite fit her correctly, but the pink camisole peeking out the front was just the right color to bring out her peaches-and-cream complexion. If only she hadn’t…what had she done with her lipstick? Two enhanced peaks topped the woman’s lips, and it was all Kimmer could do to keep from staring as though she were a child seeing her first disfigured person. She tore her gaze away to take in the rest of the young woman—sleek hair, big blue eyes and an expression of eager calculation that pretty much gave her away.
Reporter. No doubt a young television reporter looking for that first big break.
She wasn’t going to get it here.
Kimmer picked up the towel hanging off the treadmill handrail and mopped her face and neck with it, still walking; the reporter took it as permission to approach and said, “Hi, I’m Shara Ingleswood from WEFL. I was at the park yesterday.”
“Wasn’t everyone?” Kimmer kept her voice flat, her tone uninviting. We are not friends.
Shara smiled; it had that reporter smugness to it. “But not everyone got pictures of the real action.”
Kimmer gave a silent groan. Owen was supposed to have taken care of this. Then she gave the reporter a second glance and saw the determination, the little extra kick that came from defiance. Ah. She’d been told to drop this and she’d decided it was worth the potential consequences to see it through. Even if the potential consequences would be paid by someone else.
Shara confirmed it in the next moment. “I figure,” she said, “that there must be a good reason for suppressing the First Amendment.”
Kimmer snorted, and pressed her face into the towel. When she emerged she’d managed to take most of the sharpness out of her tone. “Don’t even go there,” she said. “No one’s taken your film. Sometimes it’s to your advantage to work with a situation instead of against it. Or to trade off an interesting but meaningless picture for the promise of more interesting pictures down the road. Your station manager knows that.” Or else Owen would have been in touch, warning Kimmer that her picture was about to hit the paper.
“Or maybe he’s just too…busy…to see what’s in front of him. A whole photo series of a woman taking on a man twice her size and leaving him on the ground. And then being escorted away under obvious duress. And yet, here you are. It’s an exciting mystery…I’m sure our viewers will be interested. I know I am.”
Kimmer wrinkled her nose. “Your life must be pretty boring, then.”
“Perhaps compared to yours.” Shara let the comment stand for a moment, watching as Kimmer slowed the treadmill another increment but kept walking. “The most interesting thing, of course, is why you’d try to keep this incident under wraps at all.”
Kimmer firmly
pressed her lips closed on the word idiot. Surely it was obvious enough. Then she looked straight at Shara’s big blue eyes, bypassing her impossible lips. “Because publicity will impair my ability to do my job. And my job is helping people.”
“So is mine. Keeping information openly available allows the public to make wise decisions.” Shara threw the words at her like a righteous challenge. Not listening. Not listening at all.
Kimmer took a deep breath. “Think this through, Shara. This is real life. The people who will be affected by airing that film are real people. Not just me, but everyone who works with me. Everyone we might try to help.”
“You’re the one who put yourself in a position to be news.”
Still not listening.
Enough with the nice. Kimmer didn’t need her knack to see that this woman had no intention of dropping the story—no matter the consequences, no matter what her manager had dictated. “Drop the photos, Ms. Ingleswood. It’s a no-brainer. I get to keep helping people, your station gets brownie points with my boss—who, as it happens, has no little influence in this region.”
The impossible lips tightened. “That sounds like a threat. You should know that a threat would only convince me there was something worth investigating.”
Kimmer thought she heard Rio groan. She eyed the reporter; the woman was taller than she and perched on heels that added another several inches, her shoulders padded by the suit—a woman used to having a physical presence. She probably considered Kimmer to be small.
Kimmer stopped the treadmill and leaned back against the handrail to rake Shara with the same assessing, no-holds-barred gaze she would use on any man she intended to take down. The reporter raised her chin slightly, and then ruined that defiance by taking a step back. Kimmer said, “No, this is a threat. Those men in the park wanted something. An item. They still want it. I wonder what they’d do if I told them I’d given it to you for your story?”
Shara sucked in what she probably hoped was a silent breath, but Kimmer heard it. Saw it, too, in the sudden stiffness of the reporter’s spine. Kimmer didn’t give her much time to think about it. “This isn’t a game. You want the full story on what’s going on? I can make sure you get it. But there’s no halfway. You either leave this alone and let me continue with my work and my life, or you’re going to jump right into the deep end.” She smiled, a hard expression. “Even if I push you in myself.”
When Kimmer’s cell phone rang, Kimmer couldn’t help another smile. Just the right timing…let Shara Ingleswood step back and think about things. And Kimmer, too, needed the moment—to convince herself that even if Ingleswood blew her local cover wide open, the worldwide community would hardly be watching the Watkins Glen 11:00 p.m. news. Three seconds of fame. It wouldn’t matter.
Except that it would. She’d never be able to go into a job secure in her cover, not unless she was heavily disguised. And her covers were usually long-term, depending more on understatement than Mission Impossible magics. She wouldn’t quit…but she’d always wonder.
And she had Hank to blame for the whole mess.
She pulled the phone from her lightweight workout jacket folded neatly behind her, and didn’t recognize the phone number displayed on the Hunter-enhanced phone. Forget games and fancy gadget features, this phone was laden with function. Enough function so her caller ID could not only display the number, but also the location.
Phone booth in Seneca Falls. Well, this should be good then. Especially as her phone number wasn’t listed. She picked up the call and lifted the phone to her ear to say, “Make it good.”
The very tone of her voice caught Rio’s attention; he stopped pretending he wasn’t there and left his treadmill to lean on the handrail of hers from the outside, stretching his legs back as Kimmer heard a brusque male voice say, “We know you’ve got the recording. We want it. And we’ll tear your life down around you to get it if we have to.”
“That would be stupid,” Kimmer told him. “I’d hardly want to talk to you then, would I?”
Shara Ingleswood stood up very straight, her fingers clutched around her purse strap at her shoulder. If her ears could have swivelled forward, she’d have done that, too. Kimmer lifted her chin in acknowledgment. Yes, this is them. The men still at large from the park. The men with whom she’d just threatened the reporter. The mean growly voice responded in irritation. It sounded like just the kind of voice that should come with Hammy Hands. “Don’t you be stupid,” it said. “Either way you’ll lose your house. Just hand over the recording and we’re done with this.”
“Hold, please,” Kimmer said, using her most officious secretary voice. She pushed the mute button and raised an eyebrow at Shara Ingleswood. “He wants me to hand over the object they covet. Shall I tell them I’ve already handed it over to you?”
“No!” Ingleswood blurted, blowing the cool out of her attitude. Truly, she was young. And perhaps hungry enough to make her way closer to the top than this small station, but not on Kimmer’s back.
Kimmer caught and held the reporter’s gaze as she thumbed the phone back to life and cleared her throat. “Sorry,” she said blandly. “The terror of the situation overwhelmed me for a moment. All better now. And I don’t have what you want. If I did, you’d be feeling the heat from it already. But if you’d like to leave me your number, I’d be glad to give you a call if I run across anything interesting.”
The voice offered a few words of anatomically impossible advice. Kimmer held the phone away from her ear to wrinkle her nose at it. “Bo-ring!” she said, a singsongy voice, and then cut the connection. She’d relay the phone number to Owen. With luck before the day was out they would know if the call was charged to a credit card and whose, though Kimmer had odds on an anonymous phone card.
“You bitch!” Shara Ingleswood finally managed to gasp. “You really would have—”
“That’s right,” Kimmer said. “You keep that in mind, because your soft little underbelly is all mine, anytime I want it. Now do we still need to talk about those pictures? About pursuing this story?”
Ingleswood looked as though she’d just bitten a lemon. Her mouth twisted; her eyes narrowed. And she finally spat a reluctant, “No. I’ll leave it alone. For now.”
“Forever,” Kimmer told her. “And now you’ve caused yourself another problem. If film shows up on any other station in this entire state, I’ll assume you put them up to it.” She wiggled her fingers at Ingleswood, a little go away now gesture. “So nice meeting you. The pleasure was mutual, I’m sure.” But after the woman had turned and stalked away on her long legs, the sway in her hips meant for Rio’s eye, Kimmer turned around to lean back on the same handrail on which Rio propped himself up from the other side, their elbows touching. “We need to talk to Owen,” she said. “These guys aren’t going to stop until they’re caught—and they obviously aren’t concerned that their friend is going to talk.”
Rio caught the significance of that, lifting his brown eyes to meet her gaze. “Then we’d better talk to the chief,” he said. “Until they get Brown Suit out of that hospital and behind bars…”
Kimmer grabbed her water bottle and her jacket and headed for the shower. “He’s probably dead already.”
Owen looked as disgruntled as Kimmer had ever seen him—annoyed at the news of Shara Ingleswood’s potential interference, and personally offended by the Hunter Agency’s failure to pin down the identity of the goonboys at large. “I hate to say it,” he said, “but I think we’ve underestimated them.”
Rio sat casually in the chair opposite Owen’s desk; Kimmer hadn’t taken a seat at all, but prowled restlessly over the thick carpet, wishing she felt as relaxed as Rio looked, his legs stuck out before him and crossed at the ankles, his ankle-high sneakers laced only two-thirds of the way up and his worn jeans sporting a discreet rip over the knee. But his eyes gave him away. His eyes were darkened with wary concern, no matter that he’d briefly massaged them with his fingers before speaking. “In other words, Ki
mmer made it all look easy enough that we didn’t give them credit for their extreme badness.”
“They know how to cover their tracks, if nothing else.” Owen tapped the eraser end of a well-sharpened pencil against the open folder with Brown Suit’s records in them. “Or more likely, whoever’s behind them is big enough and influential enough to do it for them. Mr. Albert Wolchoski is made of Teflon. Arrests across the board, and all of them dropped for lack of evidence.”
“Let me guess.” Kimmer stopped behind the empty chair that should have been hers and gave the files an upside-down glance. “No drugs, no prostitution, but if you want an enforcer with finesse…” She looked over at Rio and added, “Hammy Hands filled the brute strength slot.”
“So I gather.” He nodded at the neat stack of photos on Owen’s desk—stills taken from the news footage the station had declined to hand over, but of which it had provided a copy along with its “let’s work together” attitude. “But Brown Suit—I mean, Wolchoski—is still with us?”
“Alive if not kicking. And with one of our own on the way to the hospital to help keep him that way.” Owen’s mouth twisted slightly. “Schuyler County doesn’t exactly have the kind of manpower to guard the room around the clock.”
Kimmer sighed. “I’m sorry, Owen. I know you don’t like to tinker with local issues. If I’d had any idea what Hank was bringing with him, I’d—”
“You didn’t exactly have a choice,” Rio said, looking up at her from under a frown, dark brows shadowing his brown eyes toward black.
Yes. I did.
But she didn’t need to drive that point home. He wouldn’t—couldn’t—understand it.
So instead she said, “They had to have followed me from home when Pigeon Man showed up at the park, figured out what I was up to and used the governor’s visit as a diversion. And they had my phone number, Owen. They had to have gotten it from Hank.”
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