by Paul Duffau
“You know, sometimes you get caught up in crap bigger than you know,” he said, keeping the volume down, “just by trying to do the right thing, like running out in the street to stop a pair of ugly goons with stun guns from abducting a pretty runner girl that you don’t know from Adam. Natch, you get hammered for your trouble. Nobody, not the cops or your family or anyone else, believes a damn thing you say, but that’s okay, too, because that girl turns out to be probably the best thing that’s ever happened to you. And since that’s only the start of her trouble, you stick around to help even when it rains hell on your head.”
Mitch shut up and held his breath, waiting for Jackson’s response. He watched Kenzie set herself, pivot, and kick high over her head. The snapping sound of the stiff cotton pants carried over the grunts of the other kids. Kenzie refolded the leg and dropped back into her stance, hands held ready.
“Any regrets?”
The question caught Mitch by surprise. He resisted the urge to look over his shoulder at Jackson.
“Not really.”
A sigh greeted his observation. Mitch glanced at the mirror. Jackson kept up his roaming search. Briefly, their eyes met. Mitch clenched his fists in a reflexive gesture and then spread his fingers wide.
“You need my help,” said Mitch. It sounded lame, even to him.
“Really?” replied the bodyguard. “Funny, I was trying to figure out the best way to get rid of you.”
“Join the club. The last guy promised to shoot me.”
Jackson’s professional veneer cracked as his lips twisted into a wry grin, gone in a flash.
“Messy. There are better ways to handle teenage boys.”
The undercurrents in Jackson’s tone triggered a spark of recognition. The bodyguard looked at him as a threat as Kenzie’s boyfriend!
“You didn’t know McKenzie before the attack?” Jackson asked, redirecting the conversation.
Mitch shook his head. “Just saw what was going down and didn’t think.”
“Well, I need you to think now. My job is to keep that pretty runner girl, as you called her, safe. I don’t need some kid at my elbow getting in the way, and if you cared about her—and I think you do—you’d figure that out and clear out until this whole adventure is resolved.”
Mitch didn’t answer. Jackson was right, except he didn’t know the whole story and Mitch couldn’t fill him in. As a boyfriend, he was in the way of the man’s mission. As Kenzie’s partner in crime, which stealing the device would make him, he needed to hang tight.
Neat box, he thought. Now, how the heck do I get out of it?
Play the boyfriend angle, he thought. He sat up and turned to face Jackson.
“I think they’re tracking her cell phone,” he said.
Jackson arrested his room scan, and his whole attention zeroed in on Mitch.
Mitch read the cold competence in the man’s posture as he evaluated the information. This close to the man, he had no doubt as to how formidable the bodyguard was. He had a sudden vision of Jackson wearing battle paint, protecting the tribe and, before there were tribes, the family clan, in multiple iterations receding into history. Not a man to fool with.
Mitch hurried to explain his reasoning.
“Everybody carries phones now. The news is filled with stories on how the government tracks everybody, knows who you call, everything. If the government can do it, criminals can too. The technology is there if you know how to make use of it, and nobody ever thinks about it. We all carry phones with us everywhere. Heck, the phone companies advertise tracking apps for parents so they can keep tabs on their kids. If you wanted to find someone, you’d just need to find their phone.”
“She was running when they attempted the kidnapping. No phone.” Analytical and precise, Jackson looked for the holes in Mitch’s argument.
“Part of a pattern,” said Mitch. “She followed the same route she always did”—Did she? He didn’t know, but it sounded right—“so they could predict when she’d hit the cul-de-sac. With a spotter at the top end . . .”
His voice tailed off. It made more sense that way, using a full team. Lassiter wouldn’t have taken any chances. Mitch shrugged and picked up the thread of his thoughts, dancing as close to the truth as he dared.
“It wasn’t a couple of guys, but a well-organized team with tech resources backing them up.”
“Which is exactly why you need to walk away and let me do my job,” said Jackson. His hard demeanor softened. "Look, I get it. You did a nice piece of analysis, but we have pros that have been managing these types of situations for years. We’ll keep her safe, and her father will track down the perps, and the two of you can live happily ever after.”
Mitch sagged in his seat as his effort to recruit Jackson foundered on the rocks of the man’s professionalism. He looked for some wiggle room, a gap that would let him meet with Kenzie without arousing the ire of her bodyguard.
“May I meet Kenzie at the yogurt shop like we did this week? Or does Kenzie need to be isolated from everything while the cops try to catch the bad guys?”
He winced a little at the edge on the second question, unsure how the man would react. Still, he met Jackson’s gaze.
“Don’t test me, kid.”
Jackson went into scan mode while Mitch waited. He swept the studio and then focused on Mitch.
“Okay, here’s the deal. Only here, the shop next door, and her house. Schedule it, so I know what’s going on. You follow all my instructions without any of your charming mouth. One surprise and I shut you down. Got it?”
“Yeah, that’s fair.”
“It’s more than fair. One last thing. If hell breaks loose again, you forget your Sir-Galahad-to-the-rescue routine. You get in my way, and you’re likely to get us all hurt.”
“Deal,” said Mitch, relieved.
He turned to watch Kenzie acting as an instructor, leading a group through their forms. She corrected one of the girls, a waif in white. The little girl must have said something, because Kenzie smiled.
Like clouds falling away from the sun to brighten the world, the smile radiated joy and transformed her face, and his heart ached.
Mitch wished he believed in happily ever after.
Chapter 35
The last session ended, and Kenzie tarried to put away the target pads while the other students filed out. The last exercise of the day had been simulated sparring on a four-inch-wide balance beam that stretched a dozen feet across the floor. The goal was to force opponents into upsetting their equilibrium with attacks aimed at misdirection rather than to knock them from the narrow platform by brute force.
Unobtrusively, Kenzie glanced at Mitch and Jackson. Both of them were watching her, Jackson as part of his usual I-spy-everything routine.
Her heart had sunk when Jackson walked in.
Of course they called him in, she thought. They were too occupied with their careers to give a flip about her.
When Mitch ambled into the studio and nonchalantly sat near Jackson, she’d frowned. Figuring out what went on in his head made her dizzy. Watching him sneak in a conversation with Jackson made her nervous.
Now Kenzie located Jules and sauntered in her direction, putting them both out of her mind for the moment.
Jules saw her coming. “Kenzie, give me a hand with the beam, please.”
Kenzie altered course and went to the nearest end of the unwieldy piece of apparatus. Together, they lifted it and, with Kenzie walking backward, moved it to the storeroom. Kenzie maneuvered the beam into position and stood up.
Before she could take a step to leave, Jules caught her eye and spoke. “So, why are you here on a Saturday, as are both Mr. Jackson and Mitch?”
The woman towered over her, but not in a way that intimidated. Instead, Kenzie pictured the protective embrace of a mama bear standing between her cub and a hunter.
“I’m sorry about Jackson and Mitch,” she said.
Jules interrupted her. “You’re evading the question.�
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Kenzie dropped her chin. “I’m in trouble and—”
“What do you mean by trouble? You and Mitch together kind of trouble?”
Kenzie’s head came up at the startled, faintly sad quality to Jules’s words. They took a moment to process. When they did, Kenzie’s face lit with a fire so hot that she thought the walls should be glowing cherry red.
“Boy . . . trouble . . . um, no-o-o,” she stammered, “Mitch and I . . . haven’t, I mean, aren’t . . .”
She didn’t finish, the necessity of denial tying her tongue even as the memory of the heat of his kiss sent a quiver through her. She shook her head as her fingers fidgeted with the thick hem at the bottom of her dobok jacket. Kenzie drew a deep breath. It failed to calm the flush on her face, or the twitchiness inside, but gave her air to talk with.
“Someone . . .” Kenzie’s voice broke. She started over. “I thought hitting something would help.”
“Well, it’s probably better than hitting someone,” said Jules, “not that I’m the one to offer premarital counseling.”
Kenzie opened her mouth to protest again, but Jules pinned her with a shrewd glance, stopping the objections before they were uttered.
“It’s not a Mitch problem, but he’s out there looking like he hasn’t slept in days, your Mr. Jackson seems perturbed, and you can’t focus worth a darn. You say you’re in trouble. Okay, what kind of trouble? Because the only reason I can see that you stuck around was to talk to me, and I can’t give you any advice if I don’t understand the question.”
Kenzie shook her head at Jules’s perceptiveness, and in the same elongated instant, understood that she could endanger the black belt by telling her the full truth.
She met the black woman’s eyes with an unflinching gaze of her own.
“The trouble isn’t with Mitch.” The words fell from her mouth the same way they had last night, as though she had become an imitation of her mother. “Someone has asked me to do something that violates . . .” She fought for the right phrasing. “. . . my principles, and placed me into a position where I have to choose who gets hurt.”
Jules rocked back a bit. Her voice felt soft as velvet on Kenzie’s ears. “Well, look at who got all growed-up all of a sudden.”
The drop into vernacular unsettled her. The gentle praise— Was it praise?
She searched Jules for mockery, saw sympathy. Shaking her head, Kenzie answered, “I wish I was. What do you do when you’re forced to choose between two things, both bad?”
“Search for the third one,” came the swift reply. “When we study ground fighting, what do we do? Especially you, tiny as you are?”
“Redirect your opponent’s energy,” replied Kenzie. “But I know how that works on the mats.”
“The art isn’t a way to fight, you know. Most of the arts end in –do, which means ‘the way.’ The discipline that you learn on the training floor translates to the manner in which you live your life. The physical component, which, unfortunately, is what most people see at the movies, is the smallest part. As your instructor, my goal has been to first teach you to use your body as a tool so that you can learn to use your mind and chi—your spirit, if you will—in harmony.”
“I don’t see how that helps,” Kenzie said.
“Right now, it won’t. Maybe it won’t ever,” said Jules, “but I think that you have a chance to reach real enlightenment and, if you do, the understanding will follow. It’s up to you to reach for that future.”
Chills marched along Kenzie’s spine as a vision of a competing alternative to her mother’s plans manifested itself. A yearning for freedom, from the Family and the unwritten sacraments her mother enforced, pushed its way forward.
She shivered and responded, “It’s not that easy.”
“I never, ever, promised easy, did I?”
“People can get . . . hurt.” Kenzie internally recoiled from the obfuscation. Dead is way past hurt.
“Then look for the places where you have control. You have some, or you wouldn’t be facing a dilemma. Exert that control.”
“Redirect.”
Jules nodded. “As much as you can. Somewhere in there is your answer, if there truly is one, because that’s another lesson: understanding we have no control over others, only ourselves.”
Kenzie let out a long sigh.
“One more thing, Kenzie,” said Jules.
Kenzie glanced to Jules's face. The serious expression remained, but it was leavened by an amused twinkle.
“Boys lie.” Jules’s smile softened the accusation.
“Not this one.”
She decided against changing into regular clothes. She untied the red belt from her waist and stripped off the jacket. She stuffed them into her gear bag and walked barefoot toward the waiting men.
“Is it okay if we go next door?” Kenzie asked Jackson as she approached, forestalling Mitch. She sat to slip on sandals.
Jackson took his time replying. “Are you two going to tell me what’s going on?”
Kenzie shot a glance filled with questions at Mitch, but he maintained a sphinxlike impassivity.
“I thought you had today off,” she said, to deflect his question.
“When duty calls, you answer,” said Jackson.
Kenzie stood up with her bag slung over her right shoulder. “I’m sorry. If I had known that my parents were going to make you babysit me, I’d have stayed home.”
Jackson smiled ruefully. “Too late, and it’s not your fault.”
Mitch stood. “Coffee?”
“Food,” said Kenzie. “I’m starving.”
Ten minutes later, Mitch had a cup of coffee in front of him while Kenzie worried at a large white chocolate yogurt, toying with the cashews and blueberries she had added as the toppings. Mitch had selected their table. Their backs were to a wall. He looked like heck, she thought as she watched his head swivel, taking in every detail.
Jackson sat at a table a discreet distance away. Kenzie noted that he was positioned between her and the door, with his back to a wall, too.
“Crud,” Kenzie said, and spooned another bite into her mouth. She contemplated using a spell on Jackson, but a sense of revulsion at using the magic with the same casualness that Lassiter used fear changed her mind. Instead, she lowered her voice. “I didn’t sleep.”
“Yeah,” said Mitch, “me neither, but I think I’ve got the beginnings of a plan.”
“We don’t need a plan. I’ve got to find that memory storage, and Lassiter didn’t give me anything to work with. Until I do, I’ve got to put everything into figuring out where my precious mother would hide something that people would kill for. It could be hidden anywhere, the office, our house, the—” Kenzie stopped herself before she revealed the existence of the Glade. “If it’s at the office, we’re in big trouble, because I can’t get in there.”
Mitch leaned toward her to say something, and then stopped cold, his gaze disassociating and drifting into the distance. It snapped back to her face. “How did he know that it isn’t at your mother’s office?” he asked, staring at her intently.
“He can’t—”
“He’s got to, otherwise it makes no sense to go after you. He’d nail someone with access.”
She watched the intensity of his gaze ramp up and the corner of his left eye pinch down into wrinkles as another idea hit. His ability to seize data points and race ahead made her feel incompetent. A budding anger toward him glowed.
“How did he even know about the chip or disk or whatever?” And, then another question, ripping fast behind the last one. “And what’s on it that’s so damned important?”
Kenzie blinked. She should have thought of those questions, but the immediacy of the threats against them all had kept her locked in on protecting them. She watched as Mitch’s fingers on the right hand tapped on the tabletop like he was playing a snare drum. She noticed that he only used the first three fingers on his right hand, and recognized the irrelevance of the observation.<
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“Is it related to, well, you know?”
“Would you stop for a second and let me think?” Kenzie said. The volume of her voice got Jackson’s attention—from the corner of her eye, she saw his head swivel their way.
Mitch went back to work the tabletop with his fingers. He used the other hand to lift the coffee. The surface rippled and betrayed a tremor. The tap, tap, tap, pause sounded like a three-legged horse.
“Stop that.”
“Sorry,” Mitch said. “Thinking.” He folded the offending hand into a fist and then relaxed it.
Kenzie scowled, analyzing the situation. Mitch is right, she decided, it must not be at the office. The implications of the leaked information getting to Lassiter scared her. Someone at the company had to have sold them out. The only project of any note that she knew of was Aric’s. Words from dinner last night played back. “. . . create electronics that could not only detect energy . . .”
An ominous dread overcame her as she recalled how casually the well-dressed snake had directed her to stop using magic. Twice, he knew when she tried to use magic, even the second time when she hadn’t made any physical moves to give herself away. They already have a detector, and now they want the rest. Her mind recoiled at the idea of Lassiter grasping after the invention, and what he might do with it. The memory device must contain the full details of the amplifier. She knew her mother was cautious enough to have backups for everything, and maintaining her own private copy should anything go amiss would fit with her untrusting nature.
She wondered how much of this she should tell Mitch. Breaching the secrecy of the Family, even indirectly, would lead to swift and terrible punishments.
“We have to give him something else.” It came out in a whisper, like doing otherwise would be a blasphemy.
“He’s not going to be fooled. He’ll have experts check out the schematics. . . .”
“How do you know they’re schematics?” asked Kenzie, staring at him. She expected to find some type of drive with plans for the amplifier. How much did Mitch know or guess? She racked her brain. She was certain she’d never mentioned the device, or anything like it, to him.