Making the Rules

by Doranna Durgin

  Kimmer phrased her reply carefully. "Not the Doña herself. I'm concerned that someone in her household may be working against her. There is a young woman named Larraitz Bolibar, and a man—Jurdan Etxeberri. I'd like to learn more about them." If there was dirt on them in Owen's notes about the staff, Rio hadn't found it.

  Recognition crossed Maite's features as she settled in her chair. A sad expression, Kimmer would have said. She nodded, and said, "Larraitz..." After a sigh, she launched into a reply long enough to require pauses during which Danele could translate.

  "Good family," Danele said, no doubt giving Kimmer the condensed version. "Restless girl." She frowned over the next phrases, and finally came up with, "She thinks she wants more from life than she has, but she has no idea how to make those changes. She joins a protest group, she manipulates. She looks for an easy way."

  A protest group. You don't say. Manipulation. You don't say. Like making Rio miss the airport for the chance at his pants and his American money? And then coming to apologize afterward, wielding her big doe eyes. "I've seen that," she agreed, nodding to make translation unnecessary—and deliberately avoiding a glance toward the doorway to the back of the house, where she was all but certain someone else listened in. "But would she work actively against the Doña?"

  As Danele translated, Maite's eyes widened. "The Etxea," she said, and even Kimmer understood that much. Apparently far too many people had known about the thing, even before she and Rio arrived. Great. "They took it!"

  "They, who?" she asked sharply—and then took a deep breath, taking down her intensity in the face of this woman's dignity. "I'm sorry. This is important. They have my—" and she hunted for the right word, and settled on, "husband."

  Maite's hand fluttered up near her throat, where the crepe skin showed some of her true age. "I don't think Larraitz would be part of that," she said, and now Danele was at the edge of her seat, barely waiting for the words before she translated them. "They're just a handful of spoiled children, she and her friends. Restless. They talk...young people, making themselves feel important...they think the Etxea should be back in the hands of the people."

  Right.

  A young woman entered the room, a girl of Danele's age, burdened with a tray of tea, iced-filled glasses with condensation running down the sides. She nodded at Kimmer, biting her lip—yeah, she'd been listening, all right, and not happy about what she'd heard—and served them tall glasses of dark, iced tea. Danele's came with a smile, before the girl retreated to the back of the house. More listening, no doubt.

  "You know her?" Kimmer asked Danele.

  "Sabie? We're in school together. She gets better grades than I do. Who wouldn't, with Maite in the house? Maite knows everything." She grinned at the older woman and repeated the last phrase in Euskara; Maite smiled, pleased but knowing, and said a few words in response.

  "What?" Kimmer asked—her thoughts full of Rio and they think the Etxea should back in the hands of the people. Not to mention the doubtful look on this girl's face as she'd entered the room.

  "Nothing." But Danele glanced at Kimmer and relented. "She just said that Sabie has to finish her chores before we can run wild on the streets later today. She always says that."

  Kimmer imagined trying that one on Karlene. Right. Wild all the time. Just like her aunt, good old That Bitch Kimmer. And Kimmer, at the moment, was ready to take on a handful of spoiled children. In fact, to take them apart.

  But first she had to find them.

  That meant staying cool and taking a sip of the tea. Playing nice.

  Oh, how Owen would love to see it—Chimera turned loose and backing herself into her own play nice corner. Tasting tangy tea and raising her glass in a miniature toast to Maite, who smiled back.

  But Kimmer took that smile away when she asked, "What of Jurdan? Is he one of those restless young people?"

  Maite looked away, marshaling her thoughts—not a good sign, Kimmer thought. But the words, when they came, were neutral. A good boy, he'd grown up with Larraitz and her friends, he had a terrible crush on the girl, would do stupid things for her...but he was a serious young man and willing to work. He wanted to make his impression on the world.

  Right. More than one way to do that, wasn't there?

  "According to the Doña," Kimmer started—but as Danele murmured that translation, Maite's startled response stopped her short. "What is it?"

  Danele's eyes got big. "She says the Doña could not have spoken to you."

  Kimmer's surprise must have been enough; Maite broke into another spate of words, and Danele could hardly keep up. "After she went to Barcelona, she took ill." Yes, they'd known that. "She is in the hospital, on a—" Danele hesitated. "A breathing thing. Very sick. She asked to keep it quiet so her people here wouldn't worry."

  "How do you know?" Kimmer demanded, intensity once more slapping into her voice. "How can you be sure?"

  "Because," Danele said, watching Kimmer with those widened eyes. "She called Maite for comfort even as she sickened—and Maite has been in touch with her people there since then."

  The Doña, critically ill and on a ventilator.

  Then who the hell—?

  ~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

  CHAPTER 16

  Rio's first priority: get out of the shipping container. Second priority: run away.

  Suddenly not as easy as it had seemed only moments earlier.

  Rio might now still have a rifle pointed at Ixaka-the-boss. He might still have the overpowered guard as a shield. But he was in the far end of the long container, and suddenly now there were two men with rifles at the open end.

  Not just the one, already cowed and half-defeated. Two. Count 'em.

  Not good.

  The new arrival looked startled...but there was an edge of eagerness to his reaction, and Rio had the impression that this one figured he could somehow miraculously shoot around Ixaka without hitting him.

  Or at least, that he was willing to take the chance.

  "Hey," he said—to Ixaka, to the new arrival—let's just bring him up to speed. "You got what you wanted, right? We talked. You know what I know. So now you're better off if I'm out there stirring things up, looking for the Etxea. Don't you think?" Looking for Kimmer. He added wisely, "No one'll pay attention to you if they're all hunting me."

  Hey, it made good sense to him.

  But Ixaka just laughed.

  "Yeah," Rio said. "I thought that might be the case." He stood, twisting his hand in the guard's collar to bring him up too. Not easy, with the cringing and leftover fetal curl and all. "All the same...I'm done here. So what say we all inch casually toward the end of this thing, and I'll take this guy along until I'm in the clear." He looked at Ixaka and said, "You do like him, right? I mean, if you're just going to shoot him to reach me, I'll take care of him myself and run for it."

  The guard had enough English to stiffen in pure alarm. And that was enough to tell Rio exactly how quickly they'd shoot the guard to reach Rio himself.

  "Well, crap," he muttered. Here goes everything—

  He charged into action with the bellowing war cry of a man with nothing to lose—shoving past the crate, shoving the guard ahead of him straight for Ixaka and then through him—after which Ixaka was no longer protective cover, and Rio shoved the hapless guard forward to stumble helplessly into the two men. The human bowling ball. Down they all went, not a shot yet fired to alert anyone else and Rio bolted straight for the opening.

  He saw the danger almost in time to avoid it. A third man.

  And there in the periphery of his vision came a rifle reversed, swung like the mightiest of bats and heading straight for his mid-section. He twisted, flung himself aside—and still took the blow nearly head-on.

  Three of them. Way to go, Carlsen.

  The world went dark in short and merciful order.

  ~~~

  Kimmer hadn't been the only one to speak to the Doña who couldn't actually speak at all. Marina.

  And of any
one, Marina would have been the one to know the Doña's voice.

  Marina was about to receive a visitor.

  "You paying any attention?" Danele asked. "There's someone else we can see, if you need more information. Maybe he knows more about that man. Jurdan. Maybe he knows about the new organization."

  Kimmer found herself standing on an unfamiliar corner, staring at the signal light with single-minded intensity. It cycled to red, and she realized she'd probably missed quite a few opportunities to cross this busy little street.

  Jaywalking. Always an option.

  "Later," she said, thinking Marina and Rio and false Doña. "Thank you. First I have to..." She realized who she was talking to. "Something else."

  "You thought you've been talking to the Doña," Danele said, oh-so-wisely. She leaned against a lamp post in insouciant slouch.

  Kimmer sent a sharp look her way. "This is the part where you mind your own business, for your own good."

  "That's what I was doing," Danele pointed out. "Eating breakfast, thinking my insignificant young person thoughts. Actually, it was a little boring. But this—now I'm helping my grandfather."

  "You helped your grandfather," Kimmer said. "We're done with that."

  "Because you say so?" Danele shook her head in a short, decisive movement. "My grandfather makes that decision. And since he's not here, I'll make it for him."

  Kimmer stepped fully out of her own thoughts for the first time and turned on Danele. I don't need this.

  Rio, still missing; the Etxea, still missing. The Guardia Civil could snatch Kimmer up at any moment. And as far as she knew, the Basajaun still thought she was worth kidnapping.

  She didn't need to worry about Danele in the middle of it. "What do you want?"

  "I just told you—"

  "No, you didn't. You made noise about helping your grandfather—but not so long ago you didn't want anything to do with me. What changed? Did Maite say something you didn't tell me?"

  "No!" Danele stood straight with her startled reaction, all gawky arms and legs in her trendy summer capri pants and slightly cropped top. "I told you everything she said to me!"

  Truth enough, clear to Kimmer's knack. "Then what?"

  "None of your—" But the girl stopped, a rare moment of wisdom in which she seemed to realize that Kimmer no longer relied on her—was perfectly willing to walk away from her. "My grandfather," she said, a low voice filled with restless dissatisfaction.

  "He loves you very much." The first thing to come to mind. "He trusts you."

  She snorted. "To walk around the neighborhood. This doesn't impress me; does it impress you? I want him to see that I can do more. I'm not a little girl any more. He has no grandsons and my mother is his child; my father is not euskaldun."

  "Basque," Kimmer guessed. She had the sinking feeling she knew where this was going.

  Danele nodded. "He isn't...he doesn't..." She shook her head at a loss for words. "My grandfather is the one who made sure I speak Euskara—and Spanish and this English—to help support Euskal Herria. But now is the time for me to do more, and he doesn't believe it of me. This is my chance—I need to show him—" She broke off, seeing the refusal on Kimmer's face.

  The light cycled; Kimmer stepped out into the street. She knew exactly where she'd left the car; she knew exactly how to extract it. Danele would have to earn her grandfather's respect another way.

  But Danele hurried to catch up as she strode past an urban residential street—the doorway carvings, the colorful ribbon streamers at the doorways in red, green, and white, the undeniably Basque fashion on the pedestrians around them. Dark pants, voluminous dark skirts, red and black vests, kerchiefs.

  The real Basque people, carrying on with life.

  Kimmer asked, "When did you even start to take me seriously? Before or after I threatened to cut your clothes off?"

  Danele snorted. "That was just dumb. It was because Maite took you seriously."

  "Remind me to thank her," Kimmer muttered. She increased her pace.

  Danele jogged a few steps. "You still need me," she said. "You're still in my country. Not all of us speak Spanish—and not all of us who do will speak it for you."

  "Bluntly said."

  "I can help."

  "I'll get by." Kimmer crossed another street at a gap in the traffic. "Danele, you can't come with me. It's not only not safe, it's decidedly not safe. Do you have any idea how many people want to get their hands on me?"

  "So?" Danele shrugged. "You can cut their clothes off."

  Great. Young and convinced she would live forever.

  Kimmer had never been that young. Had never taken life for granted. Attitude is everything, she had told Jurdan not so long ago. Life had given Kimmer attitude from the start. Bare your teeth and go for it wasn't the same as not understanding the stakes to start with.

  And Danele had no idea.

  Words wouldn't convince her. Kimmer didn't even try.

  She shrugged her backpack off on the move, pulled out the phone, and flipped it open to the diminutive keyboard, opening a text message to Owen with a single keystroke. Rio?

  He took only half a block to answer, with Danele keenly attentive to the whole process. No doubt she'd never seen a phone like this before. No one outside of Hunter ever had.

  Owen's simple response had the impact of lead. No.

  Kimmer took a deep breath, rebalancing herself—pulling back the unfamiliar fear lacing through her nerves. She had no experience with it, this having other people in her life.

  The part where it mattered.

  Keep it together, Chimera. She keyed in another quick message. Monaco crew?

  A quicker reply this time. Available.

  Good. That meant they were in Bilbao, but not busy at the villa. Marina had quite understandably rejected them. Nothing left to guard, even if she still trusted Hunter arrangements.

  Not that Kimmer had anything for the crew to do just now.

  Owen's text appeared on the screen. Let me help?

  Aren't you? For Kimmer knew damned well that whatever she'd said about butting out, Owen was up to something.

  That reply took longer. She could imagine him hesitating over his words. A block went by; the car was close now. She could drop Danele off and—Ertzaintza in dialogue, Owen said. They want you. Preparing exit strategy.

  She didn't have much else to say; he'd work the background pieces with or without her blessing.

  And maybe they'd need an exit strategy at that.

  For two, she told him, and flipped the phone shut as she reached the car. She threw the backpack inside, slid into the driver's seat, and had the keys in the ignition while Danele was still opening her mouth to argue her case.

  Kimmer said, "Tell your grandfather thank you. And tell him I might be back."

  "Hey!" Danele hit the car as it eased past her, heading down the alley. "Hey!"

  Dammit, Kimmer hadn't expected her to follow, jogging alongside the car in the tight space, pounding against the door.

  Persistent kid. Annoying. And inconvenient, to say the least. Kimmer ignored her, expecting her to tire, heading for the street at a steady pace.

  But Danele didn't.

  No, Danele pounded the door all the way to the street, where Kimmer paused until she could make a safe turn. And damned if there wasn't a cop on the corner, a Seguridad Ciudadana agent—foot patrol. And an alert one at that, spiff in his red beret and crisp light blue blouse.

  Oh, yeah. Here he came.

  And Danele looked at her through the window, the threat clear on her face.

  Dammit.

  The villa, that's all. Danele would be safe there. Kimmer could leave her there.

  Swiftly, Kimmer unlocked the door and leaned over to push it open. "Now," she muttered, and Danele grabbed it.

  Kimmer barely waited for her to close the door; she pulled smartly out at a break in the traffic as Danele gave the citizen security agent a happy little wave.

  Dammit. She
still thinks it's a game.

  ~~~

  Rio didn't expect to wake up alive.

  So waking up at all...that was a plus.

  Waking up and feeling like this...that was a minus.

  At least there weren't any rats. He lay still for a while. A long while. Sorting out the aches.

  His head, surprisingly, was in decent shape. Not fuzzy. Passing out had been a mercy—a shock reaction—not the result of a blow to the head.

  But they had, quite clearly, beaten the hell out of him. His aches overlapped aches, his pains called mournfully to pains. His mouth was full of the taste of old blood. And at the same time...

  It could have been worse. It could have been a lot worse. Three furious Basajaun thugboys, armed with booted feet and ugly bull-pup rifles that could have broken every rib in his body. But they hadn't done it.

  He wondered why.

  The voice seemed to come out of nowhere, far too close to his head. "Señor."

  Rio started into full alertness, rolling aside, trying to get to his feet, to take a stance—and came nowhere close.

  Bambi on ice.

  Limbs going every which way, half of them not working right, dull aches and jabbing shards of pain. He'd somehow ended up in a corner of the very same shipping container from which he'd been trying to escape, precariously balanced with one knee on the floor. "Oh, crap," he said. "Oh, shit. Ow ow dammit fucking ow."

  The young man he faced stood as if he might run, his arms awkwardly laden with cardboard and rags and a thermos and who knows what else, and just as wary of Rio as Rio was of him.

  Rio narrowed his eyes. "If you're here to hit, prod, kick, or otherwise mess with me, you should know that all the good spots are taken."

  The young man gestured with his full arms. "I came to help."

  "Why?" Rio asked, no less wary. He let his other knee drop to the ground and leaned back into the corner, automatically assessing his back. There was a knot of fire, all right—but on the other side. A deep, deep ache. That kidney was off-limits, you jerks. It quite suddenly occurred to him that his arm didn't actually work; he spared a glance at it and made a face. Apparently he'd tried to block a rifle blow.