"Ixaka decided you might be right. That you could be of use to him. But not like...this." He gestured again, apparently meaning Rio's overall condition.
"Wow," Rio said. "Imagine that. Desperate babbling saves the day."
Sort of. He ran his tongue around the inside of his mouth, discovering lips cut by teeth, discovering a few loose teeth. At least he still had them all. He worked up enough saliva to spit out the old blood, swaying slightly against the corner.
"Also, I think maybe you can help me," the young man added, cryptic and leaving it at that. "Here," he added, shifting his armload to hold out a bottle of water and inching close enough so Rio could take it.
Rio reached for it, but stopped. Right. Twisty top. One arm. Rio gave it a significant eye, and the kid put everything else on the upturned crate still lying nearby and opened the bottle.
"See?" he said, gesturing at his supplies. "I am to clean you up as best can be done. But someone stands outside, so don't—"
Rio waved off the rest of the sentence, bottle in hand, swallowing the last gulp of water. "I'll be good," he said, as if he were even up to causing trouble.
At the moment.
"My name is Sein." The young man sorted through his supplies and pulled out another bottle of water and a clean rag.
"And are you one of them?" Rio asked. "The Basajaun?"
Sein laughed. "I do errands for them, I play lookout. My uncle runs this shipping yard and we—" He glanced at the open container door, lowering his voice. "We have little choice but to allow them this space." He shrugged. "I said I would do this."
"Yeah?" Rio said. "Thanks. Your English is good. Much better than my Spanish."
"I learned it for the work, but Ixaka makes good use of it at times." He shrugged. "They are hard men, but they are part of life in Euskal Herria. Without their loud voices, would the euskaldunak even be heard?"
"That's not a question I can even pretend to answer," Rio said. "Although I realize that by uppity westerner tradition, I should make at least some token effort to tell you how to conduct your life."
The kid laughed out loud—and then grew less certain as he approached with rag in hand. "You are ready?"
"God, no. But whatever. Let's make me presentable so Ixaka can use me."
Sein shook his head, a wry expression, and went to work. And Rio clenched his jaw and gritted his teeth and wished Kimmer was doing this so he could make a fuss.
When Sein finally tossed the bloody rag aside, he held up the stout corrugated cardboard. "A splint!"
The cardboard went on with duct tape, wrapped into a silvery cast of surprising integrity. It still hurt like serious hell; Rio resigned himself to it. At least it wasn't his dominant hand. At least there wasn't bone sticking out anywhere.
At least.
"At first," Sein said, gathering his supplies, "Ixaka thought you were the nephew of Señora de Florez. Then he heard you were here to protect the Etxea. And then the Etxea was stolen and offered to him, but instead of getting it, he got you. No one knows why." Another glance at the door, resentment peeking out in the gesture, and separate of his words. "Your luck in my country has not been good."
Rio laughed, short and rueful. "My luck in your country has not, in fact, been good."
Though it hadn't all been luck suckage. No, indeed. Bad Planning. Capital B, capital P. And a healthy dose of I Should Have Known Better.
Not to mention a certain amount of persistently random crap. No wonder Kimmer's trust in him—have you got my back?—had been shaken.
"Señor?"
Rio jerked himself back out of his thoughts to find Sein with a new expression. Something worried.
Something...hesitant and bold at the same time, as he shot another glance toward the door.
A fierce little thump of hope took hold in Rio's chest. But he waited. He let the kid talk.
"There is only one guard out there," Sein said. "More would draw too much attention, and too much has gone on here this morning already. The others have gone back to work. All but for Ixaka, who is trying to make contact with those who have the Etxea."
"He tells you a lot," Rio observed, full of casual. "For someone who isn't one of them."
Disdain flickered across Sein's face. "He thinks me below concern. And he likes bragging to someone."
"This shocks me."
"But," Sein said, lowering his voice. "I know nothing of fighting. If you were to overpower me, they would believe it."
Rio stopped his various background thoughts to give the kid a flat stare. "You're kidding."
Sein hesitated, glanced at the container doors...shook his head.
Rio said, eyes narrowed, "You're going to go up against a bunch of terrorist thugboys. For me."
Sein's face flushed; his eyes glittered in the dim light. "For us," he said, thumping his chest once. "For the Etxea!" He drew breath, calming himself, and added matter-of-factly, "They think I have too much fear to defy them. But if we do this right, then they no longer control our docks, yes?"
Hell, yes.
And so it was that Sein went to the door, knocking lightly to get the guard's attention. And so the guard came through the door—and Sein cried a warning a careful moment too late as Rio leaped from the side, grabbing the rifle barrel. He jerked the man inside and off-balance, and then reversed thrust, jamming that ugly squared rifle stock into Basajaun belly.
Rio had good reason to know just how effective that could be.
The man went down with Rio right on top of him. Rio clamped his legs around the thugboy, wrapped his good arm around that terrorist throat and cranked back.
Elbows battered his already tender ribs—but those movements soon turned flailing and then boneless, and Rio instantly released the unconscious man and grabbed his rifle.
Sein toed the guy and said darkly, "I warned you."
Sein, it seemed, had not been happy about this situation for some time.
Rio offered the rifle to him and then set it to the side when Sein demurred, wasting no time with a quick one-handed search during which he acquired a pocket knife, a wad of euros, a business card with several scribbled numbers on the back, and a grimy credit card. Not likely to be useful, but one never knew. He grabbed Sein's duct tape and then—feeling the bruises, oh damn yes—he headed for freedom.
At the door he hesitated, and offered—apologetically—"You might be better off if I hit you." And then the world reeled around him, a dramatic movie effect of spin and sparkle and whirl.
"Maybe later," Sein replied, grabbing Rio before he could quite go down. "It looks like I'm coming along."
Rio opened his mouth to argue—and closed it again. He had no intention of risking this young man...of trusting him.
But he needed more time to recover—and he didn't have it.
"They'll believe that you forced me to come," Sein said, reading Rio's dilemma without any difficulty. "I told you...they don't think I can do this. It was always best for my family that they think not. But I have spoken to them...now is the time to try."
This wasn't the time or place to argue about it. Rio focused hard on the steel container, pulling himself back to the surface. "You happen to know the drop place where they found me instead of the Etxea?"
"I know it," Sein said, matter-of-factly.
"Great." Rio stuck his head out the open door, found no one else in evidence—back to work, wary of drawing attention here—and fought the itch between his shoulder blades that would push him to unwise haste. He only had so much haste left in him; he'd save it for a moment when it really mattered. "Let's go settle this thing."
Let's go find Kimmer.
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
CHAPTER 17
Dammit, I need to find Rio.
But Kimmer had no trail for Rio.
She went back to the trail she did have: the house. Marina, who should have known the Doña wasn't exactly herself. Jefa, who knew more about Larraitz than anyone at the villa besides Jurdan—and Jurdan, who had
so staunchly protected Larraitz.
The house.
Where Atze still carried his attitude around.
"I told you it wasn't a game," she reminded Danele sharply, cutting off the squeak the girl had made.
And then she glared at Atze, on the ground at her feet. You started it.
For yes, upon their arrival here at the house, Atze—back to his land keeping duties—had come at Kimmer with a wicked pair of trimming shears.
Danele gaped at the discarded shears, and at Atze—tied with bush twine from his own pocket, one arm swelling rapidly from a no-nonsense blow from Kimmer's war club. And with his breath coming around the sock stuffed into his mouth.
"Get his shoes," Kimmer told Danele, and struggled to complete her own chore—dragging the solid man behind the bushes. Her first effort had torn his shirt, and with a snarl she tackled his belt, whipping the leather free of the belt loops.
Danele only stared harder, standing gawky and totally out in the open.
"The shoes!" Kimmer snapped. "Or get back in the car before someone sees you!" She looped the belt beneath Atze's arms; he cursed her, and choked on it. "Shut up," she told him without sympathy, "and you won't gag."
"I won't go back to the car. It's hot," Danele complained.
Kimmer's response came between grunts of effort. "Then put his shoes...behind the bushes...and keep them compan—" She slipped, scrambling to keep her feet as she dropped Atze.
Danele rolled her eyes, standing hipshot with those lanky arms and legs akimbo. She tossed the shoes and bent to take hold of Atze's belt. "I don't think so," she said. "You need me."
Brat. Kimmer mirrored her grip and together they got him moving on the rough, gravely ground edging the driveway. "I need linoleum," she snarled. "Or concrete. Bad guys slide on linoleum."
Atze realized that he was truly on his way to the bushes and abruptly flailed between them. Kimmer, hands full, nudged him with a pointed toe. "This would be a lot easier if you were unconscious."
He spat a crudity at her through the sock, gagged—and by the time he drew an even breath again, they had him secured. Kimmer scuffed peat bedding across his shirt to break up the solid white.
Danele would have barged onward to the house without caution, but Kimmer grabbed one of those skinny arms. "How hot did you say that car is?"
Sullenly, Danele subsided. "I just—"
All it took was a lowered brow, a glance; she subsided, and Kimmer relaxed to do a careful survey of the grounds. No sign of Jurdan. No sign of thugboys. And no slamming doors to indicate they'd been seen, locked out, and reported to the local LEOs.
Kimmer released the girl and stood, reseating the war club in her pocket as she strolled for the back entrance.
Danele rubbed her arm, drama personified—but she caught up quickly enough, treading close to Kimmer's heels as they reached the kitchen door, entering as if they casually belonged.
Jefa cried out as Kimmer slipped into the kitchen, shying away from her pastry board to brandish a flour-covered rolling pin.
"Whoa," Kimmer said. "Jeeze." She held her arms out half in exaggerated self-defense, half in surrender. Then she realized her war club had found its way back into her hand and quickly stuffed it away, switching to Spanish. "I'm not going to cause trouble." Much. "I just need to talk to Marina. To you."
"Me?" said Jefa, holding herself with dignity. "If I even knew anything, why would I tell you? The Etxea was safe enough here until you came. You invaded my kitchen, you lost the Etxea, you drove away my help—"
"Larraitz." Kimmer pulled Danele inside when she would have lingered in the doorway, and firmly shut the door. "Let's just talk about Larraitz."
The rolling pin gestured an expansive threat. "She was an excellent assistant," Jefa snapped. "She was always on time. She took on extra work."
Huh. Didn't sound like the Larraitz that Maite had described.
Jefa's voice rose. "My work here is much harder now, and you are to blame!"
Kimmer barely heard the shrill accusation, her eyes on the half-empty glass of iced tea sitting beside the pastry board. Memory zinged in her mouth, the delightfully subtle bite of that tangy tea, chased with peppermint.
Unique and yet...familiar.
"Is that Larraitz' recipe? The tea?"
Jefa gave her a look that quite plainly said why are we talking about tea? But the rolling pin sagged in her grip. "Yes. Her recipe. Her herbs."
Uh-huh. "Danele," she said, "try a sip of that tea, why don't you."
"I—what?" Danele said, eyes gone wide, gaze stuck on the rolling pin.
Kimmer gestured at the glass while Jefa turned skeptical. An easy read, Jefa—she had decided that Kimmer was nuts.
Danele looked at Jefa; Jefa shrugged. Danele eased up to the glass, stretching for it from as far away as possible; she took a self-conscious sip. Her eyes widened; she looked at the glass in offended surprise. "Maite's tea!" Another sip. "It is. Just not as good."
Jefa only looked confused—but Kimmer's heart raced. Pieces, coming together. "Do you know Maite, Jefa? Everyone seems to. She's respected...beloved. The sorgina. I doubt she shared this recipe with Larraitz—she doesn't like Larraitz all that much. But there was another in that household."
Listening. Reacting.
"Sabie?" Danele wrinkled her nose and shook her head. "Sabie would never share Maite's special recipes, or her herbs—" But she stopped, thinking about it, and Kimmer could see the conclusion on her face.
"She would, wouldn't she? Help a friend? An older friend she wanted to impress?"
Danele returned the glass to the counter, clinking it down—glaring. "No," she said, not meaning it at all.
"I don't understand," Jefa said, a distinctively plaintive note entering her voice—her generous gestures much enhanced by the rolling pin. "Why is this important?"
"Because it means Larraitz had a connection with a sorgina. A healer. An herbalist." Pieces, coming together, coming together...dammit! "Did you notice that Rio—Mr. Richard—had trouble after his arrival?"
"The jet lag," Jefa said, sniffing slightly.
Kimmer shook her head. "No. And I was so jittery I nearly turned myself inside out a time or two. It's no wonder we were off balance with each other." She looked at Danele. "What do you think, Danele? Would a sorgina have herbs that could do those things?"
Danele looked stricken. "For helping!" she said. "For those who need sleep, or those who struggle with no energy!"
"Don't worry," Kimmer told her. "Larraitz lied to get Rio's attention; she lied to Jefa to impress her." Hell, she'd probably lied to Jurdan...led him on, convinced him to distract her with that little scene in Kimmer's bedroom. "No doubt she lied to your friend Sabie."
A new voice broke into their conversation. A self-assured voice...and yet one that held a recognizable tension. "To what end?" Marina asked as she pushed through swinging kitchen door, the housekeeper at her side and trying to look invisible. "To impress us with special recipes, yes. But to drug you?"
Kimmer gestured at herself. "Do you trust me? Do you trust Rio?"
"Of course not," Marina said, and not without some scorn.
"Those herbs—her interference—all left you perfectly willing to believe that we're screw-ups who might be in on the theft."
"I'm still not convinced you weren't," Marina shot back at her.
"And I'm not convinced about you," Kimmer said, just as intently. She knew better—she'd read Marina as safe a long time ago. But the shock value? Definitely necessary. "Because you know what? The Doña is in intensive care on a respirator. The Doña can't talk on the phone."
Marina's expression startled into denial. "Oh, no," she said, exchanging quick looks with the housekeeper and with Jefa, shaking her head. "I spoke to her not half an hour ago—"
But something on Kimmer's face made an impact. Danele, nodding in the background, made an impact. Marina hesitated—suddenly vulnerable, as if part of her believed it and the rest of her couldn't bea
r to.
"We don't know who," Kimmer said. "We don't know why—though I'll bet it has to do with the Etxea. Larraitz is involved, but...looks to me as though our real inside person is the Doña. Or the woman pretending to be the Doña."
"But her voice—!"
"There are devices. And that connection always sounded funky."
Marina closed her eyes, taking the impact of what had happened—acknowledging the significance of that strange connection. "She said it was the hospital phone."
"I don't think," Kimmer said, with understanding, "that the woman speaking to you is in that hospital at all."
But no. It was too much to accept, for someone who lived a slow villa life—who saw the world through her dignified employer's eyes. Marina's eyes hardened; she drew herself up. "I would know if I had been speaking to an imposter. And the hospital would have called me if—if—"
"Interference goes both ways."
Too much.
"How absurd of you to barge in here with this story! To accuse Larraitz of drugging you! You should be turning yourself into the Ertzaintza—and I think I will do you the favor!" She turned to leave.
Ertzaintza. The Basque country cops. They'd hardly treat this lightly.
Quite suddenly, Kimmer's arm blocked her way, her hand resting lightly on the swinging door. Quietly. "I would stop you."
Maybe it was the assurance behind those words. Maybe it was their very gentleness—the confidence of a woman who had no doubt about what she could do. What she would do.
Marina searched Kimmer's face for only a moment before deflating.
Kimmer didn't give her any space. "I'm going to figure this thing out—for me, for Rio, and for your Doña. I'm not about to let you stop me."
And she was getting close. Now it all made sense. Those persistent comments, undermining their partnership—throwing them off. Kimmer’s inability to read the Doña's voice—not a real voice at all, just someone filtered and remolded to fool Marina.
Maybe she and Rio were too concerned about one another to work as a team. But later for that. First, she would find him. Along with the Etxea and even the faux Doña.
Marina said suddenly, "I never called the hospital directly. The Doña asked me to call her apartment and leave messages so she can call back when she's feeling well."
Making the Rules Page 17