Making the Rules

by Doranna Durgin

  Silence greeted her declaration.

  "Am I close?" she asked, trying again to get a glimpse of Sein. A read off him. He might still be malleable...if she could make him believe it was in his best interest. In his family's best interest.

  Sein's voice stayed low, tinged with surprise. "Closer than you want to be." But he shifted abruptly, and just that suddenly he was gone.

  Silence within the truck—a tick of cooling metal from the engine, the muffled sounds of the gathering crowd.

  "Well," Kimmer said. "At least our last meal is all around us. Pincho moruno kabobs. Yum."

  Rio's brief, silent laugh vibrated against her back.

  From outside the truck, voices approached. "We've got half an hour," said a woman's voice—a voice that raised the hair on Kimmer's neck—familiar, and yet...not familiar enough. She breathed shallowly, listening hard. "I want them separated; put Carlsen at the second site. It will, I believe, exacerbate their distress considerably."

  "Bitch," Kimmer muttered, unable to help herself.

  For she could hear it in that voice—the satisfaction at the thought of such distress, the smug confidence that she was about to make it happen. And as the truck door opened, she raised her voice, using English. "Good afternoon, Doña. I'm surprised you're separating us. Shouldn't you keep us together so we can weaken each other?"

  "That's a good point," the woman said smoothly, also in English. "Perhaps I'll find a way to capitalize on that. I'll red you up, shall I?"

  Red you up.

  Kimmer froze, so full of curses that none of them made it past her lips.

  "What?" Rio murmured, tipping his head to murmur into her ear. "Kimmer, what—?"

  There was no mistaking that western Pennsylvania vernacular, that deliberately broad cast of vowel. Red up meant ready up the house with cleaning, not ready up the captives to die—but it had all the effect the woman must have meant it to have.

  Because the voice fell into place.

  Its cadences, its underlying overconfidence—its context. "Paula Romajn," she told Rio. The woman who had taken her nieces hostage and killed her brother. The woman who had bartered her life for the girls' and gotten away—not to be found, and now they knew why. Far, far away.

  And with no intention of letting her defeat stand.

  I'M THINKING OF YOU.

  Yeah. I'll just bet.

  Rio said, "You're kidding," in a disbelieving voice. Not a quiet one. "That's what this set-up is all about? Hell, someone needs to get a life."

  "Which is exactly what I'm doing," Romajn said, standing—out of their view—in the truck's open front door. "Creating a new life for myself—at the same time I'm ending yours. Poetic justice, don't you think?"

  "Not so much," Rio said, convincingly dismissive—and pushing up against Kimmer in a subtle and reassuring way.

  Must have felt her vibrating.

  Romajn's voice held cat-and-cream satisfaction. "Did you think when I left the States that I didn't have friends on the Continent? Think of this as my initiation here. As I said...poetic."

  "So let me get this straight," Kimmer said. "You ran from us in Pennsylvania, and came over here where you made an old lady sick so you could manipulate this little play."

  "She had the Etxea," Romajn said, still in the doorway—still just barely out of Kimmer's view. In the background, the speaker system went through a sound check. Voices called to one another, discussing decorations and buffet tables. The reception, going about its business with no clue it was about to blow up. "I saw the potential in that."

  "Probably wasn't hard to convince Larraitz' wannabe revolutionaries to help," Rio said. His voice rumbled reassuringly against her back.

  Romajn was matter-of-fact. "The damned kids couldn't handle you both at the villa, but that turned out to be an advantage."

  "Sure," Rio said. "Give me to Basajaun instead of the Etxea. Rile them up, keep them on the hook."

  "The most important part," Romajn said, her voice taking on an edge of mean, "was what it did to your little girlfriend. And given how predictable you two are about each other, I got you both in the end, didn't I?"

  Kimmer didn't need to see her. Not with the memory of the confrontation in Hank's ugly Quonset garage, where this very woman had held Karlene's life in her hands. Brown eyes, dull dark brown hair styled in an executive updo, smugly serene expression, everything else about her going distinctly middle-aged. Those moments when she'd lost control had turned handsome features ugly; bitter anger had stained her expression.

  Now she was all satisfaction. She murmured to a minion, "Leave them for now. We'll separate them later."

  The truck door closed, leaving Kimmer and Rio in anticlimactic silence.

  Kimmer broke it. "Idiot. Fell for that leave us together thing. Let's get out of here. You good?"

  "I'm always good," Rio said. "And you know it. I saw you admiring my ass the other day."

  "Rio—"

  Silence. Undefeated, he said, "Arm's broken—not worth much. Ribs, not so great."

  "Your back?" she asked, and had to work to keep it casual.

  Not that it did any good. "You worry too much," he said, but he didn't fool her any more than she'd fooled him. A moment later, he admitted, "They kicked me around a little. It's better than expected. I'm not going to be great with hand-to-hand, but count me in on anything else. You?"

  "Not bad. Hold still, will you?" She wiggled herself into a better position and worked the cuffs down the back of her legs—careful of him, and limber enough to pass them around her feet and twist, leaving her hands in front of her and her arm awkwardly twisted through his. "Head's not bleeding, nothing's broken...just bruises. Mad, though. Definitely getting mad." A final bit of adjustment and they were side by side, facing opposite directions on their knees and anchored at his broken arm. "I don't suppose—?"

  He snorted.

  "Never mind." She turned her attention to the truck interior. Everything heavy was pretty much bolted down, leaving them serving carts, food bins, and the food itself.

  The heavy spices of the shish kabobs filled their too-warm space. Kimmer swiped her cheek against her shoulder, smearing sweat and old blood against the pale summerweight. Wonder if those kabobs are still shished. Still lined up on the nice pointy metal skewers...

  "Shished," she said out loud with some satisfaction. "Bet they are."

  Rio didn't even ask. He knew enough to let her think it out. Or maybe he was caught up in his own planning.

  And then, as though it was of any use at all, she suddenly heard herself say, "I'm sorry." Damn, I'm sorry. "I should have trusted you. I should have known something was wrong when you went all narcoleptic after we got here. We wouldn't be in this situation if—"

  "Don't even go there," he said sharply—truly annoyed, she got that much. She took her attention from the truck to find him glaring at her. "I'm a big boy. I could have said no to this trip—I should have. It broke my rules to come." He'd gotten intense on her, locking his gaze down on hers, his whole battered face intent on her—the frown, the slightly flared nostrils, the tilt of his head.

  Not so far from hers at that.

  "We knew something was off," he said, drawing her in closer just with that expression. "We just didn't figure out what it was, because we were playing by their rules. Playing nice."

  "Well," Kimmer breathed. "No more of that." Like she was going to not kiss him, with his mouth so close and everything she loved about him right out there on the surface. Kissed him good and hard and let it last, leaning shoulder to shoulder and straining to make up the difference in their heights.

  When Kimmer broke away, she didn't go far. She licked her upper lip for the taste of him, the faint sheen of mingled sweat there. She said in a low voice, "Now we're making the rules."

  ~~~

  Not so easy, scoping out the truck while attached to someone's broken arm, trying not to jostle it as they moved, rarely succeeding. Kimmer acquired her shish kebab skewers a
nd tucked them away in a corner; they combed the contents of their pockets to come up with a batch of small and probably useless items. Kimmer rued leaving her backpack in the car—except they wouldn't have left it with her anyway.

  She hoped Danele had it now. She hoped Danele was already home, spilling her story to her grandfather who never should have taken her lightly in the first place after instilling her with both hero worship and his own fervent brand of patriotism.

  Right. And to think he'd already raised a daughter. Meaning, he'd had practice and he'd still messed up.

  "I don't think I can do it," she said, busy releasing the wheel brake on a serving cart.

  "Um," said Rio, which was about as good as could be expected.

  "The girls." Kimmer released the brakes on another cart. Had no idea what she might accomplish, but anything the thugboys weren't expecting was a good thing.

  She hoped.

  She stood. "I don't think I can do the mom thing."

  "Because of this?" Bafflement filled his voice as he tried to put it together, glancing around the truck.

  "No. We'll get out of this." And they would. It was all about the attitude, she'd told Jurdan, and she'd meant it. "It's...Rio, it's all I can do to let you in without sabotaging us. They'd only be getting part of me, and that's not fair to them."

  "As long as you love them...." Rio had opened a cupboard with his shoulder to discover the gel chafing fuel, and Kimmer seized several cans, immediately rummaging for matches or a lighter. They weren't actually weapons...not grenades, not Molotov cocktails. But they looked as though they ought to be, and sometimes that was enough.

  "Maybe you can live with that, but I can't." She found a big barbeque lighter and hesitated, looking over at him. Not a subtle move, restrained as they were. "I keep thinking of Caro. Of the longing...right there on her face. In her voice. In her emails."

  "I hadn't realized, until we saw her," Rio admitted. "But...yeah. She's got it bad."

  "That's what the girls deserve. Not me. I can never be that person." Kimmer set the lighter by the chafing fuel. She had no plan for any of it. But options...options were good.

  Rio had that look—couldn't disagree, wasn't happy. "Kimmer, foster care—"

  "You think I haven't thought about that?" Kimmer's voice rose; she stopped herself and tried again. "They're in a good situation right now. The system works, sometimes. We'll make sure this is one of those times." At his silence, she took a breath and tried yet one more time. "I can be a good aunt. But...for their sake—"

  Rio came alert, glancing over to the door—some faint sound that Kimmer had missed. She instantly shifted gears, scrambling with Rio to their original location—both looking tangled and miserable and most of all defeated as the rear door opened.

  Glory be, a caterer.

  The man didn't want to know who they were or what they were doing there; he shuffled quickly through the carts to find what he wanted and pulled it out of the lineup. Kimmer had plenty of time to take the credit card from Rio's fingers, and time to subtly shift her weight for the moment the caterer finally wheeled the cart down its little ramp and let the door swing closed—

  As one, they lunged forward, and Kimmer leaped out to jam the credit card into place at the door, covering the latch.

  "Ow," Rio said, easing the strain on his arm. "Ow, ow, ow!"

  "Big baby," Kimmer muttered, plenty of affection behind it.

  "Hey," he said, eyes gone puppy-dog wounded. "It's broken."

  "Uh-huh." She eased the door open a crack—a lure. Come and check on me. "Grab me one of those chafer lids, will you? And a skewer."

  "I get no respect." He sighed, held out the requested lid and the skewer—turning her into a knight with sword and shield. "I bet you want me to hide behind you, too. Not very macho."

  "Yes," she agreed. "Hide. And see how much slack you can get me. If this brings someone in, I'm gonna jerk you around pretty good."

  He sighed something under his breath, but moved with her like a dance partner as she stood behind the door.

  "Here's the big plan," she told him. "I don't want to use the skewer if I can help it—that'll really jerk your arm. So whoever comes to check, I'll bash him, and you stomp him."

  "God, I love all those technical terms." Rio bounced on his toes a time or two. "And if it's another caterer?"

  "Then we keep bashing and stomping until someone comes in with the keys to these cuffs," Kimmer said promptly—but made a face and added, "Or until we run out of room in here."

  ~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

  CHAPTER 19

  And lo, they waited.

  Waited...

  Rio's arm throbbed; his ribs ached. For a wonder, his back didn't have much to say on the whole matter. Physical therapy and weight lifting—his friends after all.

  "Aren't these people eating anything?" Kimmer muttered, listening at the door. "Can't they smell this food?"

  Rio heard the hunger behind that annoyance. Shared it. But they didn't dare grab a bite—not when they had to be ready, ready, ready...

  "Ahh," Kimmer breathed, relief in that sound. "Here we go."

  Outside, someone gave a short, blunt exclamation—noticing, at last, the door—and charged up the cart ramp to push right on inside.

  Not a man who'd been to terrorist training camp, nope.

  Kimmer met him with the chafer lid, bash; Rio moved alongside in dance partner mode and as the man hit the truck floor, added a precise stomp to his chest. Kimmer stuck her foot against the closing door even as she stretched out, throwing herself on the goonboy—throwing the chafer lid aside and snatching the skewer with her free hand.

  Rio crouched down to join her and almost instantly lost his balance to fall on his butt, sitting hard on their captive beside her. "Keys?"

  "Not yet." She gave the dazed man a skewer-poke and demanded, "¿Llaves?" even as she commenced to search. And then, "Never mind. Not as easy, but this will do."

  Rio twisted around. "What?"

  "Swiss army knife rip-off, has a bitty little awl." She gave the skewer to Rio, who put it just inside their captive's ear.

  Just that quickly, he froze—still dazed, but atavistically aware of the danger.

  Kimmer grinned. "Nice one," she said, fumbling the knife open to go to work on her cuffs, dividing her attention between the back of the truck and the business at hand. "That could have been quieter. Won't be surprised if someone else comes along—ah ha!"

  "Me next," Rio said. "Me, me, me."

  Kimmer laughed quietly as she disentangled her arm from his and went to work. "Oh, yeah," he said, rotating his shoulders as she released him and took up skewer-duty, taking an indulgent moment to cradle his arm.

  In another moment, their captive had one set of cuffs on his wrists and another around his ankles—laced together, forcing him up in a tight fetal curl.

  Kimmer regarded him with satisfaction. "See if you can find a nice rag to stuff in his mouth," she said, as the man regained enough wits to scowl, crude protest impending. A meaningful prod with the blade of the knife put a stop to that for the moment, but Rio didn't think it would last. The man had too much at stake. Kimmer knew it, too—she didn't take her eyes off him until the gag was in place. "Plus there's got to be a gun on him somewhere. I didn't look past the knife."

  She left their conquest and crept to the door, peering out as Rio went to work—finding the gun, holding it up in brief display before he stashed it in his belt. Kimmer said, "We're backed up pretty close to the reception—looks like it's in full swing. I doubt we have much time—and our friendly goonboss Romajn threatened to separate us to die dramatically alone, so we probably have even less. But ooh. Lookit that—"

  Rio cuffed the increasingly active captive into quick submission. "What?"

  "Scooter." Kimmer's voice held admiration as she crouched by the door, still investigating their circumstances. "Pink."

  "Getaway scooter?" Rio tried to peer around her, didn't have the room. "Can't you f
ind one in a boy color?"

  She glanced back at him, her grin wicked. "I wonder how much attention we'd draw if we went scooting around in the middle of the reception, tossing Sterno around like Molotov cocktails?"

  That'd clear the area, all right.

  "We'll scoot slowly," Kimmer said, barely hesitating at the cracked door—she'd be gone already if she hadn't been waiting for him. "But if there's really a bomb in here...and another truck primed..."

  "We're only assuming she plans to separate us before this thing goes off." Rio gave the truck interior a sudden and worried once-over. "She's a damned good liar."

  "She meant it when she said it." Kimmer never took her attention from their narrow view of the reception.

  "She could change her mind."

  Whoa. He'd said it before he thought it through, but the impact of the words settled hard.

  For the first time, Kimmer looked away from the door, meeting his gaze. And looked to their captive, whose widened eyes and muffled noises were convincing enough. Get me out of here!

  Romajn would change her mind any time it suited her purpose.

  "Whoa," she said, very Keanu. "Let's scoot."

  ~~~

  In moments, Kimmer had rigged a sling from a generous cleaning cloth—but she didn't leave Rio's arm feeling lonely. She piled on the Sterno, and dropped the lighter in the mess as well. "Pink," she reminded him. "That means I drive."

  "Two arms," he told her. "That means you drive." He took his arm out of the sling and, fumbling, lit one of the wicked cans. "Here's our starter," he said. "Looking clear?"

  "Mostly. And they can't all be Basajaun." Kimmer slipped out the door, leading the way—stepping confidently onto the narrow black asphalt lane that meandered this backside of the park. Yeah, yeah, just a nice walk in the park... Rio followed, the lit Sterno can held low, and glory be they made it to the scooter without notice.

  Kimmer gave a small arm-pump of victory at the sight of unsecured starter. She glanced over to one of the gardens' huge trees to find a young woman ardently kissing a young man, her pink helmet hanging from hand—just plain not paying as much attention as she probably thought she would. Tsk. The dangers of Public Displays of Affection.