Making the Rules

Published by Blue Hound Visions at Smashwords

Copyright © 2010 by Doranna Durgin

ALL RIGHTS RESERVED

This story is a work of fiction.  Names, characters, places, and incidents are either the product of the author's imagination, or, if real, used fictitiously—and any resemblance to actual persons, business establishments, events, or locales is purely coincidental.

License Notes:

This efiction is licensed for your personal enjoyment only. This efiction may not be re-sold or given to others. If you would like to share, please purchase an additional copy for each recipient. If you're reading this efiction and it was not purchased for your use, then you should purchase your own copy. Thank you for helping the e-reading community to grow!

The Author Note:

Making the Rules is a stand-alone book in the former Bombshell Hunter Agency series; it was orphaned when that line was cancelled, and returned to me unpublished--until now! (Also available in the Hunter Series via publisher ebook channels: Exception to the Rule, Beyond the Rules, and Survival Instinct.)

For Kacey "Carbon Unit" Durgin—who so totally made up her own rules, in an evil genius sort of way

With thanks to Berry, for his Google-Fu, and to a certain Alpha Reader's persistence with file mishaps.

~Doranna

http://doranna.net

Finding the Other ~ Facing the Other

Loving the Other

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

Making the Rules

CHAPTER 1

We've been made.

Caught under the bright light of the power station floods on a crisp spring midnight with the grinding hum of power lines crawling over the air and the big tricky spy deal about to go down, and Hunter agents Kimmer Reed and Rio Carlsen had been made.

Chimera and her newly code-named Phoenix, finally back into the game—and yeah...already made.

Kimmer saw it on the face of the man across from them—the flicker of disdain and anger, there and then gone again.  Oh, he tried to hide it, but no.  Not from Kimmer.

Does Rio see it?  She had no idea, not while he stood there with his Phoenix persona in place—the only man she couldn't read with her uncanny knack of seeing truth, simply because she loved him.

That left nothing to do but play it through.  She gave the man a good hard eye and demanded, "You have it?"

Only the faintest of hesitations.  "Yours was the highest bid," the man finally said—a dull little man, habitually bartering in national secrets: this time, a computer key that would give the bearer access to U.S. weapons in development.  A key that Kimmer's supposed masters in North Korea were eager to obtain.

But the man was stalling.  Waiting for his people to move in from the darkness that surrounded the eye-searing light of this stark meeting ground.  Asphalt and steel and humming wires, all lit into harsh detail against blackest shadow.

We need that key.

And Kimmer didn't know if both she and Rio had been made...or if one of them could still bluff.  And if so, which one...

Rio gestured his own impatience—moving closer, an unspoken threat.  "If you have it, let's see it."

The man looked up—up at Rio, taller than tall, wheat-blond hair slicked back for the op.  He smiled, tense and mean.  "Yes, you'll get what's coming to you."

Rio.  It was Rio.  Cover blown.

Their first real op, gone wrong.  Really wrong.

And no one else yet understood.  Not Rio, not the back-up team watching them from the dark and distant brush.

Time to go on the offensive.

"Screw this."  Kimmer stuck her hand in the kangaroo pocket of her windbreaker.  It wasn't a friendly gesture, as her hand closed around the grip of the little Smith & Wesson nestled there.  She nodded at the satchel sitting on the ground behind Rio.  The money.  "Just give me the package.  I don't like it here and I don't like your games."

"Take your hand out of your pocket," the man said, tipping his head slightly—giving away his ear bud, and his attention to it.  His people, closing in.  "If you take me down, you'll go down right on top of me."

"I never said I wanted to be on top," she snarled, and Rio had gone very quiet, trying to sort the undertones.  "Give me the damned package and—"

"Stupid bitch."  He laughed.  "You're not going anywhere—your partner's a fed!"

Here we go.

"Goddammit!"  She rounded on Rio, snatching the snub-nose free of her windbreaker—and then she was on him, grabbing up his jacket and yanking him off-balance, never mind the difference in their sizes.  Off-balance and up-close, with that snub-nose jamming him in the ribs.  "I knew there was something—"

Their contact scrambled back—not so Rio.  He could have reacted; he could have thrown her against chain link and concrete—so much bigger than she was, so much stronger.  She felt the tension of it in him, the holding back.  Not something they'd be able to hide for longer than it took to—

Trust me, Rio.

She pulled the trigger.

He grunted in surprise, his eyes going wide.  She shoved him away.  Go down, dammit!

Down he went, arching slightly as he hit the ground, stiffening that way...and going limp.  Blood seeped through his jacket at his side; the faintest trickle eased out of his mouth.  His mouth?  No way.  There's no way I really—

The contact eased forward, wary—an eye on Kimmer's weapon, an eye on Rio.  He nudged Rio's ankle with his toe; it rolled, rag-doll loose.  There's no way—

The man gave her an appraising look.  "Succinct problem-solving.  Nice."

"There is no problem," she snapped.  "The money's here.  Now give me the device and let's get the hell out of here.  He's probably got people lurking—"

True enough.  What they were thinking right now, Kimmer couldn't imagine.  What she was thinking, she wasn't even sure.  She looked at that trickle of blood...

She forced her gaze away, holding out her hand in demand.  After a hesitation, the contact slid the key into her hand—a neat, custom molded container that she deftly flicked open to find the expected hardware—so very much smaller than it ought to be, for a thing of such significance.

The man glanced at Rio.  "Not much blood."

"You don't the hell bleed if you're dead."  She secured the container, swift and efficient.  "I'm outta here."  Once she was in the clear, the back-up team would nail this guy—and his own posse, hanging around the fringes of the area.

And then Rio—

There's no way—

"Just a moment."  He held up his hand, the other going to his ear—receiving, no doubt, the report from his backups that the area was clear.  Little do you know, asshole.  He nodded, a brisk movement—no happier about lingering than she.  "Nice doing business with you, after all.  You're efficient.  I'll remember that."

Damned right you will.  She didn't acknowledge him; she simply moved away—out of sight around the high chain link and into the brush, knowing her fellow Hunter operatives would instantly follow through.

Muffled shots sprinkled the night.  Tranquilizers.  Taking down the backup; taking down the little guy.  She reversed course, hesitating only long enough to avoid running out into the middle of it.

Or at least not too much into the middle of it.

No surprise when operatives shrouded in black scrambled out of the darkness—Kimmer tossed the container at one of them as she ran.  "Rio!" she said, breathless—not from the short burst of effort, not at all.  "Rio!"

He cracked his eyes open.  "You shot me.  You fucking shot me!"

Ooh, not his usual language.

"Only a little," she said, masking the sudden weak relief in every muscle, dropping down beside him.  "Just a graze..."  She flipped his shirt up to confirm it, then thumbed the blood from the corner of his mouth.  "And I didn't do that."

"I bit my lip going down."  His grumble let her know it hadn't been a clever ploy, but pure startled reaction.  He made no attempt to lift his head.  "I may need resuscitation."

"That can be arranged."

He slanted her a sideways look from those half open, uniquely up-tilted eyes.  "And I wanna be on top."

And Kimmer put her head on his chest and laughed with him, but inside...

Our first op, and we got made.  Oh, God...can I even do this?

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

CHAPTER 2

Kimmer still wasn't used to the big kitchen.

Come to that, she wasn't used to the big main room, the cathedral ceiling overhead, the loft, or a master bedroom with a built-in closet and attached private bath.

It hadn't, after all, been so very long since her modest little remodeled farmhouse had become a crispy-fried victim of her long-rejected brother's scheme to evade trouble by drawing it to her.

Of course, Hank had become a victim of his little scheme, too.  And the goonboss of a woman he'd tried to cross...

Well, she was gone, too.  Fled from the States in personal ruins, looking for friendlier climes.

Kimmer nudged Rio's arm, and he lifted it higher so she had access to the wicked graze across his ribs.  Barely higher—she nudged him again, amused.

His attention remained focused on the mail spread out over the gleaming kitchen counter—on the letters from little Karlene and her older sister Sandy.  Her brother's daughters, currently in Pennsylvania foster care.  "Sandy wants to know why I got another boring old stray cat instead of a cutesy little kitty," he said, flipping over the flowery stationery with its big curlicue writing.

"I bet she didn't say it just like that."  Poor OldCat.  He'd been lost in the fire, too.  Paula Romajn has a lot to answer for.  She smeared Rio's scabby wound with antibiotic cream and reached for a Teflon-coated gauze pad, tape already applied.  "She's still too worried about being a good girl."

"Nope, it's more along the lines of I would have gotten a really cute kitten.  K-i-t-e-n, kitten."  He flinched aside from Kimmer's administrations.  "Ow!"

"Baby," she said affectionately.  This man took whatever he had to...when it counted.  When it didn't?  Baby.  "What else does she say?"

"Her foster mom is nice, she can't wait for school to start, sealed with a kiss, etc."

"And Karlene?"  Karlene wasn't nearly as cowed as her sister—nor as old.  Her missives came on plain paper with very few words, dotted with drawings.  This time, cat faces—Kimmer could just peek over Rio's elbow to see.  "Another sealed with a kiss?  That doesn't sound like Karlene."

"Sealed with a kick," he corrected, holding up the envelope so she could see.  As ever, the letters came bundled in a larger envelope, and included a short note from the girls' foster mother—a woman Kimmer had interviewed personally, applying her unique skills for her nieces’ benefit.

An unexpected detour from her paid work with the Hunter Agency, all in the cause of espionage, capers, and world peace.

Though since her brother's self-perpetrated disaster, she'd mostly spent her time cleaning up after Hank's mess.  Buying this house, moving, making sure the girls were settled...checking into her options.

Trying to get used to the idea of working with Rio in an official way.  Trying not to read too much into the fact that they'd been made on their first planned op—and on his first deliberate foray back into the field since his departure from the CIA.

Trying not to think of the moment she'd had to shoot him to get them out of it.

Easier to think about the girls, the house, and the damned cutesy fake well she'd had to tear out of this yard upon moving in.

Sealed with a kick.  "That sounds more like her," Kimmer said with satisfaction.  She saw more than a little of herself in that young girl with her dark curly hair and her ferocity.  And if they'd both had a bad start...

Kimmer would see to it that her niece had a better childhood than Hank and her other brothers had allowed Kimmer before she'd run away to find her place with Hunter.  To grow into their perfect operative—fierce, unpredictable, and able to read any face, any lie.

Chimera.

"Hey," Rio said, looking over his shoulder at her—awkwardly, his arm still raised.  Tall, solid, with pale wheat-blond hair over features that blended strong Danish bones with Japanese angles, Rio had a heart bigger than Kimmer's whole body and he didn't bother to hide it.  "You think I can't tell that you're done?  You think I can't tell you're just using the excuse to put your hands all over my shirtless self?"

"Mm," Kimmer said, and ran a proprietary hand around his torso, tracing her fingers over his stomach—the sparse, wiry hair, the muscle beneath.  She followed the edge of his typically low-hanging sweats; his skin twitched.  She said, "And your point is?"

"Nothing," he said quickly.  "No point at all."  He caught his breath, cleared his throat, and made a transparent effort to sound manly and in control.  "Just an observation."

But Kimmer's hands stilled, her attention on the mail scattered over the counter.  A bright splash of color caught her eye, and she ducked under his arm to squeeze against the counter.

"Aurgh," Rio said, pronouncing the word clearly.

"Baby," she muttered, but it was through a smile, and she might just have wiggled her hips against him as she said it.  Still, she reached for the postcard at the same time, holding it up where it would catch his attention.

His hands had settled on her waist to draw her closer—but now they stilled, tightening briefly before releasing and leaning against the counter to enclose her from behind; his breath tickled warmly on her neck and ear.

"Yeah," she said, and flipped it over so they could both see the back.  "It's another one."

Another what, they weren't quite sure.  The message was short, the signature indecipherable.  THINKING OF YOU in big block letters.  No return address; there never was.  And the cards came from everywhere and anywhere, never related to their postmarks.  Someone either traveled a lot, or had friends in many places.

"Hunter still without clues?" Rio asked, running his fingers over the words as if he could absorb their import.  THINKING OF YOU.

"Owen's working it.  The only common fingerprint is the mail carrier," she confirmed.  "None of the others have been on record.  Except ours, of course."

"Of course," he echoed.  "You know...sooner or later, we're going to have to do something about this."

"Probably."  She turned to face him, not the least intimidated by his close proximity.  Another change...

Although she'd never been particularly intimidated; she simply hadn't allowed it of anyone.

Ever.

She tipped her head back to regard him, watching those warm brown eyes go somewhat wary.  Smart man.  "It's another reason to think twice about having the girls here.  Given what I do—what we do—they're just too vulnerable."  Yes, even feisty little Karlene, who still sometimes called Kimmer the name she'd learned from her father: That Bitch Kimmer.  Even if she said it with a wicked, wicked glint in her eye that meant she knew very well she only got away with such things because Kimmer adored her.

"Well, that's why you're talking to someone about it," Rio said—wary, yes, but not giving ground in the least.  Not in any sense of the word.

Kimmer snorted.  "A therapist," she said.  "All those years I dealt with my damned wretched family my way, and now I'm seeing a therapist over two little girls."

"Mm," Rio said, ever so carefully.  "Because mostly you didn't deal with that stuff at all."  He held his ground again when she would have reacted, instant temper pushing him away.  "You slew the dragon, Kimmer, but that's not the same as dealing with it."

She made a growling noise and he laughed, pulling her in close—and then lifting, pulling her off her feet simply by straightening.

Kimmer bit his chin.  Not hard; just enough to make her point.  Whatever it was.

Rio laughed and let her slide lightly down to her feet.  "What's today, then?"

"Owen is still checking into your broken cover," Kimmer said.  Of no little concern, that.  "And I've got community service next week."

And that was cleanup from her brother's mess, during which she'd broken a myriad of laws while taking down Romajn.  The woman who had ensnared Kimmer's brother Hank—her ex-brother Hank—who in turn had then brought the trouble to Kimmer's turf.  The one who had held Kimmer's nieces hostage for Hank's behavior after he got too clever for his own good—until Kimmer's interference brought the whole thing tumbling down.

Not before Hank died at Romajn's hands, leaving the girls in foster care.

Owen Hunter—mentor, boss, and sometimes friend—had managed to clear up a good deal of the charges, but...not all of them.  Not quite.  And so Kimmer was teaching self-defense to a class of middle-aged ladies.

She turned her attention back to the day—to Rio's question about their schedule.  "We're clear today, but if we're going to be ready for your cousin's arrival tomorrow and our trip to the girls, we've got to clean—"

But at the look on his face as he realized they had the day to themselves—pure, guileless anticipation, that look—she held up a hand.  "No, dammit, Rio, you wanted to do this domestic thing.  This living together thing.  And who invited Caro in the first place?  Who said, 'There's something not right with Caro.  Let's play house and invite her down.'"

Caro...Carolyne Carlsen, an anxious, brilliant technogeek who worked to save the world in her own way and had almost lost her life because of it.  Would have, if Kimmer hadn't intervened, meeting Caro's cousin Rio along the way.

Falling for him, against all her personal rules.

He gave her a long, steady look—a promise.  And then he sighed mightily, and scooped the mail into something resembling a stack so he could dole it out properly.

"Be good," she said, "and there's a Twinkie in it for you."

"I'll figure out where you've hidden them sooner or later," he muttered, handing her a stack of bills.  "Now if you'll excuse me, I think I have a litter box to clean."

But although he headed in the right direction, he stopped short, head cocked.  Kimmer reacted instantly, dropping the bills to the counter and slipping her feet out of their noisy thongs.  Thongs, worn cut-offs, a t-shirt tied at her midriff.  Just call her Kimmer-Mae Reed.

Because he'd heard something outside...but they hadn't heard a car.  And no one came up that long driveway in a car and went unheard.

She caught Rio's eye, and he nodded at the kitchen door—currently open to the screen, granting access to the breeze and to the long wrap-around porch.  I'm watching the back, said that nod.

She lifted her chin and headed for the front door on the other side of the house, slipping out to the slate gray paint of the porch.  She already knew every squeaky board, every wrong step.  She knew exactly when she'd become visible to any given point in the yard, and that she could peer through the tiered hanging basket of blooming bleeding hearts at the corner of the wrap-around porch before most people even noticed.

This time, peering through the waterfall of fuchsia blossoms told her little—a stiff, tall figure by the kitchen door—a woman—with her back to Kimmer.  Kimmer didn't relax in the least.  Romajn had been a woman.  Kimmer was a woman, and God help anyone who didn't take her seriously enough.

But still.  There was an uncertainty in this woman, dressed in jeans and a sloppy T-shirt.  An anxiety.  And just as Kimmer realized—it's Caro!—Rio's filtered voice said, "Either knock or go away.  Lurking there is annoying."  Whatever position he'd taken inside, he hadn't exposed himself to direct sight.

"Caro," Kimmer said, her voice low.

Carolyne Carlsen shrieked, straightening as if she'd been prodded in a personal area.  She spun around, her gaze searching the planters and hanging baskets until it lighted on Kimmer.  "Kimmer, my God!  You scared the—"

And at that, Rio stuck his head out the back door.  "That's what you get for lurking outside the home of two superhero operatives," he said.  "Especially when you had an invitation."

Kimmer wasn't as quick to let down her guard.  "Tell me you didn't bring unwanted friends," she said, meaning goonboys.

Caro took her meaning quite well—after what they'd been through together, how could she not?  "Nonono," she said, turning it into one long word.  "And I'm early, that's all, I just came a day early and I didn't know if you'd want—"

Kimmer exchanged a wry glance with Rio at this unfinished spurt of words.  "Caro," she said firmly, "you're always welcome.  You come early, you don't get the spiffy clean litter box effect.  That's all."

"I could hurry with that," Rio said, and he slipped out the door to enfold his cousin in a hug.  They were two of a kind—tall and sturdy, Caro's hair a golden contrast against Rio's pale wheat blond.  But Caro hadn't gotten Rio's exotic blend of features; she resembled her mother's side—her coloring a little darker, her oval face rounded into plainness that disappeared when her expression lit from within.  She returned the hug as Kimmer eased off the porch to spot Caro's car.  Damned quiet hybrid.  What was a spy to do?

Stay alert, that's what.  Even as she heard Caro offering a rapid explanation of her early arrival—missing family, needing grounding, and following impulse to drive a day early from Albany's suburbs to the Finger Lakes—she heard another vehicle.  Obvious, this time, making the turn into the landscape-hidden driveway with the loud and characteristic downshift of gear that not only confirmed its arrival, but told her who it was long before the vehicle was visible.

"Owen," she said out loud.  Owen and his antique farm truck.  She slanted a hard look at Carolyne.  "Tell me this is just coincidence."

Caro, startled, only stared for a moment—and then she laughed, short and a little bitter but entirely convincing.  "Coincidence, I swear.  I'm not up to anything that your Owen would care about.  Or that anyone else would care about, either."  And then—superstar genius researcher driven by inherent honesty-she had to mutter, "Well, not much, anyway."

But when Owen arrived, striding up to the porch in his no-nonsense manner and offering the merest lift of his chin to greet Kimmer along the way, he gave Caro his own wary look.  "Something happening here that I should know about?"

"Yes," Rio said, quite seriously.  "We're having a family visit.  We made an announcement; it was in all the papers.  Where have you been?"

Owen glanced briefly heavenward as if asking for strength, but it didn't buy him any time from Kimmer.  "What's up, Owen?  And cut right through any passing through the neighborhood excuses you have prepared.  You know I'll just see right through them."

Caro appeared aghast, looking to Rio, but Rio only grinned.  "Ah, that's my little cuddly-wuddly," he said.  "But hey, as long as Kimmer's mentioned it...what's up, Owen?"

Owen shook his head.  "Damn," he said.  "I should have known better than to ever let you two team up."

"You could have stopped them?" Caro asked, surprised.

"Team up on the job," Owen shot back, wry and dry.  He was in casual mode today, one of very few times Kimmer had seen his linebacker frame not defined by a suit.  Jeans—worn jeans at that—and a short-sleeve button-down with the tails left out, making a bulge over his hip that had to be his cell phone.

Of course.  As if he'd go anywhere without a connection to the Hunter Agency and to the operatives he handled.

The casual clothes didn't mean this wasn't business.  In fact, she'd be shocked if it was anything but.  Owen Hunter hadn't shown any signs of having a social life.  "Come on up," Kimmer said.  "Rio's dying to offer you something to drink.  His grandmother wouldn't have it any other way."  Her Japanese traditions had trickled down through the generations; Rio still took his shoes off outside the door as he could.

Carolyne brightened.  "I brought the best chai!" she said.  "Let me make it, Rio.  You have milk for it, don't you?"

"Let's get your bags."  Rio headed off the porch with Caro in tow, treading barefoot beside the tree-shaded driveway.

Kimmer crooked a finger at Owen.  "Come," she said.  "Sit."

"I will if you will," Owen told her, but he moved easily onto the short leg of the porch, making himself at home in the rocker there.

Kimmer sat against the railing, hitching her leg up; eyeing him.

He didn't waste any time.  "Something's come up."

She didn't need to say that she and Rio were off the books; he knew they had planned a trip with Caro to see the girls, and he knew she had community service the following week.  He probably knew when she had her next dentist appointment and haircut.  She ran fingers through her tight-cut hair, gauging the curl.  Soon.

Owen leaned back, crossing his ankle over his knee.  "We've got a client looking specifically for your services.  You and Rio."

"No kidding," Kimmer said flatly.

His laugh was short and a little hard.  Everything about Owen came hard, whether it was his features or his laugh or his very presence.  He had, she thought, taken on the Hunter Agency mantle at too young an age.  But he'd done it, and it had made him expert in all things Hunter...and he'd been the one to pick her off the streets, making him expert on all things Kimmer.

So she wasn't surprised when he said, "I know you're worried about what happened in New York."  Rio's cover, blown.   "I'm looking into it.  It seems to have been a tip.  From whom, we don't yet know."

"Rio's visibility was always a concern," she said.  Six-three, striking features, bright stand-out hair...disguises could handle some of that, but not all.  Especially when Rio's strength played to his compassion, his caring—his determination to get the job done.  "Unless this job's not undercover—?"

"It shouldn't be a problem," Owen said, by which he admitted—and they both knew it—that he was indeed talking about an undercover gig.  "He worked the Nordic/Germanic areas when he was CIA, and the incident before he left did make him visible in those circles.  But this new operation is in northern Spain."

The incident before he left.  Right.  The one where he lost friends, lost the agent-asset for whom he'd been responsible, and incidentally lost a kidney and almost his life.  All from stupidity within the agency that had left him disillusioned—and meant his work with Kimmer and the Hunter Agency was on contingency at best.  "Location doesn't matter.  You want a quickie dead drop in disguise, fine.  But don't even think about an extended undercover op.  Rio knows how to take advantage of his visibility, not to hide it."

"Exactly."  Owen said it with such satisfaction that Kimmer gave him a narrowed eye.  He had, she realized, somehow herded her right where he wanted to go.

Trust Owen to manage that even with someone who could read his every motive and undertone.

"Oh, just spit it out," she said in disgust.  Rio and Caro approached with her bags in hand—not much by way of clothes, but gadgets in abundance—and Rio gave her a questioning eyebrow on the way up the porch stairs.  Kimmer lifted her chin infinitesimally—enough to confirm that yes, Owen was here to kick the next several weeks out from under them, and yes, Caro needed to be kept out of it.

They silenced as the pair traversed the porch and headed into the house via the front door—the luggage dump.  Owen waited until Caro's chatter could be heard, filtered from the kitchen.  "The client wants exactly what Rio brings to the table—visibility.  She wants you as a traveling step-sibling pair—distant relatives—who are staying at her villa while you explore the area.  She even intimated that a hint of your real relationship would be a welcome bit of scandal to distract from the real reason you'll be there—guarding an antiquity while she arranges for its secure disposition at the Museo Arqueologico e Historico Vasco.  So your visibility and scandalous allure will deter interested parties even as you keep the object safe."

"Oh, ick."

"Oh, it's not that bad," Owen said.  "Plenty of step-siblings meet as adults."

Rio cleared his throat from the doorway.  "C'mon, Owen, that's striking a little close to home, don't you think?"

Weird rebellion rose in Kimmer.  "My damned brothers never got in more than a good grope," she said, her voice hard.  So they'd smacked her around...tormented her...tried to give her away...damaged her ability to trust so deeply that even now, it regularly astonished her to find herself sharing a home with a man.  "I can handle it.  I'm just not sure I trust it.  Owen, we haven't even been working as a team that long."  And we need more time after how things went down.  "How'd this client hear of us?  Us, specifically?"

Owen's expression darkened.  "Seems she knows someone in immigration...someone who mentioned your brief work at the southern border this late spring."

"Someone who should have kept his mouth shut," Kimmer muttered.

"No doubt about that."  But after a moment's grim contemplation, Owen lifted one shoulder, let it drop in resignation.  "But they didn't, and now we lose nothing by pursuing this."

"And what do we gain?" Rio asked.  "Aside from generating a bit of distracting scandal."

Owen rubbed his lower lip; Kimmer could have laughed out loud.  Here it was.  The layer running beneath the obvious.  The thing that was really making Owen tick this time.

"That area..." he said.  "Northern Spain..."  He looked straight at her.  "It's always been an area of unrest."

"The Basque Euskadi Ta Askatasuna," Kimmer said.  "ETA.  Old news.  And they're busy trying to look innocent since the cease fire failed, so Spain can look like the bully."

"They are."  Owen nodded, lacing in his fingers together and resting them over his belt buckle in lieu of his usual immaculate desk.  "But there have been rumblings..."

"They're targeting someone?" Rio asked, not sounding terribly surprised.  He still lingered at the doorway, bridging the territory between the spy talk and the cozy chai production—glancing back now and then at his cousin, left to her own happy devices in the kitchen.

"More like they've spawned some impatient splinter groups who're trying to fill the void and the resulting quiet after Ibon's arrest several years ago."  Owen's lack of inflection was too casual.  Somewhere along the line, directly or indirectly, Hunter had taken a hit from one of those groups.  "We're still putting the players together.  It could be a convenient thing to have a couple of operatives in the area right now."

Rio frowned.  Not quite saying it out loud, but not liking it.  Kissing step-sibs, working a job at the same time they were a distraction from the principle focus.  Not having to say it out loud, even if Kimmer couldn't read him as she read everyone else.

She thumped her heel against a porch rail.  "You don't even have clever terrorist group names for them yet?  ETA-plus?  T-Minus-Zero?"

For a fleeting second, Owen smiled.  But only for a second.  "These people take themselves very seriously, Kimmer.  So should we, if we want to stop that terrorist mindset from taking root again.  It's not far under the surface."

"So you want us to go, and you don't think Rio will be compromised, and you think his face factor will suit the situation just fine, and by golly we can even have sex because it'll only spice up the cover if everyone thinks it's happening."

Owen winced, but Rio laughed right out loud.  "Damn," he said.  "I do love you."

"But," Kimmer said, and Owen winced again even though he pretended not to, "what about our own travel plans?"

"Chai!"  The cheery call came from the kitchen, growing louder on the end note—and instead of leaving to distract Caro back into the kitchen, Rio merely stood aside and let her come.  It meant he'd decided Owen still had to prove himself on this one—that he was backing Kimmer.

That they were both thinking about their plan to visit to the girls, complete with Caro.  Their first family vacation, as unlikely as it was.  With a cousin in need, a cousin still struggling to reconcile her life expectations—a fiancé, plans for a family—with her life reality: the fiancé's betrayal, her plans in ruin.

But Caro knew the Hunter work was unpredictable; she knew Owen was their boss.  And when Kimmer added, "You think I'm going to disappoint those girls?" Caro knew exactly what was going on.  Even as she distributed plastic insulated tumblers and poured thick concoctions of iced chai, she eyed Owen and Kimmer and Rio, her expression both concerned and knowing.

"You can reschedule," Owen suggested, clearly knowing it sounded just as lame as it was.

"Caro," Kimmer pointed out, "is already here."

And then Caro did the unexpected.  "I'll go by myself."

Even Kimmer hadn't seen it coming.  Rio said, "Caro—?"

"No, seriously."  She tucked her long, gold-washed hair behind her ear.  "I need to get away—obviously, or I wouldn't have crashed on your doorstep a day early.  And I'd love to see the girls again.  Just hearing you talk about their letters and phone calls...I feel as though I know them much better than I have any right to.  I know it won't be the same for them, but I'll make sure they don't feel abandoned."  She hesitated, not quite looking at them.  "Maybe it'll help me process my own situation."

And Owen, as if he'd planned it all, folded his fingers together and rested them across his belt buckle, wisely saying nothing.

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

CHAPTER 3

Puddle-jumper to NYC; Brussels Air to Barcelona; Vueling Air to Bilbao.  Rio shifted in the business class Brussels Air seat and tried to fool his knees into thinking he'd gained leg room.  Kimmer helped; she always let him sprawl into her leg room, tucking her feet up to sit in some impossibly petite, folded pretzel.  At the moment, a pretzel who looked fairly well pleased with herself.  He said it out loud without thinking.  "What's got you so cat-and-canary?"  He tried to pretend the swoopy roll of the pain meds and muscle relaxants in his system had nothing to do with his loose tongue.

His back would never likely travel well again.  Not this cramped, sitting in one spot for a decade, kind of travel demanded by road trips and air travel.

Overseas train tracks suddenly seemed like a brilliant idea.

Kimmer smiled.  "Not quite yourself, are you?"

Dignity.  Remember dignity.

Forget dignity.  This is the one woman you'll never fool.

Not because she could use her knack of reading people on him; she couldn't.  But because she'd come to know him that well.

So he said, "You enjoy it far too much."

"You on opiates, or embarrassing customs inspectors?"  She smiled, all sharky innocence.

"At least you've given up on trying to get that war club past security," he muttered, and wondered about the potential of some nice sugary soda to cut through the dry taste in his mouth.

Her smile widened; her gaze unfocused enough to let him know she was thinking back on their most recent puddle jumper flight, when the security X-ray had revealed her war club—a vicious homemade weapon of a metal ball cradled in a red oak root cluster, made by an inventive teenager who shouldn't even have had to think of such things, and yet who'd used it to save her own life too many times even before she ever grew up into a Hunter operative.

"Oh, you found my massage ball!" she'd purred to the security guard at their tiny little regional airport.  "Would you like to see it?"  And when the security guard removed the thing—not waiting for an invitation—Rio had groaned inwardly.

How could anyone see it as anything but a weapon, even if she had cleaned off the stubborn flecks of blood?

Because who carried around a war club these days, anyway?  And it didn't have any sharp edges.  Less scary than batteries, three ounces of liquid, or even your basic knitting needle.

Kimmer hadn't missed a beat.  "Yes, that's it.  The metal holds the warmth of the oil, you know.  And the weight of it is so...comforting.  I never go anywhere without it."  She'd somehow made the moment a very personal one, just her and the guard.  "You'd be...surprised."

As if she needed the war club to surprise any man, in any way.  Rio hadn't dared look at her, or at the guard's entrancement.

And then the man had shaken himself off, realized anew where he was, and hastily stuffed the war club back into Kimmer's pack.

But that had been a very, very small airport indeed.  This trip, they'd get their guns, their edged weapons, and the war club once they landed in Spain.

Now Kimmer looked at Rio and said most wickedly, "I'll just savor the memories.  But no...not with international security.  Besides.  I've got a pen.  I'm armed."

"Scary but true."  His tongue felt especially thick.  His brain felt especially thick.  And how could she look so damned cute, anyway?  Pretzeled up in an airline seat with one of their blankets draped around her shoulders, jeans worn to thin satin over her legs and some ribbed knit thing clinging to every curve—the sleeves a tad too long, the scooped front just low enough, and the color an intense, deep teal that brought out her equally deep eyes.

Yeah.  So damned cute, with her efficient little killer war club nearby and her empty hands already efficient enough.

She reached into her backpack and pulled out a tiny bottle of water from the puddle-jumper ride between Elmira and Buffalo, and then she produced a small packet of sandwich cookies and put them in his unsuspecting hand.  "Here," she said.  "Have your snack and sleep while you can."  They both knew his back would offer up too much grief to allow rest later in the flight.

Rio stared at the cookies.  "Damn," he said.  "You really know how to get to a guy."

She took them back, tore them open for him, and plunked them in his hand, tucking the water bottle in the pocket of the seat-back before him.  "You ever learn anything else from Caro?"

A whirlwind of preparation had made their visit perfunctory; Caro had been left with the house keys, the cat food, and the intent of driving five hours southwest to visit Sandy and Karlene—albeit not until after a teary, pouty phone exchange with those same to prepare them for the change of plans.

"You think you can bribe me into betraying a confidence?" Rio said, around a satisfying bite of cookie goodness.

"I think you'll tell me anything right now, Mister See-My-Pupils," Kimmer said.  She might have been smirking, but a quick second look revealed only that previous affection.  "But note my restraint—I ask only about Caro."

Rio chased the cookie with a swig of lukewarm water.  "She's hurting," he said, brushing a hand along Kimmer’s. Thinking, mine, and thank goodness.  "That traitorous excuse for a fiancé really messed with her head.  I think she's mourning the family thing as much as the relationship, so...not a good starting place.  She said something about grabbing a test tube and mugging some unsuspecting guy for his—"  Belatedly, he realized the flight attendant was passing, and dropped his voice to mutter, "You get the picture."

"Sure," Kimmer said.  "Guys suck.  Lucky for women, these days there are alternatives if you want family."  At Rio's alarmed expression, she laughed.  "Don't worry.  I'll protect you if I see anyone lurking with a test tube."  She stole a cookie, nibbling at its edges.  "Get some sleep," she repeated, and reached for her pack again.  "I'll see what else Owen dug up about our temporary mistress-to-be."

"Not enough," Rio said darkly, the words slipping right out of his uncensored mouth.  Conflict chased over her face—concern and worry and determination all at once.  His mouth kept talking, looking to assuage it all.  "You know as well as I do that we shouldn't have taken this assignment—not without more control over the scenario.  Out of the country, working for someone who wants to pull all the strings...stupid cover is only going to get in our way...wait.  I'm not making this better."

"You could have said something," she told him gently, understanding the effects of the pain meds on his mouth, accepting them.  But he still saw the conflict there, lurking on her face—and he understood it.  Can we do this?  Together?  Are we good?

"Aurgh," he said.  "I know.  I know.  I just—"

"Yeah," she said.  "Me too."  I want this to work.  Her voice lowered.  "So get some sleep."

"Love it when you talk to me that way."  Rio closed his eyes.  The blackness of his lids swirled slightly with his own swoopy head; his back registered as a dull ache, the first threat of you're gonna be sorry.  He gave it a mental manly sneer of disdain and promptly fell asleep.

~~~

From Barcelona to Bilbao, and the plane disgorged them into a bustling airport that nonetheless had its pockets of isolation; Kimmer found them one.  There, in a gate just emptied of passengers, Rio stretched his long frame across a string of connected seats and let her massage his lower back with experienced hands while he tried to throw off the drugs.  "Could have been worse," he said, sounding disgruntled all the same.

Of course he did.  For day to day life, he'd recovered well enough, kept himself strong enough, so he rarely had to think about his old injury.  In day to day life, he made a dozen small accommodations at any given time, hardly even realizing it—accommodations the travel didn't allow him.  Stuck on three airplanes on an overseas and then a cross-country flight was as hard on him as any goonboy encounter.

Speaking of which, she was careful to avoid his healing gunshot crease.  It saved our lives, she reminded herself silently, working on the knot of muscle just above the old thick, ugly scar.  I'd do it again if I had to.

That didn't seem to make the sight of it any easier.  She cleared her throat.  "Better?"

"Getting there," he said, sounding almost sentient.  "Talk to me.  What did Owen give us in his packet of goodies?”

She snorted.  "Mostly pending.  Still waiting for employee background reports, have a security contact in Monaco, about a day away," she said.  "Can't openly grill anyone, gotta slink around the villa...I don't know.  Maybe you were right."

But Rio shrugged off the pessimism.  "We'll make do," he said.  "And then Hunter will owe us.  Not a bad position to be in."

Kimmer grinned.  "You think like a spook."

"Once a spook," Rio said easily.

She shrugged.  "Well, we're working on the fly.  We'll get there, establish cover with our slightly scandalous relationship, and get some tech set up as soon as we can."

"Señora Amaia Padilla y de la Fuente viusa de Florez," Rio said, the name rolling off his tongue with surprising fluency.  "A woman of influence and breeding."

"Be easier just to call her the Widow Florez," Kimmer grumbled.

"When in Spain," Rio told her, sounding more like himself each passing moment.

"And she's expecting us this afternoon.  Jet lag or not."  Kimmer patted his back with finality and moved away, giving him room to sit up.  He swung his legs around and brushed himself off, straightening his lightweight shirt and reaching for the jacket he'd used as a pillow.  Lots of straps and buckles and pockets, that jacket.  Kimmer secretly coveted it.  But for now she just took it and shook it out so he could don it more easily and then picked up both her pack and his, ready to head for their baggage; they'd already been through customs in Barcelona.  "C'mon, a little walking will get your blood moving.  No moving walkways for you."

He gave her a cross look simply because he was supposed to, but it was a measure of the lingering meds in his system that he didn't notice she had both packs until they were well on their way to the baggage.

Picking out their bags took only moments; most of the passengers from their flight were long gone, making it easy for Kimmer to redistribute certain weapons without notice—a knife or two, and ahh, yes.  The war club, right into her backpack.  Along with her beloved little digital camera, which had been packed for safety.  Have camera, will travel.  Once, it had been how she connected with the world—through the eyepiece.  Now she had Rio, but...

She still carried the camera.

By then Rio was indeed moving more easily, and he loaded himself up with more than his share as Kimmer prowled ahead to find the rental car location.

They ended up outside, waiting for the mini-bus to the rental kiosks on the outskirts of the airport, watching cars swerve to the curb, disgorge and acquire passengers, and dart back into the stream of traffic.  "Same old, same old," Kimmer said, resting her backpack on her toes and draping her elbow over the extended handle to her rolling suitcase.  She was their translator here, competent if not natively fluent in Spanish, and she kept an ear to the conversations around them, dipping in and out to re-immerse herself in the rapid, emphatic flow of language.

Perhaps that was why she didn't immediately follow when a man behind them said in English, "Get in the car."  He didn't even give her a chance to turn around, to question him—to point out that there was no car to get into.

Beside her, Rio had already stiffened in that peculiar way that could only mean there was a weapon shoved at some part of his body, and then Kimmer took a strong shove toward the curb.  "Get in the car, gilipoyas!"

At the moment, a car swooped in toward the curb, a tidy little BMW with the back door already sweeping open.

"Driver's mine," Rio said, so casually as to draw no response from their Welcome Wagon rep; he gave under the man's push, sprawling into the backseat of the car with his legs still trailing.

"Idiot is mine," Kimmer responded under her breath.  She dipped a hand into the backpack as she stumbled forward, her hand closing around the familiar worn wood of the little war club, its leather loop snugging into place around her wrist.  And dammit, he pushed her again, right on the ass.

She couldn't help but slap head-first into the side of the car, just barely nimble enough to soften the blow by throwing her pack out in front of her.  She slid down the side of the car into the gutter, losing one of her clog sneakers; her toes scraped along the rough cement of the curb, then found purchase.

The man reached for her, a barrel-chested man with dark curly hair and heavily shadowed jowls and big rough hands that had the wrong idea.  Kimmer braced herself; the car bobbed and rocked against her with the battle waging in its interior.  Hands splayed against asphalt, club handle rolling beneath her grip and shoulders against the car, she kicked out with both feet—two wicked fast hammer blows to his knees, and then she kipped out to land awkwardly, unevenly, but upright enough to twist over on one knee.

Surprised cries from their fellow travelers greeted her acrobatics, and then again when she instantly followed momentum to bring the war club against the very base of the man's spine as he staggered forward.

Bone cracked, unmistakable; he howled and went face first into the window—just as the driver smashed into the same window from the inside, blood flowing down his face and smearing down the glass.

Kimmer snagged her assailant's collar and hauled--he tipped backward over the curb with a cry, leaving room for the door to open; Rio reached up from inside and flipped the latch.

The driver ejected with help, looking as glad to escape as he was reluctant to hit the pavement.

The sounds of shouting, whistle-blowing, and general demand-making grew from a background noise to something more imminent.  Behind the car, the rental service mini-bus tootled up and honked an indignant horn, oblivious to the rest of it...and blocking them from view.

Kimmer tossed their luggage in through the open back door and kicked it closed, scooted into the front seat, and slid over the stick shift and into the driver's seat.  An instant to glance at the little shift map on top of the stick and she jammed it into first, pulling out into the traffic stream with sufficient authority to leave a series of squealing brakes behind her.  "Well, we were waiting to rent a car.  Now we have one."

"That we do," Rio said, tossing the bloodied metal body of a pen beside her as he leaned forward to twine his arms over the passenger side head rest.  "What'd you do to that guy?"

"Broke his ass," Kimmer said with some satisfaction.  It'd be months before he could easily sit again.  "The club earns its keep."

Rio pondered it a moment, as they swung out of the airport and onto Avenida Txorierri—the main road which would head them toward Bilboa if they'd wanted to go that far.  But the Señora was conveniently located in the rich lands between Loiu and Bilboa, and Kimmer kept her eyes open for Bidea Izarza, the side road that would take them into the rugged old estate lands of the craggy green countryside.  Settling his chin on the head rest, Rio said, "That club earned its keep a long time ago.  Just don't begrudge me the guns."

"Never fear," Kimmer said.  "I plan to load up, too—especially after that reception.  See if you can get Owen, why don't you?  If our cover's blown already—"

"What?  Don't you have your super-rugged cell phone in that pack of yours?"  Rio's voice was all innocence, even as he leaned over the seat to rifle the glove box.  Not that he'd ever tease her about her propensity to lose phones and batteries to bizarre circumstances.  The goat.  Gah.  Would she ever live down the goat?  "I left the phone out to make room for the club," she said, deadpan.  "Find anything in that glove box?"

"Some names to follow through on, maybe.  And lookie, lookie.  Photos of you and me.  With our cover names on the back.  Kimberly and Richard Haight.  Doesn't look like we were blown after all.  Just...wanted."

"Jeeze, I haven't even done anything in this country yet.  And have I mentioned how much I hate that cover name?"  Kimberly.  Her mother's name had been Kimberly, before she'd died so young.  Kimberly, nicknamed Kimmer...the name she'd given the daughter she'd tried so hard to raise tough enough to survive.

"I know," Rio said, pausing in his search to look over at her.  "I'm sorry."

"Client choice," Kimmer snarled, but left it alone—and a moment later, spotted their turn and flipped on the blinker.  "Nice car," she said, as if that plaintive moment hadn't happened.  "Smooth."

Rio braced himself and stuffed the papers back into the glove box as they turned, then plunked back in the seat among the luggage as they headed down a winding road.  Still well-traveled and maintained, but the ambience almost immediately changed to that of dignified old Spain.  "Y'know," he said, "if this little attempt isn't about us..."

Kimmer nodded.  "Then it's about our new employer."

"Unless it's just the way things can be around here.  Owen had his reasons for sending us, after all."

They pondered the situation in silence a few long moments, long enough to reach Bidea Goietxa.  Kimmer turned east, into the craggy green hills, and said, "That's the last of the signed streets.  Now we follow our noses."  Well, and Owen's detailed instructions.

"We need to ditch this car," Rio murmured, shifting luggage around in the back so he could sit more conventionally. "I'm pretty sure the local cops nabbed our reception committee.  The car's probably compromised."

No arguing that.  "After we see if our venerable employer has any idea why we've already attracted attention."

"Señora Amaia Padilla y de la Fuente viusa de Florez," Rio recited, imbuing the words with tones of great significance and dignity.  "Somehow I'm not sure we're the ones who'll be doing the questioning."

~~~

They found the family estate of the Widow Florez with only a little backtracking through the winding roads—plenty of time for Rio to grab the glove box papers for a more thorough examination, and to stow them in his backpack.  Hunter might find them useful when it came to figuring out if the attack had been on Kimberly and Richard or Kimmer and Rio.

Neither of them spoke of returning to the airport to discuss the situation with authorities.  As Hunter operatives, they wanted nothing to do with that sort of cover-breaking attention—and that meant as tourists, they were far too frightened.

Although if the little ambush did indeed turn out to be the average kidnapping-of-distant-relatives-of-an-influential-local-family, it only reinforced their cover, and gave them plenty of reason for a wary attitude during their visit.

Kimmer slowed the car as they approached the main house, having passed a plethora of sheep shacks and outbuildings and entered an area of mature landscaping.  Oaks of various species spread large and proud across the green lawn; trimmed bushes clustered around the various retaining walls and vines climbed every vertical surface—most of which were whitewashed stucco.  The house itself rose above it all, perched in the side of the hill that climbed higher yet behind it.  Giant red blossoms rode a number of trellises at the corners of the house; brick-red wooden shutters, looking fully functional, set off the windows.

"Noble and established family estate," Kimmer muttered as a man with hedge shears waved them on to park at the edge of the crushed limestone driveway circle.  "Doesn't look too damned secure, though."

"Not for an enticing and valuable antiquity."  Rio leaned forward to eye the low windows and stepped roof layers, judging just how easily either he or Kimmer could enter at any level.  Too easily.

He climbed out, pulling their luggage after him, and straightened for a stretch to ease the vulnerable spot in his back.  The moderate summer breeze welcomed him with a caress and just a hint of altitude-gifted coolness.

"You okay?" Kimmer asked, her gaze still roaming over the villa as she put her hands to the small of her own back, stretching in a way that caught and held his eye.  Ohh, Kimmer.  She did indeed constantly underestimate the effect of that petite and wiry form on him—just as she constantly surprised him with what she could do with it.

Of course, she constantly surprised the goonboys, too.  She knew how to strike hard and when to run; she knew how to use the unexpected.  She'd escaped her wretched family and their wretched idea of childhood with those skills, and they now served her well.

He didn't think she could give them up if she tried.

She scrubbed her fingers through her dark brown hair, recently cut to the barest cap of repressed curls, and then, spotting their welcome committee as Rio did, tried to smooth down the damage.

"Here," he said, and quickly ran his hands along the lines of the wispy-edged cut, taming the short hair back as much as anyone did.  His fingers lingered at the fringe along her nape.

"Later for you, mister," she said, as though she'd finally learned to read his mind.  Not that he'd been subtle.

Just establishing our scandalous nature.

Right.  Nice save, mister spy guy.

At her nod, he turned and found that their welcoming committee—a lone woman—was almost upon them, having navigated the narrow stone stairs of the multi-layered yard in record time.

Her imposing manner made him straighten in spite of himself.  A mature woman with striking silver grey throughout in her severely styled black hair, her expression did nothing to offset her dark brows and the stern line of her lipsticked mouth; her tailored linen suit revealed nothing of personality other than practical efficiency.

But she smiled as she drew up to them, and it struck Rio as genuine.  "Señor Ricardo; Señorita Kimberly.  I am Señora Marina Montalban—you may call me Marina.  Let me welcome you to the home of Señora Amaia Padilla.  She is so pleased to have arranged your services."

"Hunter was glad to respond to her need," Rio said, completing the niceties.

Marina grew more serious as she added, "I am one of few who know who you are.  I will make certain you are aware of the others, most of whom are modestly involved in our inexperienced security efforts.  To everyone else, you are merely visitors.  Doña Amaia often opens her home to the most obscure of relatives, so no one will consider your presence unusual."

"And the Doña?" Kimmer asked.  Rio caught it, then—the faint tip of her head, the tension in her shoulders.  Waiting for what the woman hadn't yet said.

The smile disappeared; those stern lips thinned.  With reluctance, Marina said, "She is detained in Barcelona, where she spends much of her time.  We had hoped she could meet you here, but her health...it has been troublesome of late.  We do not speak widely of it."

I've got a feeling about this, he thought loudly at Kimmer, but didn't voice it.  He'd had his chance to say no; he hadn't.

"Let us start with the villa," Marina said, smiling again.  "Leave your luggage—someone will see to it.  And is that...that does not look like a rental car—?"

"It's a loaner," Kimmer said, as careful with her words as she ever was.  "Do the Doña's guests often draw unwelcome attention at the airport?"  And then, when Marina responded with nothing more than a blank look, she added, "Some men tried to take us.  This is their car."

Her surprise would have been hard to fake.  "To take you!  But—"

"We didn't hang around," Kimmer said dryly, relaxing just enough so Rio knew he'd been right—Marina hadn't known about the incident.  "The car seemed handy."

"But—the men—"

"In the hands of the Guardia, probably."

Rio couldn't help a cheery smile.  "Worse for wear, too.  I thought these incidents had faded since the arrest?"

Marina waved her hands in a distressed fashion.  "They have, they have.  This is terrible.  I don't think I should tell the Doña—"  She gave them each a sharp look, assessing their appearance—recognizing, belatedly, the signs of their scuffle—seeing Kimmer's bare foot.  "You are without a shoe!"

"I have other shoes," Kimmer said.  "And we're fine.  But we'd like to discuss this incident with the Doña.  We need to figure out if we were attacked for who we are, or who we're supposed to be."

Marina spent a moment in thought.  "No one knows the true circumstances of your arrival.  Although things have been much more peaceful here since the cease-fire and discussions with the ETA, lately..."  She hesitated, casting Kimmer a reluctant look.

That's my cue.  Rio faded several steps away, distracting himself with an examination of the villa. After years in the field cultivating foreign assets for the CIA—understandably cautious assets who were understandably reluctant to spy on their own governments—he knew when to give an informant a little space.

And he'd been good at it, too; he'd liked it.  He'd felt it was important work, even if the injury would have changed the nature of it.

No, the injury hadn't driven him out of the Agency.  But for Rio—who valued family, friends, and loyalty—the betrayal of a fellow agent from within meant that the Agency no longer felt like home.

Hunter had yet to prove itself one way or the other.

Marina was saying, "They call themselves Basajaun—a name from our myths—a spirit who dwells in deepest caves and forests, and who protects this land.  They say that is what they do, but...where the ETA has targeted politicos and institutions, these people strike at influential families to make their points.  They call us traitors and collaborators.  We, who have been here as long as or longer than any!"

The ETA turned uncivilized.  Now there was a thought.

"And Richard and Kimberly are here to visit an influential family."  Kimmer shook her head.  "Probably nothing to do with our undercover status, then."  She glanced at Rio, who lifted his shoulder—part shrug, part agreement.  They'd send their glove box intel to Hunter, but it seemed that Kimberly and Rick Haight had been the ones in trouble today, not Kimmer Reed and Rio Carlsen.

"Please," Marina said.  "As long as you are both unharmed, let us forget about this terrible thing for now.  Allow me to show you around the villa—to offer you a light meal.  Tomorrow, you can see to the arrangements for the antiquity.  It is soon enough."

Kimmer gave Rio a shrug; it'd give them the evening to connect with Hunter and prowl around without scrutiny.  She slung her backpack over one shoulder and kicked off her second clog sneaker to go barefoot.

The villa boasted only a modest alarm system at the front entry, but the authorative architecture within was more impressive--an airy cathedral foyer with exposed beams at the ceiling, a stairway off to the side, everything whitewashed and spacious and groaning with the importance of heritage.  The kitchen was a modern wonder, the stairways narrow, and the partial second floor lined with a wood banister.  Outside the back of the house, a stone terrace interfaced with the hill, sporting planters of lush green ivy and cascades of the outrageously large red blooms.  Their rooms were adjoining, and both had glass doors leading to the terrace, an area made more private by the skillful arrangement of stucco walls.  The shared bathroom was tiny but modern and full of Mediterranean tile.

Pleased with their genuine delight at the villa, Marina led them back to the dining area—a huge table with place settings at only one end.  "Tomorrow you will see the arrangements for the antiquity and meet more of the staff," she said.  "But for tonight, it is just the three of us."

How long had it been since those cookies?  Rio sat happily before txnagurro rellano, a spicy stuffed crab arrangement eaten with a snappy white wine called Txakoli.  Not far from the sea at that.

And though Rio made easy small talk with Marina, he also could easily see the wheels turning in Kimmer's head.  She wouldn't wait until the next day to see the arrangements for the antiquity, he could see that right away.  He also clearly caught the look she sent him as they received a dessert of light sherbet.  As hampered as she was when it came to interviewing the staff as Kimberly, she'd seen someone she wanted to talk to.

He'd find out who soon enough.  Whatever Marina had planned for the evening, he and Kimmer would tidy up a few loose ends and then quietly explore the villa.  With the Basajaun adding themselves to the mix, they couldn't afford to...afford to...

He realized, then, that he'd lost the thread of the conversation—that Kimmer was saying with distaste, "Step-siblings.  As adults."

"Oh, but it is perfect."  Marina took the last spoonful of her sherbet.  "Just the lightest touch of scandal to draw the eye away from what's really there.  And the Doña was so grateful that you could attend her need.  She had heard so many good things about you—"

"Where?"  Kimmer's interruption came lightly, but she cast Rio a look—pay attention, it said.  This is important.

Marina dabbed at her lips with the napkin.  "I beg your pardon?"

"Where did the Doña hear of us?" Kimmer asked again, playing in her sherbet.  When she looked up to pin her suddenly intense gaze on Marina, the older woman fumbled her napkin.

"I—" she said, nonplused.  "I'm afraid I didn't ask her that.  I only know that she said it to me."

Kimmer gave the tiny little nod that meant the woman's subtlest body language cues matched her words, and finished her sherbet.  Rio discovered that his sat barely touched before him; he stared at the cut crystal bowl.  Stared rather stupidly, even if he had to say it himself.  God, was he getting that old?  Jet lag had hit him that hard?

He suddenly realized that Kimmer had cleared her throat.  Loudly.  And that she was saying, "I'm sorry.  He didn't travel well.  Maybe it would be best if we retired for the evening."

"Certainly."  Marina was nothing if not understanding.  She probably saw a lot of the Doña's travel-stupid relatives.  "We can start fresh tomorrow."  And she added a congenial Spanish phrase that Rio might have been able to puzzle out if he'd had half a brain.  Kimmer responded in kind, and then she was at his side, tugging him to his feet.

He felt as though he should have something to say...but nothing came to mind.  He followed her to his assigned second floor room, lurching against the narrow staircase...stepping on Kimmer's foot a number of times to boot.  Damn, but she was patient, yanking her bare toes out from under his with such apparent speed that he pondered the possibility that he now existed in a parallel, slowed universe.

It could happen.

Once in his room, she made sure he found the bed—she pulled off his sneakers, and then his pants.  She checked that the overhead fan was set to lazily stir the air, pulled the window drapes, and finally bent over to prod him once in the chest.  "You should have told me if you were going to take more stuff for your back," she said, a glint of betrayal surfacing in her dark blue eyes.

She was counting on me, he realized.  To cover her back this evening in the villa.  And then, I didn't take any more—which he tried to say out loud but got stuck in a grunt.

He hadn't.  Had he?

But here he was.  An idiot.  With Kimmer's kiss lingering on his lips and the overhead light snapping out as she hit the switch at the door and closed it behind her.

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

CHAPTER 4

Kimmer prowled out her annoyance on the perfectly nice room she'd been given.  She checked it for bugs, then checked it twice.  Angry at Rio, angry at herself.  Of course he'd needed to take another round of meds to get his back through the tail end of the trip.  Even if he should have told me.  And how feeble had she grown, that after such a short time together, she needed a partner to proceed?

She damned well didn't.

Working together means being able to work apart.

And it meant getting his back when he was down.

But it didn't feel quite like that, somehow.  It felt...

Alone.

She grabbed her camera—better than comfort food—and framed an offset image of the antique dresser.  The dresser, the heavily carved mirror frame—a close-up or two, there, filling her world—and she felt herself relax.

She stopped, then, setting the camera aside and letting go of the remaining trickle of worry and hurt and sliding back into Chimera...breathing in the room around her—the spacial feel of it, the smells, the scant clues of its layout in the falling darkness.  Lavender—she took another deep breath—and, somewhere, cedar.  Faint light trickled in through the open curtains and the terrace door; darkest shadows marked the wardrobe and beneath the bed.

Once she'd marked it all in her mind, she walked it—learning the hard tasseled edges of the area rug and the corners of the furniture, finding the lights...marking the exits.

And then, quite matter-of-factly, she flipped on the light, closed the curtains, and withdrew their shared laptop from the luggage that sat neatly beside the bed.  A few moments with a satellite connection and a hand scanner over the crumpled pages from the glove box, and Hunter would be on the trail, such as it was, of the men at the airport.  Late afternoon in the Finger Lakes left plenty of time to get started.

But the car...the car had to go.  It should have been taken care of this evening, but Rio...

First thing tomorrow would be good enough, she told herself.

She took a moment to answer email from the girls, letting them know she and Rio were fine and were enjoying their business trip.  She told them about the stuffed crab entree, knowing the giggly-shrieky reaction that would get from the girls.  She told them again how Caro was coming just to see them—and warned Karlene that Caro knew exactly what poison ivy looked like.

She wished she could find a way to tell them to be kind to Caro, her newly acquired cousin-in-need, but...they were still learning how to be kind to themselves.  And what did Kimmer know of such family dynamics, anyway?  She signed off with hugs and kisses that still didn't feel quite right, but for which Sandy in particular showed a craving—and which she knew, with all her hot, hard memories, that feisty little Karlene needed most of all.

And then, because she had a moment, she scrolled through the heavily filtered junk folder in search of misfiled mail.  Blah, blah enhancements blah performance blah stock market secrets!  All forwarded from her seldom-used public account—only the girls and her Hunter associates had that address.

Except...

What was that?  Personalized, but unfamiliar...some sort of anonymous remailer, straight to her Hunter account.  Virus free, or it wouldn't still be sitting on this heavily protected server, but...she gave it a squint, and clicked it open.

THINKING OF YOU.

All-caps shouting, no signature.  Right here in her private email.

She scowled at the monitor, kicked the email into a forwarding window, and made a note to Owen.  We have to talk about this when I get back.

Someone knew where she lived...and cared.  Someone knew her off-the grid email address...and wanted her to know about it.  There had to be a point...

Or not.  Sometimes, harassment was the point.  Who knew what toes she'd stepped on while repeatedly saving her little corner of the world?

She logged off but left the machine running; if Rio happened to wake, he'd know she'd been at work; he'd be able to log on if he wanted.  Maybe by then they'd have the villa personnel files on which he was taking point.

But she didn't expect him to wake.  Not as hard and fast as he'd gone down.

She jittered around the room another moment, thinking about her options.  Early bed, as wise as it would be, held no appeal.  Too much sleep on the plane.  She did a few spontaneous jumping jacks; skipped an invisible rope.  Maybe a run along the country road.  Maybe a sly skulk or two around the antiquity.

But skulking...she couldn't quite bring herself to move ahead without Rio.

Not fear or concern, no—not for herself, or for leaving him here.  Just a reluctance to leave that hard-won partnership behind.

So she dug into her luggage for her running shoes, streamlined Adidas Litestrikes that left her feet feeling free.  Lycra running shorts, a loose tank top over her sports bra, a slim LCD flashlight card strung around her wrist, and Kimmer slipped out to the terrace to find her way down to the driveway from there.

The right decision.  She knew it as soon as her feet struck up a good running stride.  The rich crab fueled her; she'd gone several miles on the flat, winding road before she even thought about turning around, and even then, when she arrived back at the villa, it was with plenty of energy to spare.  Silently, she made her way back to the terrace, where she stretched out in evening air gone muggy, lit by a waxing moon just now rising—and by the glow of the single light she'd left on, filtering through the curtains.

A shower, she thought.  And then she'd be ready for bed.  Or she should be ready for bed.  She didn't feel it yet.  Face it.  You don't get so many overseas assignments to be used to it.

She walked through the terrace door with the oversized tank top—Rio's—halfway over her head, moving by memory—and stopped short.

A new smell.  Spicy.  Not food.

Aftershave.

She dropped the hem of the shirt, pivoting to take out the glowing little bedside lamp with her foot.  She had a glimpse of a startled form jumping up from the wing-backed chair in the corner, and then the lamp crashed into darkness.

"I know this room in the dark," she told the man in Spanish.  "Do you?"

He took an obvious step toward her in the dark.  "Please," he said, and reached for her.

"Your mistake," she muttered.  Because I'm not there anymore.  She slid around behind him, silent in the soft-soled running shoes—and unleashed a controlled kick into the small of his back, sending him straight into the bed.  Face first in the soft feather duvet, and she leapt for him, landing on his back and scrabbling for his arms.

He fought to turn his head away from the enveloping duvet, hunting air.  "Por faphbvr!" he cried, garbled as it was.

There was a panicked sincerity in his voice; it caught at her.  She leaned on the puffy material, clearing his mouth.  "Speak," she demanded.

"Larraitz—no, Marina," he gasped.  "Sent me."

Ah?

"To my room?"  Kimmer inquired, her voice all silk.  "To do what, exactly?"

"Let me up now?" he suggested, using heavily accented English in a tone that suggested this should please her.  It revealed the youth in his voice and the macho in his thinking, but she heard nothing of threat.

Still.  "Not just yet."  She offered a subtle demonstration of just how much more uncomfortable he could be if she shifted her knees just so.  On another bed, a hard bed, he could have rolled or thrown her.  Not on this one—and he didn't seem inclined to try.

He grunted, a wordless acquiescence.

"To do what?" Kimmer repeated.

He sighed—no mean feat under the circumstances.  "To watch for you," he said in English, then hesitated.  "No, that's not right.  To watch out for you?  To help.  To make sure no thing of wrongness happens."

"She thinks we need protection?"  Kimmer didn't hide her affront.  Not that Rio had made an impression this evening, but still.

"No, no, no."  There was that touch of panic again; he turned earnest.  "To make the beginning, ah..."

"I do speak Spanish," she told him.  Not Basque, which would probably get inconvenient before this job was over, but for now Spanish would do.

Apparently he'd forgotten it in the scuffle, for he instantly broke into a fast babble.  "It is just a courtesy, that's all.  I can run errands, I can help watch—whatever you would want.  I am at your disposal."

"What you are," Kimmer said, stern enough to hide her rising amusement, "is in my room.  At night."

That silenced him for a moment.  "Oh," he said.  "That."

Laughter lurked behind her throat; she shoved it back.  "What's your name?"

"Jurdan," he said, and his hope leaked through.  He thought the worst was over.  "Now, I can get up?"

"Let's just deal with why you're in my room."

He shifted beneath her knees.  "Just to see if you needed anything before the rest of the household went to bed.  Marina—"

"Larraitz?" Kimmer suggested.  A terrible liar, this one.  She'd figure that part out later.

He went sideways.  "You did not respond, but...there was a light.  So I—"

"You let yourself in," Kimmer said for him.  "And then you waited."

"Certainly."  He mustered what must have been every casual atom in his body.  "Certainly, I waited, so that I could ask if you needed anything."

Silly machoboy.  How transparent could he be?  Kimmer knew just what he'd thought he might provide—for a generous tip, no doubt.

She pushed herself away, moving fast enough to flip on the overhead light at the other side of the room before he'd done more than flounder to his feet.  "I do need something," she said.  "That little bedside lamp is broken, and I need it to be replaced."

Not what he'd had in mind, this young man with dark, bewitching eyes and a thick thatch of hair falling over his forehead, his jaw rough with affected stubble that served to hide the hint of scarring from old acne.  Not that old—he can't be much more than twenty.

"But first," she said, "let's go take a walk.  I want to see the antiquity."

~~~

She wished she'd thought to have her camera ready at that request, just to capture the look on his face.

"The Dwelling?" he blurted.  "Tonight?  The Etxea?"

The Dwelling.  Her first hint of what they might be talking about, and it was no hint at all.  It couldn't really be a house.  Not and need this kind of security from theft.

"Yes, the Etxea," she said, finding herself cheered.  In spite of the run, she wasn't ready for sleep.  She'd been hoping to find an email message from Owen to chew on, but this was totally so much better.

She reached for her camera, slipping the war club out of her pack to tuck at the small of her back, hidden by the tank top.  Not that she'd need it here, but—

Good thing she hadn't had it a few moments earlier, in fact.  Jurdan wouldn't have gotten off quite so lightly for his presumptions.

He didn't look as though he thought he was getting off lightly now.  "Señora Marina has retired for the evening," he said, looking at her with eyes that begged her to note his sensibility.  "We should wait until tomorrow.  Then I would be privileged to show you—"

Kimmer shrugged.  "Never mind.  I'll find it.  I know it's around here somewhere."  She looked down at herself in quick inspection, brushing at a damp spot where the shirt stuck to her sweating skin.  A shower wouldn't be amiss.  But that's not what this was about, this brush-up.  This was about giving Jurdan a moment to say—

"Oh, no, Miss Kimberly.  I would be pleased to show you that room."

She gestured to the door, a suggestion that he lead the way.  He took it.

She had anticipated that their mysterious antiquity would be in an interior room with limited access, or perhaps a single third floor nook.  When he led her downstairs, she quickly adjusted her thinking.  Surely it wasn't on the first floor—and that meant down.  Really down.

And down they went.  To the kitchen—there again, modestly alarmed—to the wine cellar, and then—with a quick unhappy look around—Jurdan led her to a small, thick wooden door set in what looked to be solid stone.  No longer did the structure look modernized and updated; Kimmer felt as though she had stepped back in time, facing this heavily locked door with its leafy carvings and generous sprinkling of the plump, twisting Basque cross.

"The lauburu," Jurdan said.  "But do not make the mistake of thinking it is a Christian symbol."

"No," Kimmer murmured, and left her camera tucked in her waistband out of respect.  The elements of mankind, as defined by a pagan world.  She'd done her reading.  "Christianity came late to this region, I believe."

Jurdan nodded, unlocking the door and tucking away the key.  "It is good to know that you know."  He picked up the candle lamp waiting in a tiny stone niche, removed the chimney, and used an all-too-modern disposable lighter at the wick.  "Do you think," he said, "we might sometime discuss the manner of your fighting?"

She hadn't expected it.  Jurdan needed to impress someone, did he?  "Sure, we might do that," she agreed.

"It is a special discipline, then?"

She laughed.  "Let's just say it runs in the family."  She reached for the ancient iron latch of the door, but hesitated.  Couldn't help it.  Here she was, on the verge of playing Indiana Jones, and her partner snored the night away.

But she drove the wistful away.  She'd seen the opportunity; she'd taken it.  They might not gain all that much for it...but on a late evening with unexpected jet-lag jitters coursing through her veins, curiosity won out.

She pulled the door open.  Well-oiled hinges; nary a squeak.  The candle flickered briefly at the air exchange even within its glass chimney.  From within the room beyond, there came no gleam of precious metal, no glitter of gemstone.  Just shadowed, hollowed spaces, hand-hewn rock reflecting dull darkness back at her.  She ducked through the doorway and glanced up before straightening, not assuming on the head room.

She'd fit; so would Jurdan.  Rio, not so much.

"There," Jurdan said, indicating a particular area of rock that to Kimmer's eyes looked pretty much like any other area of this tiny bolt-hole.  He lifted the lamp, and an object formed abruptly in the shadows—a sphere, echoing the shape of the space around it.

Kimmer glanced at him, confirming her understanding.  This is it.  This lump.  This is it.

To judge by the pride on his face, yes indeed.

She took the lamp from his hand, meeting no resistance.  He watched, respectful of the antiquity—the Etxea—as details emerged in the light.

Such as they were.  It was old...possibly older, literally, than dirt.  On the whole, it looked more like a lump of clay splotted onto place—flattened on the bottom, rounded over the top.  But it had a hole—an entrance, one might say—and Kimmer found no signs of the tool marks that had made it.  Water, then.  Water over time.  She had an impulse to put her hand in the hole—it might barely fit—and squelched it.  Not quite respectful.

The artifact's exterior had been carved and painted, lauburu and vines and curving, cris-crossing designs.  The paint seemed an afterthought, and yet had still had time to fade and chip into near invisibility.

A rock.  A rock with a hole and some lovingly applied decorations.  The antiquity.

Kimmer cleared her throat, opened her mouth—and then caught sight of Jurdan's respectful, even awed, expression.  She closed her mouth, took a breath, and tried again.  Same question, different words...different tones.  "The Doña has been discreet," she said.  "I haven't been told what we have the privilege of protecting."

To judge by his surprise, perhaps she was supposed to have recognized it upon seeing it.  He mastered himself, and said, "It is the dwelling of Mari."  And then, helpfully, "It may even be the dwelling of Mari.  The first.  The oldest.  It is said to lend protection to those who possess it.  When Sabina de Arana Goiri founded the Basque Nationalist Party, this Dwelling was behind him.  It is a great symbol to the Euskadi, Miss Kimberly—but it is also more.  It is power."

Kimmer, never given to sentiment, looked at the rock.  "Well," she muttered in English, "the Stone of Scone was a big fat hairy deal, too."

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

CHAPTER 5

Morning didn't come kindly.

Here it was.  Jet lag.  Kimmer opened her eyes to a wash of light through the curtains and crawled out of bed.  Her head ached, her mouth tasted dry and nasty, and a look in the mirror confirmed that even hair this short could dry totally askew if plunked on the pillow while sopping wet.  A quiet knock on her door and an equally quiet voice informed her that breakfast would be available within moments.

She stuck her head under the faucet to fix her hair, washing her face at the same time.  Brushing her teeth did little for the taste in her mouth, and there was nothing to be done about the unusual pallor of her face.

Jet lag, she decided, was even more obnoxious than she remembered.

She tapped lightly on Rio's door; he opened it almost instantly, peeking around—and then stepped back so she could enter as he tucked his shirt in his jeans, looking very touristy in a maroon loose weave pullover that set off his hair.

"Hey," he said, and grinned, not bothering to zip the jeans before sweeping her up into an unexpected hug and topping it off with a loud sort of kiss.

"Wow," Kimmer said, staggering slightly as she stepped back.  "Feeling better, then?  Your back—?"

He frowned, finishing the zip, then shook his head.  "Back's fine.  It was that massage of yours.  Last night...I dunno.  I never used to have jet lag that badly, but I never used to travel on muscle relaxants, either.  Rio Carlsen, superspy."

Kimmer couldn't help but smile.  "My superspy," she reminded him as he reached for the door.  "About that—we've got a car to get rid of.  And I had a look at the mysterious antiquity last night.  It's a rock."

Rio stopped short.  "You saw it?"

"Saw it, did some research on it.  Well, on the history and legends behind it."  She shrugged.  "Had the time, found a guide..."

He opened the door, then, but kept his voice low.  "A guide?"

"Marina set one of the estate's young men on me," Kimmer said, and snorted.  "Or rather, that's how he interpreted the situation.  It's all straightened out now."

Rio shook his head, squinching one eye in skepticism.  "By any chance did I sleep through a whole day?"

Kimmer grinned.  "I got restless," she informed him, and led the way downstairs.

She followed her nose to breakfast, finding Marina in a shaded nook just outside the kitchen.  The woman indicated that Kimmer and Rio should join her at a round table just big enough for the three of them.

Another, longer table sat mostly abandoned, a few bread baskets covered with cloth still in place, dirty dishes gathered into stacks but not yet removed.  Kimmer sat to a breakfast of Basque tortillas—potato flatbread topped with spiced eggs and crumbled bacon—and politely refused the offered coffee, watching Rio take his with thanks for the young woman from the night before.  Her smile in return, as she murmured a pleasant response, was very much a smile for Richard Haight, American Tourist of a Scandalous Nature.

Wrong, Kimmer thought at the young woman.  Wrong, wrong, wrong.  And, as an afterthought, a narrow-eyed little mine.

She might have thought it just a little too loudly.  The young woman glanced her way, gave a startled second look, and left the room.

"I'm sorry I wasn't good dinner company yesterday," Rio was saying to Marina.  "I've never been hit so hard by a little travel before."

Marina waved a hand of dismissal, a gracious and queenly gesture.  "It is of no consequence," she said.  "It gives us a chance to start this day with much purpose, don't you think?"

"We have some chores to deal with," Kimmer said, thinking of the car, "but we'd like to see the antiquity first."  She glanced at Rio, making sure he'd picked up on it—she wasn't ready to let Marina know she'd gone wandering. Rio's gaze barely flickered her way, but it was enough.  She did add, "I spoke to a young man named Jurdan yesterday evening.  He mentioned the Etxea."

Marina's lips tightened.  "He spoke out of turn."

And that's why I'm not telling you we made that little trip to the cellar last night.  As gracious as Marina was, they'd have to work around her micromanagement style.  "Oh," Kimmer said, as blithely as possible.  "I had the impression he was involved in the existing security."

Marina had to accede that.  "He's a good worker," she said.  "A very nice young man."  But he doesn't know his place.

Kimmer blinked at those unspoken words, as loud to her as verbalized sentiment through Marina's body language.  Unexpected at that.  Until she realized that Marina was, in fact, not only classist, but racist.

For Jurdan was Basque.

He believed in the importance of that hunk of rock lurking in the cellar; Marina was only doing her job.

She caught Rio's eye again, enough to let him know her radar was active.  Not a serious issue, but definitely something to work around.

She was surprised at Rio's delayed response; he seemed briefly lost in himself.  Not as profoundly as the evening before, just...not quite Rio.

Too bad she'd gotten spoiled with their usual instant rapport.  Especially when her reaction to his lapse caught Marina's eye.

No biggie.  Kimmer knew just how to distract her.  "Jurdan aside," she said, "maybe you could tell us more about the Etxea."

At Marina's hesitation, Rio spoke up.  Back again.  "The more we know," he said, "the more effective we are."

Marina placed her napkin by the side of her plate, already done with her light meal.  "You have to understand," she said, by way of careful introduction, "that the people of this area are...how should I say...more closely tied to their early beliefs than in other areas of Spain."

"If this culture didn't have unique aspects, it would have fit more neatly into the country all along," Kimmer said.  "There would be no ETA, no Basajaun."  Racist, all right.  Distancing herself from the people amongst whom she lived—in an area to which she had so strongly laid claim the evening before.

But not working against this household.  Not anything but fiercely devoted to the Doña.  Kimmer watched for that; she found it readily enough.

"True."  Marina's lips tightened; in the clear daylight, Kimmer could see that the expression was habitual enough to have left lines.  Marina drew a settling breath, and Rio relaxed in his chair, nibbling on the remainder of his tortilla's crispy potato crust, now fully attentive.

Kimmer hated the little shimmer of relief that washed through her.  This is Rio.  You can count on him.

Marina visibly cast for words, then found her starting place.  "There is a legend of a female divinity called Mari."

Kimmer had read as much the previous evening, but this was for Rio—and a chance for Kimmer to see how Marina dealt with the situation.

"She was a powerful being."  Marina rearranged her napkin.  Just so.  "She lived in caves that reached to the very center of the earth, and she could take any form—most often that of a beautiful woman, a most beautiful woman at that.  She traveled in the form of a fireball, across the mountain peaks.  The elder Euskadi...they showed their esteem by placing representations of Mari's home on their highest mountain peak."

"The Dwelling," said Rio, reaching for his coffee.

Brief surprise opened her features.  "Just so.  Ours is thought to be the very oldest of these representations—perhaps the first.  There are superstitions attached to it—that it offers its owner certain powers, certain guarantees of success in venture.  Goiri—" she started, and then hesitated.

Sabina de Arana Goiri.  The founder of the Basque Nationalist Party, who had found it most useful, as a talisman.  Not likely something of which Marina approved.

The woman regained her stride.  "However, it also has historical importance in this region; over a century ago it was owned by the founder of the Basque National Party, although few knew of it.  Only those who have been keeping the Dwelling."

"The Doña's family," Kimmer surmised.

Marina nodded.  "Now it is time for it to take its place in history.  But in the process of making arrangements, a whisper of its presence has escaped, and now we must protect it.  There are many who think they would benefit from possessing it."

"Sure," Rio said.  "Everyone from grave diggers to politicos...and that's not counting the average joe who might buy into its reputation."

Kimmer forked up the last of her spicy tortilla.  She again found herself surprised by an unexpected sense of urgency—the need to get up and do something.  Rio gave her a glance and pushed back what remained of his own meal, taking one last gulp of coffee.

Marina stood.  "Shall we see it, then?"

Kimmer bit down on the lurking smart remark—this was what they'd come for, after all—and let Rio precede her in Marina's wake.  She'd already seen it, after all.  Seen it, had eventually brought herself to take photos, and had her own ideas of the best security options.

And in truth, it wasn't a huge challenge.  Hardly worth an overseas flight for an out-of-town agency.  Then again, Owen had probably known that.  He had his own reasons for inserting a couple of temporary eyes and ears.

Not worth fussing about, any of it.  She just wished she knew why she was.

"You're quiet," Rio murmured, taking their trek into the kitchen with aplomb, giving the cook—aptly referred to entirely as Jefa—and the serving assistant a friendly wave.

Kimmer eyed the young woman and replied in low tones.  "Something's working on my subconscious.  I haven't decided what it is."

"That would explain the jumpy."

Of course he'd noticed it.  Even having slept through most of it.  She shook her head, barely perceptible.  "I'm not so sure."

But she was saved from having to explain the inexplicable by their arrival in the cellar, and by Rio's impressed reaction to the ancient wooden door—and by the need to add her own reaction to it, since Marina knew nothing of her visit here the night before.

She channeled her edgy into eager, and crowded in close to Rio.  He exuded warmth in this chilly underground space; she wished she'd thought to steal his jacket of many zippers before coming down here.

Eager turned back into edgy as they admired the Etxea itself; she left Rio asking questions and went to prowl the cellar.  Nothing profound here: wine, potatoes, odd boxes of supplies...a corner of jumbled farm and kitchen implements that looked almost as old as the Etxea.

When she returned to the old cave room, she found Marina securing the door behind her, and Rio giving his thoughtful attention to the narrow stairs—he threw Kimmer a glance in question.

"It's the only entrance," Kimmer confirmed, interpreting that query easily enough.  "Otherwise this place is tight.  I think we can create a solid layered perimeter without drastic changes."

Rio nodded.  "A simple security pad at the kitchen door, so the staff can come down to the cellar for supplies.  And we'll set up a perimeter line."

"So little?" Marina said.

"We're reviewing your staff," Rio said.  "Our understanding is that this is for a short time only.  Our best option is to keep this simple and easy to control—and not to draw attention with whatever we do."  He was all casual confidence, everything she'd needed from him the night before.

As well he should be—he'd spent enough of his CIA field time circumventing foreign security.  He knew what worked—and what didn't—in the field.

At Marina's unabated concern, Rio added, "The staff reports should be in before the end of the day, but if you have any particular concerns..."

She looked uneasy.  "Nothing specific, but...you won't be interviewing them?"

I wish.  "The cover prevents it," Kimmer said.  "I'll be doing what I can on an informal basis."

Marina relaxed to some extent—though Kimmer doubted she every truly let go of the tension she carried around like her own personal cloud.  "The Doña did the right thing, it seems, in turning to your agency.  Asking for you."  Then, as if that had been too sentimental, she cleared her throat.  "Of course, aside from Jurdan and Atze, who know of the Etxea's presence here, the staff believes you're receiving the normal household tour of the wine cellar.  We can't linger unduly—we cannot afford to create suspicions that there might be anything of interest here."  She glanced at the closed door.  "Especially not before the security arrangements are placed.  Do you have an anticipated time line for the security installation?"

"Within the day, once we get it here," Rio told her.  "We'll be counting on local talent for the exterior perimeter—Hunter has a connection in Monaco, and we'll work with them to create something temporary—it won't have a permanent impact on the traditional nature of your grounds."

Marina nodded her satisfaction with this approach.  "It will only be a few weeks—perhaps a month—before arrangements are completed with the museo."

The Museo Arqueologico e Historico Vasco.  The Doña wanted to keep the Etxea in its native lands.

"In the meantime," Marina said, "we have so far kept the Etxea's presence here a secret.  But none of us expects that secrecy to last; none of our people are professionals.  You've already met Jurdan—an earnest young man, but not accustomed to thinking in secrets."

He'd certainly been easy enough to read.  In all ways.

"I think that's all we need down here for now," Rio said, waiting for Kimmer's tiny nod of agreement.  "I'll shoot the list of supplies off to Hunter."

"I've got someone to talk to," Kimmer said.  "I'll find you when I'm done, and we can handle that car."

"It's a plan."  He gave her a relaxed Rio grin, the one that said they had things well in hand.  "Now, in the interest of being Kimberly and Richard...I'll race you back up to the kitch‑"

As if she was going to let him finish that sentence.

~~~

Rio left Kimmer grinning triumphantly in the kitchen and made it to her bedroom on momentum, finding the laptop open on the tiny guest desk, secure screen saver in place.  He sat at the chair, but instead of tackling the keyboard he took the moment to close his eyes, massaging the lids gently with his fingers.  Damn, he felt...what?  Sick?  Tired?  Strange?  What had started off as a bright morning had dimmed somewhere over breakfast, and since then he'd been faking it.

Luckily for him, he was one of the few people Kimmer couldn't read at a glance.  With him she had to work at it; with him she could be fooled.  And he'd seen her doubt the evening before—knew how important it was that she not lose that precariously won trust.  Not here, overseas, on their first major assignment together.  Here, they had to be able to count on one another.

Not doubt one another.

So, he'd keep his dimmed status to himself.

He opened his eyes, stretched out his fingers, and tackled the keyboard.  Password: tW1nk13!.  First thing, he checked Hunter's results for the glove box paperwork Kimmer had submitted, and learned—oh joy—that the car was associated with the Basajaun.  They definitely needed to ditch the thing.

Mindful that Kimmer was waiting, he pulled up a pre-prepared list of supplies, quickly amended it, and sent it off to Owen at Hunter.

Soon enough, they'd be knee-deep in changes around here.  And until then, Kimmer would be watching the staff, sussing out any potential problems.

He pushed back from the laptop, still blinking against heavy lids.  Cold water, he decided.  Face.  And that's what he was doing, with his head in a sink that somehow smelled of Kimmer's shampoo, when he heard an unfamiliar woman's voice.  "Señor Richard?"

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

CHAPTER 6

Kimmer spent a few moments with Jefa, thanking her for the good food—and not coincidentally getting a feel for her satisfaction in her position, getting a little background...

They'd have background checks soon enough, but nothing replaced interviewing subjects face-to-face.  Not when you had a knack of reading people.

Jefa, she decided, was no threat.  A major coup for their side, since anyone getting to that cellar pretty much had to go through the cook.  Rolling tension out of her shoulders, she walked out of the kitchen, heading up the stairs as she catalogued the quiet morning activity of the household.  Housekeepers cleaned the main rooms; outside, someone worked to crank up a lawnmower.  Marina's voice filtered through from some inner sanctum—controlled, smooth, at work for the Doña.  Not a household into which an outsider could easily blend while making a play at the treasured Etxea.

In her room she found the laptop up and running, the screen saver on, the scent of Rio lingering on the air, no sign of him anywhere.

His room was equally empty...except for the perfume.  "Hey," she said dryly to the room at large, words she'd expected to say to Rio.  "You ready to go?"

No doubt he was following his nose somewhere.  Kimmer squelched her impulse to hunt him up; they'd just end up playing hide and seek around this large estate.  He'd find her waiting at the car—as would anyone else who needed them.  Enough people knew they were "returning" the vehicle today.

She grabbed her backpack and headed for the driveway, where she waited long enough to look it over and rue that they had to relinquish it at all.  Nice little BMW.

Being a terrorist boy in Spain must pay pretty well these days.  Too bad about those new scratches on the paint and the blood in the front seat.

She had her face tipped to the sullen morning heat of the sun and her eyes closed when she heard an unfamiliar step across the crushed stone; she slitted her eyes just enough to see Jurdan and closed them again.  "Good morning," she told him.  "You still want that workout?"

"Most certainly!" he responded with the kind of enthusiasm that told her he was afraid she'd forgotten.  Damn.  She should have waited for him to bring it up.  "But now, you're waiting for Mr. Richard, yes?"

"Most certainly," she agreed.

"He sends a message," Jurdan said, and the apologetic tone in his voice made her straighten, giving him her full attention.  He approached with his eyes set to big and soulful, so effective that she strongly suspected he practiced in front of a mirror.  "He has been delayed.  He says he will meet you."

Meet me?  Where?  They hadn't even discussed a plan of action.

That meant Kimmer's choice.  "Tell him the airport parking."  Nearby, easy access, and the car could sit in long-term parking for a good long time before noticed.  Not to mention it gave her a certain sense of completion.  "At the back."

"It would be my pleasure to tell your brother—"

"Barely my brother," Kimmer said.  "Not so it counts.  Step-brother.  Recently."  Very recently.

Jurdan gave the slightest hint of what he must have thought was a courtly bow.  "Of course."

Kimmer opened the driver's door, tossing her backpack inside.  Jurdan still eyed her with transparent hope, and she shook her head.  "I'm only returning a car."

"If Mr. Richard is busy, I would be glad to—"

She cut him off with another shake of her head, adding a smile to take the sting out.  Having Jurdan on their side was an asset, even if he did make puppy dog eyes at her.

But she also didn't need Jurdan tangled up in this particular task.  Whoever, exactly, their welcoming committee had been, they certainly made a habit of being up to no good.  "He said he'd meet me.  As you’ll tell him where I'll be, then...he'll meet me."

She slid into the car, gave Jurdan a hand-tip of a wave, and cranked the engine, hunting out the air conditioning with the faint hope it might wring some of the water out of the air.

Retracing their steps to the airport was a pleasant drive, full of scenery and only belatedly busy with traffic, and she turned down the lane to long-term parking with a confident air.  I'm not driving a car stolen from terroristboys, oh no.

She parked the car toward the back of the lot, gave it a once-over to make sure they'd left nothing of themselves—no prints, no inconvenient identifiers—and dropped the keys in the driver's seat before locking the door.  Now they'd be using a villa car—mostly to hold their cover for the next few days until the security was installed.  A few obligatory trips into Bilbao, a pass through the Guggenheim...

Kimmer headed for the nearest shade, a struggling tree in the tiny grassy plot at the end of the lot, and let her mind wander to their next days.  Rio had gone to put in the order for equipment; the team from Monaco would be on its way soon.  That left today—to do some snooping, to put on their tourist faces...to shake the rest of the cobwebs out of Rio's brain.

Her pack made a discreet ringing noise; she gave it a wary look.  Her cell phone was actually working?

True, this was a no-brainer phone, a keyboard satellite phone that Hunter's tech crew had put together just for her, but she'd never actually expected it to work.  Rio, maybe.  Letting her know he was on his way—or maybe why he wasn't.

But no—the caller ID said it was Owen.

"Kimmer," he said as she flipped the phone open.  "Are you secure?"

"More or less."  Everyone in the lot either hurried toward the airport or toward their cars, and none of them gave her a second glance.  "I haven't swept myself for bugs recently, but I checked my room last night."

"We'll consider you secure, then," Owen said dryly, leaving his sardonic ha ha unspoken.  "Listen, I've got your gear on the way.  Until it gets there, I've got someone I want you to check out.  He won't talk over phone or email; he's too concerned about being compromised."

"Smart man."

"Smart enough so I only just now pinned him down; I'm texting his contact info now.  But he could be a crucial source of intel on the splinter group I've been worried about—"

"The Basajaun," Kimmer said.

"Yes.  And your airport reception makes it all too clear that they're becoming more active, not less."

"That was them?"

Owen hesitated.  "Rio didn't tell you?"

"He's been delayed," Kimmer said, parroting Jurdan's words.  "I'm waiting for him now."  And then she was the one to hesitate, and Owen, who could read her almost as well as she could read him, started to ask her what was going on—but she cut him off.  "Did Hunter by any chance scope out the drugs Rio's doctor prescribed for this trip?"

It took him completely by surprise, she could tell that much—and then she heard the faint tapping of his keyboard as he went into Rio's file.  "They were approved.  You have concerns?"

"He did fine on the plane," she said.  "I mean, he slept most of the time, which is what we all expected.  But he seems to be having a hard time shaking them off."

Owen's initial silence meant he was shaking his head.  "Those drugs should be well out of his system, Kimmer.  If there's a problem, it's something else.  Look into it."

"Yeah," she said, not liking it.  Not liking it, either, that Rio wasn't here yet.  As jobs went, this one was a low-risk, low consequences job.  But...after so long of working alone, so long of needing to work alone, she found that her trust in working together was suddenly more tenuous than she'd ever expected.  Not her trust in Rio himself...just in what he could do.  Whether he could come through.

Whether he would.

And after what he'd recently been through precisely to come through for her, that was hardly fair.

"Let me know," Owen said.  "I'll be here, Kimmer, just as with any other job.  You're not hanging out there on your own."

"And since when have I ever needed anyone to hold my hand?" she snapped.  She hadn't.  She didn't.

But she'd grown to appreciate the option.

Especially when she glanced up to see the green uniform of a Guardia Civil headed her way, a man with the too-casual walk of the wary police officer.  Whatever he saw, it wasn't merely a woman traveler pausing to make a phone call.

"Company, Owen," Kimmer said.  "Gotta talk my way out of something, I think.  Not sure just what, but...if you can get your hands on Rio you might let him know that quiet time is over."

"Will do," Owen said shortly, and cut the connection.  Brusque efficiency, that was Owen.

The Guardia Civil, still on approach, watched her with a sharp gaze as Kimmer snapped the phone closed and replaced it in the backpack, running her fingers over the war club handle—knowing just where it was.  Not on a national police officer, Kimmer Reed.

Get real.  What was she thinking?  Letting her jet lag jitters get to her?  But...

Best to be ready.  Always.

As the man opened his mouth to greet her, she put anxiety into her voice and said, "It's okay to wait here, isn't it?  My ride's a little late, and I needed shade."

"There is shade at the airport itself," the officer suggested, but the words were just a parry.  He wasn't really concerned about her location.  He was concerned about her.

Better hurry, Rio.  If nothing else, he could be here in time to see her hauled away...

She shrugged.  "Noisy.  Crowded."  She mimed the phone to her ear.  "I don't like to make my private business public just because I have a cell phone."

"And were you here yesterday, as well?"

Wuh-oh.  Yesterday she had broken a man's ass and stolen his car.  There'd been no chase, but that didn't mean she hadn't been seen—perhaps by this very officer.  They'd been on the way.

"With a tall man," the officer continued.  "Very blond."

Wuh-oh.

He didn't seem deterred by her lack of instant response; he didn't even seem to be inclined to wait for a response at all.  "There was an incident here yesterday with such a couple."

Making it sound as though it had been their fault.  Kimmer held back her resentment, replaced it with gawker's curiosity.  "What sort of incident?"

But he was better than that.  He held out his hand.  "I would like to see your identification, please."

Damn.  Choice time.  She could maintain her cover, protest her innocence, and hope for the Doña's influence to help her out.  Or she could pull out her real papers and play hardball.

She wasn't ready to play hardball yet. And the incident had happened to Kimberly and Richard, not Chimera and Phoenix.

She sighed—heartfelt, and perfectly happy for the officer to see it, just like any put-upon tourist.  She reached into a side pocket of her backpack.  "Here."  She handed him the passport.  "I'm here visiting my great aunt, Señora de Florez."

"Without luggage?"

"Of course I have luggage.  It's already at the villa.  I came back to look for a book I dropped, and now I'm waiting for my ride into the city.  We thought we'd see the Guggenheim today. Doesn't everyone?"

He flipped the passport open, flicked his gaze from the photo to Kimmer's face, and then went stern.  "You arrived yesterday."

"Right.  When I left my book."  Kimmer gave him her best earnest expression, silently deciding on a title if he asked.  "I didn't see anything in the paper about an incident here yesterday.  It must have been minor?"

"I imagine that might be the case," the officer agreed.  "But we would also prefer to confirm the facts.  And to know why innocent local tourists, accosted so, would run."

Kimmer raised an eyebrow at him.  "Gosh," she said dryly.  "Attacked upon arrival in a foreign country?  Running sounds like an obvious option."

"I imagine that might be the case," the officer repeated, his words clearly deliberate.  "But we would prefer to confirm the facts."

Damn.  So much for playing tourist at the Guggenheim.

Kimmer sighed.  "And you think I can help do that?  I guess I need to call my aunt."

"Your Spanish is quite excellent," the officer said.  He'd grown flushed out here in the sun, and was clearly ready to wrap this up.  "And your cooperation is appreciated.  We would also like to talk to the man who was involved."

I'll just bet you would.  No doubt they were eaten up with curiosity about two tourists who'd gotten away from the Basajaun.  But Kimmer held her tongue and said, "Is that all right then?  To call my aunt?  Because otherwise I'm afraid I'd want to get the US Embassy involved.  I don't know this country well, and I'd want to make sure I'm doing the right things."

Irritation flashed across his tidy features.  She didn't blame him.  He'd obviously been hoping she'd decided to be a meek good girl.

Yeah, that's gonna happen.

"Please feel free to call your aunt," he said.  "She can meet us at the main station in Bilbao."

Kimmer laughed, going after the phone again—moving just as slowly as she'd want the man to move if their situations were reversed, while pretending it wasn't deliberate.  An innocent tourist, after all, wouldn't think of such things.  "Oh, I doubt my aunt will meet us anywhere.  She's elderly, you know.  But her lawyer will probably be there."

Another flash of irritation.  Well, hey.  They should have kept the local goonboys from trying to snatch faux relatives of an influential local in the first place.

Kimmer had the number half-dialed when the sound of a smartly moving car caught her attention.  The officer, too, looked over at the approaching vehicle.  A creamy Mercedes sedan, gleaming in the sun; a hand emerged from the driver's window to wave at Kimmer.

Huh. Not Rio, not with that dark hair just visible behind the sun on the windshield.  But Kimmer waved back anyway, and within a moment the car pulled up to the curb and Jurdan hopped out, colorful in a vertically striped shirt and black jeans.  "Miss Kimberly!  I'm sorry I'm late.  Are you all right?  Is there some problem?"

She had to hand it to him, he was a quick thinker.  "A misunderstanding," she said.  "I was just trying to reach the Doña and see if her lawyer could meet us at the station."

"Oh, here now!"  He dug into the breast pocket of his shirt and pulled out his phone.  "I have the house phone on auto-dial.  Let me take care of this, please.  I would not have the Doña knowing that we did not attend her favorite grand-niece."  He looked at the officer, his finger over the auto-dial button, and said, "Is there any chance we can handle this more discreetly?  I'm sure Miss Kimberly would be glad to help with this misunderstanding.  A statement through the Doña's lawyer, perhaps?"

The officer made a noise deep in his throat, his face a bit more ruddy than it had been a moment earlier.  "I'm not—"

"Oh, here!"  Jurdan returned his attention to the phone.  "I'll get that number right now.  You can talk to the lawyer himself.  I haven't met him formally, but I understand he's efficient.  Señor Haritz Zabala—you might be familiar with him?"

Jurdan, you little rat.  Who knew you had that in you?  Because at the lawyer's name, the officer had flashed a startled look, then quickly covered it up.  He put a hand out to forestall Jurdan's progress with the phone, and then gave his chin a thoughtful rub.  "We know how to reach the Doña's villa," he said.  "We'll have a detective call to arrange a more convenient time for an interview."

"After Assumption Day," Jurdan suggested.  "Things will be less hectic then, don't you think?"  But he didn't quite put his phone away as the officer took out a notepad and asked Kimmer a few quick questions and tucked the pad away with another promise that they would be called.  As he finally turned away, to Kimmer's keen eye, he was simply relieved that he'd avoided dealing with Haritz Zabala.

Jurdan hopped off the curb to open the passenger door for Kimmer.  "You see?" he said.  "All will be well.  Now, may I drive you home?"

"The Guggenheim," she said, just to be consistent, and let him maintain his gallant pose long enough to close the door for her as well.  But only long enough to get in on the driver's side.  "Nice job! I was headed for some station time, for sure."

Jurdan presented her with his cheek. "A kiss, you think?" he said.  "To thank me?"

"You get to keep your face," she said, "to thank you.  And never mind the Guggenheim—that was for his benefit.  Back to the villa is good.  What the hell are you doing here, anyway?  And where—?”

"Mr. Richard?"  Jurdan shook his head.  "I couldn't find him.  I finally decided you needed the ride more than you needed Mr. Richard to provide it.  I see I was right."

Kimmer fastened her seatbelt and slouched in the comfortable leather seat.  "Just my luck to run into someone who got a glimpse of us yesterday."  She hadn't thought they'd been seen at all.  "I hope it doesn't become a problem with the Doña."

"Oh, never fear that.  You will make a statement through her lawyer, answer a few questions at your convenience, and all will be over."  He grinned, a roguish expression.  "They will not want to deal with the infamous Haritz Zabala any more than necessary, you can trust that."

"We'll do what we have to," Kimmer said.  "But I'd much rather do it as a protected guest of the Doña than some anonymous tourist."

Especially not as an anonymous tourist with suspiciously amazing reflexes, a fierce attitude, and a mystery weapon.

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

CHAPTER 7

Rio sat, legs dangling, on the villa's high rock retaining wall.  Waiting.  Watching the driveway and waiting.

Not to mention wondering.

What the hell was that all about?

On the surface, it had been a young woman—Larraitz, the girl from the kitchen who'd been flirting at him that morning—coming to his room with information.  Or maybe to ask for help.  Or looking for an easy Rich American Tourist ride out of her current life.

Or maybe just looking for sex.

Hard to tell.

He'd still been toweling his face dry when she pulled him out to the terrace—to its sheltered private nook at that—for a murmured conversation, words generously punctuated by those big brown eyes.

But...her English, not so good.  His Spanish, not so good.

They muddled, and she grew more frustrated and cast more frequent glances at the entrance to the little nook, and in the end he knew only that she was concerned for the household in some way.  He wasn't even sure she meant the Dwelling; he thought she probably meant the villa in general.

She'd mentioned Andoni Gandiaga; Rio got the impression it had something to do with politics.  He got the impression there were disagreements between those of Basque and Spanish blood within the household—except he'd seen no sign of it, and Kimmer, with her wise eyes, hadn't so much as hinted at it.

And damn, she'd laid it on thick with the damsel in distress act.  Touching his arm, imploring him with dark and tearful eyes, all but throwing herself in his lap.  Take care of me and take me seemed to be the same language to her.

Not that he was immune to a pair of dark and tearful eyes, but—

Already taken, lady.

He finally told her that they—including Kimmer—would have to talk after he returned from his errand.  She'd gotten impatient and angry, then, and flounced off.  He could only shrug and head for the stolen goonboy car.

Which was already gone.

And no one knew anything about it.  Jurdan might—but he'd headed out shortly after Kimmer, and no one was sure where or why.

And so here Rio sat, perched on a tall retaining wall, having refrained from banging his head against the same.  He didn't know why Kimmer hadn't waited, but she was perfectly capable of ditching a car on her own.  Just because the voice mail had picked up on her phone...

Doesn't mean a thing.  Except, perhaps, that she continued her amazing string of bad phone luck—even with a Hunter-enhanced satellite special.

Waiting.  Waiting waiting waiting.

Dammit!

The phone rang, breaking the countryside quiet.  Small birds fled from the nearby bushes, a fluttering twitter of alarm.  Rio fumbled the phone, but recovered and flipped it open without looking at the caller ID.  "Kimmer!"

"Not quite."  Owen's dry voice only raised Rio's concern.  "Although I do carry a message.  She would prefer that you hurry."

"Hurry?  Hurry what?"

"Whatever you were supposed to do that you're not doing, I would imagine."

"I've fallen down a rabbit hole," Rio muttered.  And then, no-nonsense, "Owen, where the hell is she?"

Silence.  "You two doing okay over there?"

"We haven't had to do anything yet."  And still...since they'd arrived at the villa, something had been off.  Kimmer was edgy, even jumpy; their easy teamwork was skipping beats.  "Owen, where is she?"

"Patience," Owen murmured.  "I'm pulling up her phone GPS.  She seemed to think you had her location.  In fact, she quite pointedly expected to find you there."

"Rabbit hole," Rio said darkly.

"We were interrupted.  She mentioned she'd have to talk her way out of a situation.  Do you have any—?"

"Aurgh!" Rio said, voicing the word distinctly.  "She's off dumping a car, not being in situations. Haven't you got that GPS magic done?"

"Working on it," Owen said, implacable.  "Rio, she didn't sound overly concerned.  Just impatient."

Right.  Kimmer, in impatient mode.  Already jumpy.  Not known for diplomacy at the best of times.

Just perfect for handling a situation.

"She's on the move," Owen said.  "She's—"

At the hint of motion on the long driveway, Rio stood on the rock wall, giving himself an impressive vantage point.  "She's here," he finished for Owen.  At least, that barely visible car approaching through the landscaped trees and bushes had better be her.  But where had she gotten the car?  And how—?

"Oh, hell," he muttered.  Only one way to get those answers.  "Talk to you later, Owen."

"I'll expect an update," Owen told him, and somehow managed to beat him to the hang-up.

Yeah.  Me too.  By then the car had pulled up the drive—a neat little Mercedes.  It parked along the loop across from Rio, and he sat, pushing himself away from the wall to stick a solid landing, and trotted straight to the car.  To Kimmer, sitting in the passenger side.

He opened the door before she did.  "Where—?" he started.

"Where—?" she demanded—and then stopped short to narrow her eyes at him.

"You're okay," he said in relief, checking her over.  She wore the same outfit she'd had on at breakfast, damn cute low slung jeans and a summer top snugged tight beneath her breasts and all hippy-flowing otherwise.  No new bruises in sight, her short, often intractable hair still tamed by whatever she'd done to it that morning.

"You should have been there," she suggested, her tone acerbic.  "You'd have known."

Jurdan emerged from the driver's side, took in the mood of the moment, and escaped around the end of the villa to the kitchen entrance.

It gave Rio time to take a breath.  "You left without me."

She got out of the car, one clean motion that set her up only inches from him, looking up with still-narrowed eyes.  "You sent word I should go."  It wasn't an accusation.  Not quite.  There was still a question buried in there.

Or maybe a demand, as she added, "And I sent word back where I'd be."

He couldn't help his startled reaction.  "You what?"

Kimmer responded instantly, rolling her eyes and giving him a not-so-gentle flat-handed shove on the chest before she walked away.  Stalked away—although he knew immediately that he wasn't the one being stalked, just as he knew—he knew—she'd been left hanging without backup, and he deserved that shove no matter what.

Then she turned on her heel, looking back at him.  "What," she said, her voice just expressionless enough to tell him of the anger brewing beneath, "delayed you?"

"Larraitz, from the kitchen," he told her promptly, seeing, too, that she was on the scent of something.  "She seems to think there's some threat to...well, I'm not sure.  She only knows us by our cover, so I don't know what she thought I could do, either.  And she doesn't speak English, so I didn't find out."

"Larraitz from the kitchen, huh," she said.  "I think Jurdan and I are going to have a little talk, yes I do.  And then maybe that Larraitz—"

"Whoa," Rio said, marking her clear transition from Kimberly Haight to Kimmer in full hunting mode.  "Chimera," he reminded her.  "Under cover."

Kimmer brought her focus from her inner thoughts to his face in a startled glance—but she grew more thoughtful.  "If our cover holds, why would she come to you at all?"

Rio spread his arms to indicate the magnificence of himself.  "Because of my manly demeanor?" he suggested.  "My obvious mastery of the world?"

She rolled her eyes again.  "If I were closer—"

He gave her his best charming smile, and saw the corners of her mouth twitch.  "Look, we got messed up, all right.  But if someone did it on purpose, what did she or he-or they-hope to gain?  As if you couldn't handle the car on your own?"

"The car's no problem," she said, with that feral little grin that never failed to catch his breath.  "Think Raiders of the Lost Ark.  It's lost in a warehouse of other parked cars at the airport."  But the frown turned to a scowl.  "The cop who recognized me from our little encounter yesterday...that's something else again."

Rio winced.  "Ah, damn."

"Yeah," she said dryly.  "Kimberly will have to make a statement to the cops.  If it weren't for Jurdan, I'd be in cuffs right now."  She turned to look at the villa, growing thoughtful.  "As for Jurdan...he's the one who brought me the message that you'd be along.  And he knows who we are.  So him, I'm going to chat with."

"Easy does it, right?"  He joined her in the middle of the drive—leaving her a little space, feeling the draw of her nonetheless.  "It's too early to go barging around."

She cast him a sharp look, brows raised.  Adorable, capable, deadly Kimmer.  "I never barge," she informed him with a lofty air.  She turned her intensity back on the villa and murmured distinctly, "I employ surgical precision."

Rio looked in the direction to which Jurdan had escaped, and gave an internal little shrug.  You messed with her...you asked for it.

~~~

Kimmer grinned wickedly at Jurdan and brushed grass from her elbow, rolling her shoulders and settling her feet on the manicured lawn of the villa grounds.  High clouds in blue sky above, the heat trickling down her back, the scent of roses on the breeze...she took a deep breath.  Ahh, yes.

She looked at the astonished expression on his face and shrugged.  You messed with me...  "You asked for it."

Jurdan looked up at her from his current position, flat on his back on the lawn, sweat trickling down the side of his face.  "This?" he said faintly.  "I asked for this, particularly?"

She shrugged.  "It's the best way to discuss the manner of my self-defense, don't you think?"

He made no move to get up.  Not surprising; he must be getting used to the view.  It wasn't the first time he'd seen it.  Or even the second.  "But I'm not learning anything."

"Ohh, yes you are."  Kimmer held up her hand, ticked off a finger.  "One: grass isn't as soft as it looks.  Two: It's about the attitude, not the exact discipline.  And three," she leaned over him, her voice gone soft and yet still edgy, "don't screw with me."

That got to him.  He widened his eyes in puppy dog mode—an expression that might have done him good against some other woman.

Kimmer only gave him a grim little smile.  He quickly rolled over to his knees, facing her right-side up.  "What?" he asked.  "This is to cause you trouble, yes?  But I picked you up at the airport!"

She stood hipshot, turning her face to the breeze.  She almost hoped he'd try to take advantage of her apparent inattention, to go for her.  He certainly did owe her a good fall or two.  She kept her voice flat.  "Richard never sent me any message about being delayed," she said.  "And he never received my message about going to the airport—the one you supposedly gave him."  She turned on him then, pinning him with her gaze.  "Didn't you think we'd find out?  Or did you just think we'd be so stupidly angry at one another that we wouldn't talk about it?"

His jaw dropped.  When it closed again, it was on a tight, angry mouth.

Ah.  He hadn't known.

"Who?" she asked.  "Who gave you the message?  Who intercepted you on the way back?"

"I should have known," he muttered, and those dark eyes were no longer puppy dog at all.  "Her English is not good enough to have heard what she said she did."

"She, who?"  And then Kimmer frowned at him.  "Richard had gone to his room.  What was your she doing there?  Was it Larraitz?"

At the look on Jurdan's face, Kimmer had to laugh out loud—short and hard, because the anger lingered, but now it was joined by obvious surprise.  What do you think she was doing in his room?  "Is everyone in this house going to come on to us?"

"Isn't that what you wanted people to think?  Of your scandal?"

"Larraitz and I need to have a little talk, Jurdan."

He snorted.  "Like this talk?"  He shook his head.  "I see your face, and I say no.  This one is mine, Kimberly.  She is the Doña's.  I will talk to her first.  She has big dreams of being someone else, somewhere else.  But she'll see sense."

"Jurdan—"

"Señorita Kimberly.  No."  Suddenly implacable—and suddenly something else, too.

Kimmer saw it then.  "You like her."

"I know her," he corrected her.  Certainly true, and it showed to Kimmer's eye.  But something else, beyond.

She's gonna break your heart, Jurdan.  Kimmer didn't have to meet Larraitz to know it.  Who suggested you come on to me?  She's a user.

And it wasn't Kimmer's job to fix it.  She had enough to fix here already—never mind that a simple conversation would tell her everything she needed to know about the girl, and more than it could possibly tell anyone else.  She wasn't about to reveal that detail to Jurdan.

"Talk to her, then," she said shortly.  "Then talk to me.  I need to know if this was more than some silly schoolgirl trick to get Richard alone."

Richard.  Rio.  Even now, he was alone in her room with the laptop, studying the staff dossiers with his practiced spy eye—maybe he'd seen something that would give them a foothold here while they were in waiting mode.  Waiting for gear, waiting for the Monaco crew...

She couldn't help herself.  She grimaced.  Waiting, and hobbled.

"I understand," Jurdan assured her, still on his knees in the grass, both shoulders of his white shirt stained irreparably green.  "I would do nothing to interfere or even delay the protection of the Dwelling.  If we don't have it done by Assumption Day—."

"Whoa.  Wait."  Kimmer closed her eyes, did a quick review of her memory.  "Assumption Day.  What—?"

He looked at her askance.  "You aren't in the church."

"I'm not in your church," Kimmer shot back.  "But we're not going there.  Just brief me."

He opened his mouth, closed it, considered the ground and his grass stains, and took the safe route.  "Ascension—Assumption Day—is in several days.  It is a religious holiday, a feast day—a celebration of the day the Virgin Mary's body was assumed into heaven."  He waited to see that she'd understood.  Late to Christianity in this area, indeed, but heavily Catholic all the same.  "It is also a national holiday.  Andoni Gandiaga will be coming to San Antón to take mass; he plans also a reception."  He gave her a look of shared significance, and then realized it wasn't shared at all, and sighed heavily.  "Do your people not prepare you?"

"Let's just say we had very little time to prepare at all," Kimmer said dryly.  She didn't add that they'd spent most of that time reading the staff files—innocuous as they were, or that Rio was going over those very files again.  "Start with Andoni Gandiaga."

"Senator Andoni Gandiaga," Jurdan said, with an expression that told Kimmer he'd deliberately failed to offer the respectful title the first time.  "Of the Basque Nationalist Party.  But you have to understand...he's made some decisions lately...he—"  And Jurdan broke off his words and clamped his mouth shut, jaw working.

"It's just information," Kimmer reminded him.  "I'm not taking sides."

After a moment, Jurdan said, "He takes the stance lately that the Basque hurt themselves with their pro-nationalist drive.  He feels that we are seen to be demanding special treatment, and that we then lose those who might otherwise support our views.  He counsels patience—he suggests that we play along."

Kimmer gave a little cough.  "I guess there's no question how you feel about the nationalist issue."

Jurdan looked so askance it was clear he couldn't imagine that she even joked about the subject. But he gave a sudden grin, ducked his head, and suddenly looked young and charming again.  "It is of little matter.  If he continues this way, he will not be re-elected.  But with the mood of the people, to come here—on that day—to hold his receptions and smile his politician's smile...I think there is the potential for great unrest.  And so I think it is good to have security for the Etxea in place by then."

"Plenty of time," Kimmer told him, already mentally composing a note to Owen—and reminding herself to check her phone for the texted information about Owen's Basque connection.

The man might be more useful than Owen expected, at that.

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

CHAPTER 8

Some of Kimmer's jitters had worn off; the sparring had done her good, even if she'd taken a few of her own falls and still needed to pick grass blades out of her elbow.

Good.  Maybe she was settling in.  She and Rio could get their stride back and make short work of this assignment.

With the security equipment on order and the Monaco crew on the way, they had today to establish themselves as tourists, to connect with Owen's man in Bilbao, and possibly to deal with what she would optimistically think of as witness statements.

Lunch would be a good start.

A considerable expanse of lawn separated the impromptu sparring area and the villa; she and Jurdan crossed it in thoughtful silence.

No doubt their approach could be seen.  No doubt it was easy for Jurdan's counterpart in security to meet them on the much smaller lawn encompassing the front entrance.

Something in his body language turned Kimmer wary—fast enough to make her annoyed with herself.  Just like with the cop.  She couldn't do her job if she overreacted to every little thing.

But Jurdan, too, seemed surprised.  "Atze.  All is well?"

Atze made a dismissive noise.  He was older than Jurdan, barrel-chested and muscled and pushing the seams of his lightly striped button-down shirt.  Kimmer saw none of the self-aware humor that made Jurdan a pleasant companion, but in his eyes lurked...something.

She'd have it in another moment, if he kept talking.  And he did.  "You been enjoying your hands-on time?" he asked.  "Because I'm thinking it's my turn."

"Excuse me?"  Resentful, greedy...entitled.  That's what it was.  She turned to Jurdan.  "This is your partner?  We haven't been introduced."  The other man working security who knows our cover?

Jurdan's voice took on a more formal tone.  "This is Atze Ezkibel, who has been working with me to protect the antiquity."  He didn't name it, not so close to the house.  "Atze, this is Señorita Kimberly Haight."

"Our guest," said Atze, and there was resentment there, too.

Jurdan glanced at Kimmer.  "Will you excuse us?"

"Sure."  Kimmer walked over to the extensive covered entryway to the villa, leaned against a stone pillar, and ostentatiously looked elsewhere.  La la la, see me giving you space.

Just not quite enough space so she couldn't hear their quick Spanish exchange, as Jurdan wasted no time.  "Get your head out of your ass.  She is not only a guest, she is also now our supervisor."

"Is that what this American has been doing with you?" Atze sneered.  "Supervising?  While I'm stuck in the house pretending not to watch a cellar door?  She supervises her brother, she supervises you...I think I'd like to be supervised, too!"

"Miss Marina made the assignments," Jurdan said, rapid words with rising temper behind them.  "This task is an opportunity, you fool—you've been wasting it from the start!  You have only a few more days to make your impression.  Why are you out here causing trouble?"

"I can't make a good impression if I'm stuck in a dark corner," Atze responded, just as quickly, just as hot-tempered.  "What do you know of making a woman happy—your relations come only in wet dreams!"

Jurdan flushed; Kimmer thought he came close to tackling Atze then and there.  He growled a Basque imprecation.  "If you want to make a good impression, do your job—"

But Atze wasn't listening.  Atze's mind had been made up before he'd left that house.  He shoved Jurdan aside and headed for Kimmer.

She pushed away from the pillar and met him halfway, seeing the exact moment when he realized he shouldn't have reached for her after all, if only in an imperiously commanding way.

Too late.  His hand never landed on her—by then she had his thumb, and his surprise turned to pain as she twisted, collapsing his arm up and behind as she pivoted to push his knees out from behind—all of it finesse, no broken bones, no torn muscle.

"You," she said, kneeling beside him, "will go back to your duties.  And if you do them well, when this is over maybe no one else will know about this moment."

He made a squeaking noise, strange to hear from a man so robust.

Oops.  Too much thumb.  Kimmer eased up, waited for his reaction—waited to make sure she'd startled the temper out of him rather than inflaming it.

It was Jurdan who made the next strange noise; Kimmer glanced up to see Rio in the doorway—startled, concerned.  In a flash of sudden hurt, she realized that concern wasn't for her...it was about her.  About what she might do.

She jerked her chin at him, gesturing him back inside.  Once Atze knew there'd been witnesses, his pride would keep this from being the end of it.

Rio got it; he faded back.  She released her captive, casually dragging his arm to a position from which he could rise with more dignity than if he'd had to wrestle the aching limb around by himself.  She stood aside to give him plenty of room.  "The Doña and Marina chose you for this job.  Respect their faith in you, and we'll have nothing more to discuss."

Atze scrambled to his feet, dusting himself off.  He looked at Jurdan, opened his mouth, looked at Kimmer...closed it again.  And then he walked briskly away, heading for the kitchen entrance.

Jurdan spoke with hesitation.  "You're not going to have him fired?"

Kimmer snorted.  "And have him on the loose, telling tales?  I don't think so.  Not until we've got the new gear rigged up and that door locked up tight."

Jurdan released his tension in relief.  "Thank you."  At her questioning expression, he said, "The Doña was right to bring you in.  I thought foreigners wouldn't care as much about the antiquity...but I was wrong."

Hey, I've got stakes, too.

For these were testing grounds for her working partnership with Rio.  They couldn't afford to fail Hunter...and they couldn't afford to fail each other.

She turned as Rio emerged from the house again.  "Everything okay?" he asked.  "You okay?"

"Me?"  She had to think twice about that.

"Neither of us has really been right since we arrived," he said, and it was the apology in his voice that startled her into understanding.

"You think—" she started, and then didn't know what to say.  He thought she should have handled the moment differently.  He worried that she'd gone overboard.  Even though he had nothing but the most basic Spanish—and no idea what had gone down.  He'd just assumed—

"Mr. Richard," Jurdan said in Spanish, and then made an effort to switch to English.  "I express my gratitudes to your partner," he said.  "We have a problem with that one.  With her actions, maybe we now can keep the house secure before more problems."

Oops.  It was written all over Rio's face, so genuine that Kimmer could only shake her head, a wry grin twisting her mouth.  "I am jittery," she said.  "I don't know why.  We've both been—"  and she cut herself short, glancing at Jurdan.

Jurdan took the hint quickly enough.  "Atze is right that I should continue to be involved in cellar security.  I'll make sure all is well inside."  And he headed off in Atze's wake, not looking back.

Rio looked down at her, brow raised.  And Kimmer didn't hesitate.  "We've been off-balance," she finished.  "I don't think I've ever seen you crash like that.  Owen said the meds from the plane were well out of your system.  Is your back all right?  You didn't need more—?"

His surprise quickly turned rueful.  "It's hard, isn't it?" he asked.  "You can read everyone in the world but me."

"Not everyone," she muttered.  "Not my damned family.  Not anyone who's that close."  As he'd been right from the start, taking her completely off-guard.

He leaned against the pillar and gave her a one-shouldered shrug.  "No.  I didn't take more drugs.  Though...I guess I understand why you had to ask."  All the same, that rueful look lingered.

Kimmer sighed, rotating a tense shoulder.  "This should have been a simple job.  Straightforward.  Instead, we're off-balance physically, we've got the cops wanting our time, a resentful security guard in a key position, and a controversial politician on the way."  That, too surprised him, so she added, "Andoni Gandiaga—Nationalist senator, coming in for Ascension.  Jurdan's concerned that the man's presence could inspire someone to make a grand political statement—with the Etxea."

"So is Larraitz," Rio said, something of surprise in his voice.  "Or at least, I think she is."

"I'll ask Owen for more information.  Why we don't have it in the first place...  He left too much to the Doña.  And the Doña isn't here, and Marina seems to think we know what we need to know."

"Ask Owen later," Rio said.  "The Doña is on the phone, and she wants to talk to you."

Kimmer looked at him, aghast.  "She's been waiting all this time?"

Rio grinned.  "No fears.  She's talking to Marina."

All the same, Kimmer took off for Marina's office at a run, pelting through an old, dignified villa that probably couldn't even remember the sound of running feet echoing in its halls.

~~~

"Kimmer Reed," said the elderly voice, sounding slightly hollow over the phone connection.  "Finally, we meet."

Kimmer almost didn't respond—couldn't respond, not with her surprise at the lack of personal connection over the line.  True, the phone was never the same as face-to-face, but...here, there was no resonance, no feedback with which her gift could work.  Empty air.

She tried to hide her instinctive wariness.  "I've been looking forward to it," she said, standing next to Marina's tidy desk as the woman pushed her chair away to give Kimmer a token conversation space.  "We're making good progress here, and we should have initial measures in place by the end of day tomorrow."

"So Marina tells me."  Slightly accented, that voice, in the most cultured way. "She also tells me that you've had some unexpected difficulties."

Plain-speaking.  Kimmer could deal with that.  "It's good news, really.  The Basajaun bought our cover well enough to make a play for us as your relatives."

"Do you think they've discovered the antiquity?  That they thought to trade you for it?"

She hadn't, actually.  She'd thought they'd been targeted due to the Doña's position in the community.  But damn, this was one little old lady who had her stuff together.  She probably brought home all the Bingo winnings every Tuesday, too.  "It might be," she said.  "Unless we get permission to talk to the men, we aren't likely to find out."

"Would you like to?"

Another surprise.  "It could risk our cover."

"Ah."  The Doña's voice held understanding.  "I'm not ready to take that step."

"Then we'll just assume that the word is out about the antiquity."  Kimmer glanced up at Rio as he entered Marina's office, considered bringing him up to speed...decided to wait.  "About your lawyer—"

"Don't concern yourself with that situation.  Señor Haritz Zabala will be in touch before the end of the day."

Plain-speaking, straightforward.  No double-meanings to delve through.  But Kimmer felt naked regardless.

Naked, deaf, and blind—unable to automatically grasp the gist of the woman as she did with others.  With Marina, sitting over there trying to look casual, but in truth quite tense about the overall situation.  With Atze, whom she'd instantly known had nursed his temper to the breaking point.

"We consider it a favor," she finally managed, thinking of the lawyer.

"Nonsense.  The incident happened because you came at my request.  Even the Hunter Agency allows its strings to be pulled now and then, and pull them I did.  Resolving the situation as quickly as possible is to my benefit."

"Yes, ma'am," Kimmer said, because she couldn't think of anything else.  She suddenly wondered if the Doña could read her as easily as Rio did—if she could sense how adrift Kimmer was in this conversation.  Rio certainly could; he watched her with bemused eyes, trying to glean what he could from the one-sided conversation.

"Is everything else as you need it?" the Doña asked.  "Your separate accommodations?  I hope they serve my purpose."

"Your—?"  Kimmer stopped short, then gave into it.  "What?"

"My sources are more than impressed with your teamwork, but ultimately, I believe your relationship to be a liability.  There exists too much potential to draw your concerns to each other, instead of to the matter at hand."  She paused, a brief but weighty silence.  "I want your concerns focused on that matter at hand."

Kimmer ought to feel resentment.  Denial.  As ifness.

Instead she felt vaguely unsettled.

She glanced over at Rio; even now he looked a little bleary, leaning against the door jamb in that casual, self-comfortable way that had once been the first thing to catch her eye—all lurking strength and formidable determination.  He perked up, expecting a question; she gave a barely-there shake of her head and told the Doña, "The accommodations are fine."

"Good," the Doña said briskly, and Kimmer didn't need her knack to realize the conversation was over as abruptly as it began.  "You will spend the rest of the day in Bilbao, then—play the tourist.  Have you ever seen the Guggenheim?  No?  Then you shall.  Be sure to drop my name, so the world at large knows you are of the Villa de la Padilla."  The estate of her father's family.

"That was our intent," Kimmer agreed.  "Thank you again for your concern, and if you have any questions—"

"You can be sure I shall ask them.  Give the phone over to Marina."

Wordlessly, not a little dazed, Kimmer held the phone out to Marina.  The woman accepted it with a curt nod, and Kimmer escaped to the hallway, Rio in tow.

When she turned around, he'd opened his mouth to ask—but she didn't wait for the question.  "I couldn't read her."

"Mm," he said, tipping his head as he looked down at her; the bleary expression had fled in the face of barely suppressed amusement.  "Did I just see you flee?"

She gave him a faux-stern look.  "It's not funny!"  But his amusement remained, mixed with the affection, and she gave up, changing the subject.  "She wonders if we were targeted at the airport because word has leaked about the Etxea."

Not slow, her Rio.  Not today.  "Making us hostage for leverage, not just pawns for their political statement."

She nodded, then offered up a squinchy face.  "Also, we're supposed to play niece and nephew tourist—she mentioned the Guggenheim."

"She doesn't miss a beat," Rio said.  "Pretty savvy for a distant ailing Doña."

"Maybe there's something to this Etxea thing," Kimmer said dryly.  "After all, it's been in her family's cellar all these years."

"That was it?  The kidnapping attempt, the lawyer..?"

And gratuitous comments about our relationship.

But, no.  She kept the Doña's other concerns to herself.

Mostly, she hadn't consider it before.  But...is this where they come from?  The jitters?  Concern for unreadable Rio?  Especially given how the travel and the meds seem to have affected him...

But she couldn't be sure.

Rio knew her well enough to wait until she'd finished that thread of thought, knack or no knack.  He knew her well enough to look at her with a thoughtfulness that had nothing to do with his next words.  "If she's right—if we're a Basajaun target because of the Etxea—they might well try again."

"The thought occurred to me."  Hadn't it just.  "I'm going to wash up.  Let's grab a snack now, and find a restaurant while we're out—the total tourist."

"Works for me."  But Rio stayed there in the hallway, catching her gaze on a long hesitation.  He looked as though he might suddenly ask—what's wrong, Kimmer?—and Kimmer opened her mouth to forestall it, but ended up without words in her mouth.

I'm not meant for this.  It came to her in a sudden panic of doubt.  Maybe it wasn't Rio who couldn't do this partner thing.  Maybe it was her.

He, after all, was the one who came steeped in family and CIA teamwork.  She was the one who'd never had it before.  Who suddenly didn't seem to have a clue.

To her relief, he didn't say anything at all.  He reached out to smooth a stray curl behind her ear, and gave her a smile that might have been the slightest bit sad.  "I'll give a knock when I'm ready to go."

And Kimmer only nodded.

Lame, she told herself, following him up the stairs to their separate rooms.  Really lame, Kimmer Reed.

~~~

Got your email, Kimmer typed to Karlene, Sandy, and, by default, Carolyne.  Dogs need their hair, Karlene.  Sandy, being an idiot is how a boy pretends he's not afraid.  Be nice to your new foster brother and maybe he'll be less annoying.  Maybe not, but it could happen.

Is that what a good mother would say?  How could she even know?  Her own mother had spent their quiet together-times instilling Kimmer with rules of survival, rules she had lived by for so long they were part of her.  “No one takes care of you but you,” she'd tell her young daughter, finger-combing back curly hair that only a mother could love in the first place.

If I can't be a good partner, how the hell can I be a good mother?

Because, said her little voice, you can't leave those girls to the foster care system.

"Aurgh," Kimmer said out loud, shamelessly stealing it from Rio.

She finished the note and wrote a separate email to Caro—her fingers hesitating on words of concern for someone who wanted family in a way Kimmer could never imagine, and then taking the coward's way out to inquire more about their visit, the girls, and especially the idiot foster-brother.

When it came to brothers, Kimmer took nothing for granted.

Then she banged out a quick note to Owen, only peripherally aware of how suddenly hard her fingers hit the keys.

Bad idea, this step-sibling cover.  It's drawing attention, all right.  Everyone thinks we're wanton and up for grabs.  Good going, Owen.

She stopped, thinking of the young woman who had come onto Rio.  Yeah, they needed to talk.  At least her file was whistle-clean, vetted by both Owen and Rio. Didn't mean she wasn't a pain in the ass.

Back to Owen, then, fingers still pounding:  What do you know about Andoni Gandiaga?  Local security pegs him as a potential catalyst for attempts on the antiquity.

That should get him delving into research, all right.  She finished up with a quick recap of the Guardia Civil situation and their own plans for the day, and finished off with, The damned truth of it is that this item needs a hell of a lot more security than it has—but attempts to procure it locally would draw more attention than we can afford.

Hell, even if they kept it quiet in town, there'd be questions and curiosity within the household, and most of these people went home at night.  They had families; they had friends.  They had voices.

This Etxea thing is more than just old, Owen—it's a symbol.  And it's the kind of symbol people want to claim.

And finally—

I can't read the Doña, Owen.  And I don't like it.

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

CHAPTER 9

Rio slouched back in his chair, the hustle and bustle of the busy Café Iruna carrying on around him.  With villagodio in his system—the local veal cut prepared rare on the griddle—he felt truly alert for the first time since their arrival here.  Totally ready to play spy guy and take Bilbao by storm.

Not that it was necessary.

Kimmer took a sip of her wine.  "Don't know that I'll ever be used to having a main meal at lunch time."  But she seemed more relaxed than she'd been since their arrival.  Whatever she'd pounded out in that email to Owen, it must have gotten something out of her system.

She'd put on melon-colored slacks and a breezy summer top with a fine print; it was a gamine look—carefree and ultimately touristy.  Completely at odds with the fact that there were half a dozen small knives or sharp things hidden around her person and that her sandals were perfect for chasing, fleeing, or fighting—and yes, that the war club was inside her small slouchy backpack.  Along with the camera, of course.

God, it made him grin just to look at her.

This oddly sub-divided building beside the gorgeous Alba Gardens wasn’t quite what they had expected, though.  Great food, yes—but the sub-divisions made it unlikely they'd be noticed.

Usually this was a good thing, but today?  They wanted to be seen.  Kimberly and Richard, being the Doña's touristy relatives on this one day they had to reinforce the cover.

"We'll be loud Americans on the way out," Kimmer had suggested as they assessed the place upon arrival, and settled in to visibly appreciate the exquisite tiling, the restored old murals, and the heavenly scent of the food.  The place oozed culture, all right.

"At least the antiquity is going to a local museum," Rio said now, pretty much in the middle of a thought.

Kimmer didn't seem to have any trouble following it.  "You'd think certain factions would be glad enough for that.  Makes me wonder if it's worth dropping our cover to have that little chat with the airport goonboys, see what they were really after."  She fiddled with her knife.  Always with the knives.  "Damned cover is causing more trouble than it's worth."

No kidding.  First the airport encounter, then the near-comical determination of the staff to earn tips and special favors.  It kept them from interfacing with the local law enforcement in a meaningful way, it—

"It's what the Doña wants," Rio told her, forcing himself to say it.

"Right," Kimmer sighed.  And then she mouthed a crude commentary, knowing Rio would read her lips—and just as quickly smiled at their waiter as he brought them a milk pudding, cinnamon, and walnut dessert he called intxaursalsa.

Kimmer played with the dessert before tasting it.  Pensive.  "I'm not sure Owen did us any favors, sending us off on this one.  Not as the first.  Too many constraints.  It's not a job we can do our way."

More than pensive.  Something going unsaid.

Don't push it.  More than anything, Kimmer needed space.  So he cleared his throat and said, "That's usually the way it is.  It's exactly why I dug my heels in about working with Hunter in the first place."

"Except Hunter's not usually like that, and you know it."

Yeah.  He did.

"Hey," Kimmer said, surprise lighting her face, a smudge of pudding at the corner of her mouth, "this stuff is good!"

So Rio gave it a try and had to admit it beat out even the mighty Twinkie, and for the rest of the meal they managed light conversation—about the haircut Karlene had given the foster-family's Lhasa mix in sly retaliation for its nipping, and what Kimmer would do with a dog that bit children anyway, and quiet supposition about which rooms in their house the girls would choose, or whether they would fight over the same one.

But all the while a tiny quirk sat between her brows, until she said, "Big sister, maybe.  I think I could be a good big sister."

Rio said, "Just being there for them is what matters."

But he knew he'd said the wrong thing—or maybe just the right thing—when Kimmer's face got tight and her gaze went inward and her voice came out strained.  "Being there isn't what matters.  Being good for them is what matters."

And he wanted to reassure her that of course she'd be good for them, but he knew she wouldn't believe it...and yet that it was more important to her than it could ever be for him that she did, because he damn well took it for granted that family was good for itself.

"Damn," Kimmer said, and she had her run away face on—the one that meant she'd run away from the emotional by diving into the work.  "I'm done here.  Let's go ooh and ahh at the gardens and look impressed at the San Vicente church architecture, and wave at the Basque Nationalist Party HQ next door.  If Jurdan is right about Andoni Gandiaga's presence stirring things up, we might just have reason to make ourselves known there later on."

"I'm on board with that."  Rio beckoned the waiter over to take care of their check, and let Kimmer prowl on ahead to wait for him outside.

She needed a good prowl, no doubt about it.  Maybe this evening they could pull a little night duty on the grounds—get a sense of the night life around the place--as well as some much needed privacy--while waiting for the Monaco crew.

But when he got outside, Kimmer wasn't waiting.

~~~

"We don't want to hurt you."

The voice in Kimmer's ear wasn't the least bit convincing.  Nor was the gun barrel poking her in the back.  But a quick assessment of the potential collateral damage in the gardens—the Jardines de Albia constituted a major Bilbao landmark, well trafficked by tourists and locals alike—and she forced herself to relax.

"Very good."  The voice spoke Spanish, and seemed surprised at her silent acquiescence.  He'd been afraid she'd panic.

Messy thing, panic.  She supposed she should have faked some; it had obviously been expected of Kimberly.

Then again, if they hadn't already figured out that Kimberly did the unexpected, they needed to go back to goonboy school.  For this man was, she was certain, of the Basajaun—coming back for a second try.

Which meant that they probably didn't intend to hurt her.  At least, not at the moment.  "What do you want?" she asked, her voice low.  Still within the gardens, she stood within sight of the café exit.  San Vicente's impressive gothic architecture stretched up to the sky before her and thick, groomed foliage loomed behind her.

In answer, he tugged on her arm, indicating that she should fade back into the bushes.

She readily complied.  Rio would know something was wrong when he couldn't immediately see her.  And it gave her time to ponder the best weapon.  The war club, no...not within reach.  She needed to get a special holster for that thing.  Both their guns, sitting at the bottom of her backpack—out of reach and just damned not supposed to be needed on this touristy lunch.  Double damn.

She faked a stumble and gave her shin a rueful rub, retrieving one of her smallest knives in the process.  It would sit in the palm of her hand until she needed it, but now...

Now she was ready.

"Kimberly?"

Rio's voice, the faintest extra edge of concern.  He wouldn't have called for her if he'd been on his own...he'd have looked silently.  So that meant...

Her unwelcome escort confirmed her forming suspicion.  "Here," he said, in Euskari, keeping his voice low.  And he pushed Kimmer into the open, where she could find Rio, meet his worried gaze, and raise her brows in exquisite dryness.  "Hey, Richard," she said.  "Look, I found friends."

"How very clever of you, dear," Rio said, which was as close as anyone could get to rolling his eyes with his voice.

The two Basajaun exchanged glances, as if still waiting for the panic to start.  Finally the one who had Kimmer used thickly accented English to say, "We're going to the car.  There will be no outcry, or I will kill the woman."

"Blah, blah, blah," Kimmer muttered.  They didn't understand, which was just as well—she didn't take them as lightly as all that, especially as that unpleasant grip on her arm steered her back out into the stream of pedestrian traffic, and that gun muzzle stayed firmly planted against her back.

Definitely too many people around them.  Too many innocents.  They'd have to wait before they started anything.

Unless, of course, the goonboys started something first.

~~~

They walked down the street at a brisk pace, la la la tourists on a schedule, heading for the nearest inconspicuous alley—not an easy find in this part of town, and not meant for parking.  Kimmer wasn't surprised to see the car had been ticketed, but the lead goonboy, his gun still in Rio's back, tore the ticket from the windshield and flung it away.

Tsk.  A good goonboy stayed inconspicuous, and didn't let himself get tripped up by ticket warrants.  These guys were definitely still learning the ropes.  Not necessarily a good thing.

They wouldn't have the command structure, or the organization to keep from doing the Stupid...and they wouldn't have the discipline to stick to their goals over their whims of the moment.

She'd have to keep an eye on their whims.

Kimmer's escort kept his hand wrapped into the back waistband of her slacks, the gun still in that hand—no slipsliding away from this one.  He opened the back door and pulled out a couple of plastic restraints.

Satisfaction slid into place.  If these two had pulled out cuffs, she'd think twice about acquiescing.  But now...with the tiny knife palmed in her hand and the need to get more answers than they had...

It was an opportunity as much as an interruption.

When Rio glanced her way, she shook her head, so slightly.  Worry looked back at her from his eyes, but he stood quietly as the goonboy secured his hands behind his back.

Their abductors weren't completely untrained—Kimmer's goonboy waited until Rio had ducked into the back seat before distracting himself with her bonds.  But yes...they were sloppy enough.  When she fisted her hands behind her, both white-knuckle tense—hiding the tiny toothpick knife as he fastened the plastic restraints—he not only didn't check, he took evident satisfaction from this sign that she wasn't as controlled as she seemed.

Not that she wasn't twitchy with the need to act, or that her heart didn't thump with the danger they faced.

But she could handle twitchy.

He pushed her into the back seat, and she wiggled into place as he exchanged a few rapid words with his partner.  Then both goonboys landed heavily in their respective front seats, and the passenger turned sideways to keep an eye on them.

"Seriously," Kimmer said as the car pulled out into traffic.  Her backpack fell off her shoulder, caught by her restrained hands.  "Do you really think the Doña will pay money for us?  She doesn't strike me as the type."  She sat on the edge of the seat, swaying with the motion of the car.  Her shoulders burned as she maneuvered the knife in her hand, flicked off the minimalist sheath, and went to work on the plastic restraints.  Giant garbage bag ties.

She always did hate being treated like garbage.

The passenger goonboy slanted her a dark glance.  "Shut up and do as you're told."

"Gah," Kimmer muttered.  "How's a girl supposed to get Stockholm syndrome if her kidnappers won't talk?"  And Rio turned his face to the side window—hiding a smile, as she damned well knew.

But if these men figured out she and Rio were ringers, there'd be no smiling.  And the goonboys would waste no time disposing of them.

Of course, it didn't bode well that they'd seen the men's faces, either.

Kimmer held obedient silence as she cut the restraint—not to mention her skin—and left what she hoped was the slimmest thread of plastic to maintain the illusion.  At the next corner she deliberately lost her balance to sway into Rio—and nudged the knife handle between his fingers.

Had to hand it to him.  His expression never changed.  He'd have a harder time with the little knife—his hands, bigger than hers, would struggle to manipulate it.  But none of that, either, found its way to his face.

The car took them along the Nervión River—not a bad little tour if you were in the market for one.  Kimmer took a breath...distracting them from Rio, playing the role.  She might know better than to whine...but Kimberly wouldn't.  "Please," she said, letting a desperate quaver into her voice.  "I'm sorry I spoke out of turn before.  Whatever you want—."

She hadn't expected him to move so fast, lunging over the back of the seat to grab her shirt and backhand her.  She fell into Rio with her face burning and her lip already puffing up, fighting oh-so-hard to keep her eyes from narrowing in warning.

Play the role, Chimera.

And so she cried out, and Rio did his best to catch her without hands, snarling in English, "You sonuva—"

Blam!

The goonboy's gun discharged, close enough to feel the hot gases—truly startling Kimmer for the first time, with Rio gone tense and silent behind her.  The gun stared at them with its single dark eye, now aimed directly for Kimmer's knee.

For a moment she thought he'd do it.

She stopped breathing, she stopped thinking, she could do nothing but stare at that gun.

And then she remembered to look at him, to read him—and she knew she was safe.

For now.

Still, she mutely shook her head—a silent plea, to assure him she'd learned her lesson.  He spat at her—spat at her!—and shifted to a more relaxed position, his point made, his dominance asserted.

And Kimmer seethed. Behind Kimberly's muted sniffling, she let the anger fuel her.

And, not coincidentally, in this new position, she blocked their easy view of Rio's movement behind her—groping for the knife he'd no doubt dropped during the brief scuffle.

Maybe she and Rio had made a mistake.  Maybe they should have chanced collateral damage in the gardens, or put a stop to things at the alley even if it meant sacrificing potential information.

Too late for maybes.

She shifted—warily, silently—to catch Rio's eye, and saw nothing but deadly serious intent.  He was ready when she was.

A few more moments took them out of the stream of traffic and off toward the river—approaching one of the many commercial docking areas along the tidy, stone and concrete contained banks of the Nervión.

A finger of concrete jutted out into the water, nearly parallel with the banks and enclosing an equally narrow finger of water.  Massive freighters docked on both sides of the concrete, and when the car turned toward those impressive ships, Kimmer muttered an expletive to herself.

Never a good thing, freighters.  Their innards were like warrens, and if you went inside you never knew where you'd come up.  The things were especially convenient to the goonboy set when it came to disposal of certain inconveniences.

Kimmer had the feeling that she and Rio would inevitably become inconvenient.

The car wove between rows of shipping containers and stopped beside an open container.  Their driver grunted a few words to his partner and exited, disappearing into the container long enough for a rapid exchange in Euskari, just barely audible through the half-closed car door.  The passenger leaned back against the dash to watch Kimmer and Rio with alert annoyance, and didn't let his partner's return distract him.  A few short words, still in Euskari, and the car pulled away.  Getting instructions.  Too damn bad Kimmer didn't know Euskari—only its penchant for tx and tongue-twisting words.

Of course they drove out to one of the freighters, parking off to the side.  Kimmer's personal goonboy disembarked from the car and yanked her out of his side, just as the driver pulled Rio away from her.  She damn well hoped he'd had the time to cut his restraints—and then she had her own worries, for the goonboy yanked her hard.  She fell, her backpack swinging awkwardly from her bound hands and the restraints jerking her wrists so hard that—.

They should have broken.

If she'd cut them enough, they would have broken.

So much for estimating restraint thickness from behind her back.  Damn.  She hoped Rio had done better.

She straightened herself out, shifting the pack around in an apparent effort to keep it from banging the back of her thighs...but all she really wanted was that war club.

Seriously.  Need to get a holster.

Her escort steered her roughly at the gangplank and she followed meekly in Rio's wake, her fingers all the time searching, searching...she dropped the pack, realized it had become slippery with blood from her cuts, and could only hope her goonboy wouldn't notice.  Good reason to wear black at all times.

Finally—finally—her fingers closed around the ball end of the club.  She flipped it around, slipped her hand through the leather thong in the handle, and waited, leaving the club in the pack.

Because things had changed.  These weren't gentlemen goonboys, handling their packages

class=Section2>

lightly while waiting for ransom or trade.  These were crude thugboys.

She rolled that thought around in her head and decided she liked it.  Thugboys.  No honor to these Basajaun, whatever they styled themselves.

It meant they wouldn't fight to manage the situation if things went awry.  They'd simply shoot to kill.

Push and shove up the gangplank; push and shove along the deck to the ship's bow, a jutting sweep of deck that curved out over the front keel, and the only area of the deck not covered with shipping containers.  Salt air from the nearby Bay of Biscay hung heavy around them, driving home the changing circumstances.

Rio's thugboy stopped, consulted a piece of paper, and gestured down the row of shipping containers.

Ohh, no.  No, we're not going into one of those.

There'd be no taking anyone by surprise if they were closed in a shipping container—no negotiating, no nothing.  Not to mention no bathroom.

"No!" Kimmer cried, going for the edge of Kimberly-hysteria.  "You can't mean it!  I won't go!  I can't stand dark places!  No, no, noNO!"

His grip tightened as she let her legs go limp, wailing the whole time—and keeping Rio in the corner of her eye.  She dodged the fist her thugboy aimed at her—then remained a flailing weight on the deck until he dropped her and aimed a kick of utter frustration.

She rolled with the blow, heading for the edge of the bow as Rio shouted his Richard lines.  "Kimberly!  You're making things worse!"  Waiting and ready.

Yanking against the wrist restraints gained nothing; she didn't waste time on it.  Her thugboy came on with another kick—oof—she took it in the hip and crabbed away, all flailing Kimberly panic, and dragging the backpack along in the clumsiest possible fashion, the war club within dangling from her wrist.

Another kick and thank you, thugboy, she was in position to tuck her legs up and roll through the hoop of her own bound wrists—if the damned pack hadn't tangled in her feet.  Son of a—  She fought with it, clearing her heels just in time to take another kick—bitch!

And still she screamed, presenting him with Kimberly's hysteria and hiding Kimmer's deadly intent.

"I won't!" she cried, eyeing the bow.  "I won't, won't, won't—!"

Here he came again, grim and undeterred by her English babbling.

"And if you think you can make me—"

Down he reached, looming, ready to snag her up and bodily drag her along—

"Then you're all—" she came up to meet him, surging to her feet, hands still wrapped together but holding the war club inside the backpack "-fucking wet!"

The backpack slammed into him, the war club slammed into him, her fisted hands slammed into him.  He stumbled backward, arms flailing, hitting up against the railing—and Kimmer plunged forward, ramming her shoulder into his gut.

Over the railing he went.

The splash was a long time coming.

Kimmer didn't wait for it.  Sprawled across the deck, her nose inches from the railing, she glanced back to find the other thugboy and his pistol headed her way, foolishly dismissing Rio.

Rio, who'd been quiet and unresisting and so apparently ineffective.

Rio, who had been waiting for his moment...

The thugboy jerked around in a flurry of Rio-driven motion; the sound of a solid blow followed.  Kimmer hauled herself to her feet and hooked her restraints over a rounded metal post of the railing, yanking with no regard to her wrists.  Break, damn you!

Gunfire stunned the air; the bullet skipped across the deck right at Kimmer's feet.  She jumped, taken completely by surprise—and then flushed in anger.

Bullet-flinging.  I don't think so.  She lifted her hands from the post, flipped the abused backpack haphazardly over one shoulder, and leaped into the struggle from behind—wrapping her restraints around the thugboy's neck and jumping up to plant her knees on either side of his spine.  He staggered, ramming at her with his elbows, and then staggered again at another solid blow from Rio.  Kimmer made a decidedly unthreatening squeak of dismay as the man flailed backward and she slammed down to the metal deck, the thugboy limply on top of her.

"Hold on," Rio said, and flipped her hands over the man's head.  In another moment he'd dragged the thugboy off her, and Kimmer wasted no time grabbing the basic little Swiss Army Knife from her backpack pocket to finish cutting the restraint.  Next time...cut it completely and fake restraint by holding your hands together.  Idiot.

By the time Rio let the thugboy go, she was free, shaking out her hands and abused wrists.  Rio grinned at her, blood smeared across his face from a fat lip and a nosebleed.  "Shall we run like hell?" he asked, ever the gentleman.

"After we talk to your friend," Kimmer muttered, taking his offered hand as she climbed to her feet.  Bad idea; his was slick, and she ended up right back on her butt.

"Oops." Rio looked at his bloody hand.  "Cable ties, knife.  I hope the Doña stocks that cling-wrap stuff."

"No doubt in the colors of Spain," Kimmer grunted, climbing to her feet her own damned self.  She swiped off the seat of her pants, took an instant to realize that the thugboy had ripped the flimsy material of her shirt, and shrugged at the sight of her bared skin.  "No Guggenheim for us."

"Good lunch, though."  Rio looked at his hands and dismissed them, a plastic bracelet still encircling one wrist; he handed the thugboy's gun to Kimmer, who made a face at the clunky Glock but tucked it away in her backpack anyway.  She turned to the dazed man beside her.

The war club woke him up, tapping on his shin in a most painful way.  Rio planted a foot on his throat, and when the man came to himself with a start, he instantly froze, understanding the threat.  Sweaty, his lightweight shirt bloodied from several missing teeth, he made a half-assed attempt to muster his bravado.

"Forget it," Kimmer advised him in Spanish, using his own words against him.  "It's not important what you think.  It's only important that you shut up and do as you're told."  As fast as you possibly can.  "I want to know why you grabbed us.  What you wanted from us."

The man sputtered blood and astonishment.  "But you—you're just tourists!"

"You betcha," Kimmer said.  "This is what happens when you take on American tourists.  Try to remember that."  She smiled, so sweetly, and tapped his shin again.  "And why was it that you took us on, again?"

He tried to jerk away, cursing—something scathing and Basque.  "The Etxea, you stupid bitch!" and then stared defiantly at Kimmer's impatient gesture.

Rio put a little more weight on his throat, cutting further imprecations off into a gargle, then easing up.  Kimmer gave the man a poke.  Come on, come on...

He got the message all right, sullen and snarly.  "To trade!  For the Etxea!"

Oh, great.  The word is definitely out.  She exchanged a quick glance with Rio, saw her concern and annoyance reflected there.  Nice way to start a gig—with their big secret antiquity already deeply compromised.

She gave their surroundings a quick assessment.  The containers, the ship, the noise of the dock off to the sides...the quiet wouldn't last much longer.  And yet they needed to know—

Rio caught her eye.  "We've got to go."

Kimmer made a frustrated sound deep in her throat and jerked her attention to the man's waist, fumbling at his belt buckle with such savage intent she could practically hear his shrinkage factor.

"The railing," she said, and even as she whipped the belt free, Rio dragged the man away, flipped him over, and jerked his hands behind his back.  A couple of quick whips with the belt held them tight, and Kimmer buckled it around the railing, lifting his arms up painfully high.

Rio handed her a sock, harvested from the man's own foot, and she stuffed it into his mouth and stood.  "Time to run away."  They headed for the gangplank at a run, skirting the containers along the way.  In only moments, filtered shouts reached them.

"That's not good," Rio panted as the shouts quickly grew in intensity.  They slowed; a clattering noise or two and footsteps pounded along the metal deck just beyond their container—cutting off the gangplank.

Rio grabbed Kimmer's arm and pulled her into a container alley; they dodged deeply back into the row.  Breathless, focused back on the bow, he said, "I think we're gonna go swimming."

You think?  Kimmer sprinted into motion, heading for the bow at top speed.  Quicker than Rio in these tight quarters, quicker on the sprint in any event, she donned her backpack in mid-run and burst from the forest of containers with gun in hand, laying down non-stop cover at the first sign of movement from the other side of the containers.

Someone fired off a sporadic shot; Kimmer ran out of ammo and didn't think twice; she slid to a stop as Rio passed her, and whipped the empty gun at the first face to peek out in the wake of her silence.  No hesitation; she spun around and headed for the railing.

Rio hesitated on the other side of it, balancing, waiting—and she launched herself over, grabbing his hand on the way by.

They hung in the air, connected for only a moment.  Then the river rushed at them with a sickening swoop of gravity and air.  Kimmer let go of his hand to tuck herself into the smallest, tightest possible cannonball.  Ohh, this is gonna—

WHUMP!

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

CHAPTER 10

Impact.

Water up her nose, water forced into her eyes, water in places she never thought water would go.  Her breath slammed out as her body slammed down, and then the pack yanked backwards, cutting under her arms.  Kimmer flailed for the surface with no more bubbles left to breathe out, and broke through a surface still tumultuous with their entrance.

Rio took longer; he'd sliced deeply into the water.  He emerged with a splutter, water arcing through the air as he shook his head free of it.

That's when the shooting started.  Semi-automatic bursts, ptt-ptt-ptt, ptt-ptt-ptt.  All around them, water spiked on impact.  Kimmer gasped in a huge deep breath and pointed her toes, propelling herself straight down with her arms.  Bullets punched the water around her—slowing, some breaking up into unpredictable slow-mo shrapnel.  Rio's form darkened the water behind her; she led him straight to the ship and came up in the sheltered flare of the deck, bobbing against the metal hull and snatching air the instant her mouth cleared water.

Rio surfaced beside her, sputtering curses.  She slapped a haphazard hand over his mouth, slippery wet skin on skin.  Water carries sound.  He got the message well enough, sucking back on his words and leaving only the gentle slap of water against the boat.

After a moment in which he seemed to struggle to regain his normal composure, he put his head close to hers, his breath still coming fast and sunlight sparking from the water that followed the line of his cheek.  "They'll send out a boat, if they're thorough."

They might well be crude in their methods, they might well be unschooled in their operations...but Kimmer had no reason to believe they weren't thorough.  "There's another ship docked behind this one.  If we can get to it, we can find a way out of the water."

"Unless they're Basajaun, too," Rio pointed out.

"Thank you so much for that thought."  Kimmer eased into a gentle, quiet sidestroke alongside the freighter's hull.  "But hey, are we having fun now?"

"Doesn't get any better than this."  He stayed close behind her, turned so he could watch their backs.  They circled the ship, bumping the hull, bumping each other.  Kimmer's flimsy shirt, abused by thugboy, high dive, and swimming, gave it up, quietly parting to become nothing more than waterlogged gossamer wings.

The least of her troubles.

They'd made it to the stern when the putter of a small engine floated across the water, rapidly growing closer.  Kimmer drew breath to go submersible again when Rio nudged her, pointing at an unexpected feature in the hull.  A tiny cave of sorts.  Then her water-reddened eyes resolved the shape and shadow, and she realized they'd found the empty anchor port.  Not nearly enough to hide in...was it?

Enough for one person, maybe.  One small person.  Not one Rio-sized person.  "Quick," she said, sputtering as a wave of disturbed water splashed her mouth.  "Get this thing off me—"

The backpack.  He tugged it from her back, bobbing deeply into the water with his efforts, all the while his gaze watching for the boat, assessing the freighter for additional hiding places.  Kimmer groped inside the sodden pack with difficulty, ruing the inevitable ruins of her camera on the way to—

"Plain old fashioned Bic," she said, pulling out both a pen and her club.  The club went around her wrist; she put the pen nib between her teeth and bit down, withdrawing it from the pen body.  The little plastic plug at the end gave way to her water-softened nails, and she thrust the empty pen body at Rio.  "Hang on to the anchor chain," she told him, treading water with difficulty now that the pack dragged in her hand.  "Underneath."

Understanding lit his eyes; he eased out to the chain and drew himself down hand over hand, the pen in his mouth like a jaunty oversized cigarette as the water closed over his bright hair.

Please let that pen be big enough to draw air...  But he didn't reappear; the pen kept a steady position, rising from the water directly beside the chain.

The little boat motor warned her; she clambered awkwardly into the anchor port, tucking herself away to fight the slip and slide of the curved, wet surface.  A wave splashed over the pen; water splurted out a second later.  But the pen stayed put, and Kimmer stayed put, and the boat puttered around...

She could have wished for a shirt instead of two ragged halves of one, the heat of her body sinking unabated into the cold, painted metal and her hands desperately cramping against the hull.

The boat engine neared; the boat itself, full of watchful men with their watchful guns—handguns, as if someone had realized it was just a little too conspicuous to go puttering around the dock waving semi-automatic rifles--sliced a path into Kimmer's view.

Kimmer slipped, bit her tongue on a snarl of frustration, and wedged herself in even more tightly.  The boat puttered.  A gull settled on the anchor chain.  Rio, no doubt, had turned into a prune.  And finally the damned boat circled a final time and slipped out of sight.

The sound of it faded, and Kimmer plucked at the anchor chain.  The top of Rio's head emerged—only as far as his eyes.  Water streamed down his face, but he made no attempt to shake off.  He locked gazes, assessing her—and then his eyes widened, and he quite suddenly slid back under water, leaving her guessing.

But only until she heard sporadic splashing. From the dock side of the ship, it was, and accompanied by breathless cries in Euskari.

Of course.  It was the man she'd thrown overboard.  He'd probably been trolling the edges of the high commercial dock, hunting a way out of the water—and now he thought his best bet lay in chasing down the smaller boat.  He came bobbing around the stern, slowly working his way into view—not a natural swimmer, this one—fully clothed and floundering.

Wedged into her little cave, Kimmer tried to think herself invisible.  That was fair, right?  It worked in fantasy novels, didn't it?

Real damned life wasn't quite so convenient.  Naturally he saw her.  Naturally he stopped short—and naturally he decided revenge would taste just as sweet if wet.  She saw the decision on his face and made an internationally rude gesture.

Ah, good.  She'd made him mad.

He splashed in her direction with purpose, sparing the breath for invectives she couldn't understand.  His awkward movement became more obvious—she realized he'd landed badly from his pinwheeling fall from the deck.

She could relate to that.  After all, she'd jumped on purpose and landed well, and still felt as though she'd been through a washing machine.  C'mon, c'mon...let's get this over with...

And here he came.  She braced herself in the anchor port, war club ready—

Just as the man grabbed at her closest foot, Rio shot up out of the water behind him, hands settling around the anchor chain, those long legs levering up to slam between the man's shoulder blades.  The thugboy lost all his air with a whump, and smacked face-first into the hull.

Huh.

Rio removed the pen from his mouth.  "Timing, what?"

Kimmer might possibly have found a suitable reply had she not lost her precarious security in the anchor port, slipping down into the water with a wordless sound of protest as she snatched at the thugboy, keeping his head above water.  Attached to him she wasn't, but there wasn't any point in polluting the waters with his carcass.

Besides, she wanted his shirt.

~~~

Home sweet home.

A long and stealthy swim, a squishing walk, an outrageously tipped cab driver...

Rio climbed out of the car, twitching against the burn beneath his shoulder.  Damned bullet was gonna hurt coming out, even shallow.  It sure as hell had hurt going in.

The motion caught Kimmer's attention; she slammed her driver's door closed and narrowed her eyes at him.  "Did you think I wouldn't notice that?  What with the blood and all?"

"Not so much of that," he said, which was true.  He'd have felt the warmth of it, especially against the clamminess of his wet shirt against his skin.

Air conditioning on the ride back to the villa had been a mistake; now he welcomed the warmth of the sun on his shoulders as he stood by the car and stretched his lower back—an automatic accommodation of the old wound that made this new scar-to-be of little significance.

Kimmer gave him a skeptical squint.

He supposed he didn't blame her.  Not that she looked much better, wearing the thugboy's wet, oversized shirt and generously bruised along the side of her face.  Her short curls had dried with much imagination; instead of gamin, she now looked truly wild.  Her slacks were as wet as his jeans—and what a nice panty line that was, too.

Kimmer gave him a sharp look on top of the squint.

"Look," he said, and bent forward to tug his shirt up, the wet material reluctant and clinging.  He'd taken an awkward surreptitious feel of the wound while hanging off that anchor chain; he knew the lump of the bullet lay just beneath the skin.

Kimmer hovered behind him, her touch light—a little prod, a brush of her fingers that might well have been a caress—and then she pulled his shirt back down.

"All right," she said.  "Lucky you, the water slowed the bullet.  I'm sure the villa has first aid supplies."

Rio snorted, struck by the sudden absurdity of it all.  "Do you suppose our persistent suitors are going to wonder how we managed to get away this time?  Or why we didn't call the authorities?"

"I think," Kimmer said, lifting her chin, "that we'd better wrap this thing up as quickly as we can, before they start coming up with answers to questions like that.  And stick close to ground until we do.  At this point, they're going to come for us just to get their own."

"Maybe they won't wonder about the absence of response to all the fun today," Rio said, a second thought.  "Kind of interesting that no one else seems to have noticed all that gunfire."

"Paid off," Kimmer concluded.  She gave her backpack a disgusted look.  "Boy, do we have guns to clean.  Too bad I never even got a hand on mine."  Both his and hers, sitting in the wet backpack, undrawn.  "Hey, you want that Glock?"

He just looked at her.  She broke into laughter.  "Okay, we'll let that one rust."  But her expression grew more thoughtful; with a glance, she directed Rio's glance over to the side, where their usual parking place was taken by a light blue sedan of an unremarkable make—something British, Rio thought.

"Do we know that car?" he asked.

"We don't," Kimmer said, her voice hardening somewhat.  She, too, had had her fill of the unexpected on this restrictive job—and like him she wasn't assuming this car didn't represent more of it.

She grabbed her backpack and stalked toward the house.  Rio hesitated, mouth open on the suggestion that they try to make themselves less untidy...and closed it again, watching the panty line sway back and forth with those determined steps.

Rio caught up in time to reach for the front door as she pulled it open.  When she stopped short, he ran up against her back—and when he saw what she'd seen, he understood why.

The green uniform of two Guardia Civil officers, in discussion with Marina and Jurdan in the spacious entry area.

Right.  And here they were.  Wet, bloodied, battered, and wearing makeshift clothing.

"This must be about the airport thing," Kimmer said, catching her balance and moving into the house as though they'd returned fresh and invigorated from their lunch.

"I was just telling the officers that you would be out all afternoon," Marina said, her voice strained to the point of incredulousness.

"That was the plan," Rio agreed, and added deadpan, "We had a sprinkler system accident."

"You seem...prone to accidents."  The officer spoke English, but barely.  The other, to judge from the look on his face, didn't speak it at all.

"Excitement wherever we go."  Kimmer casually dropped her wet backpack at the foot of the stairs.  "I thought we had things all arranged?  We're making a statement through Haritz Zabala, the Doña's lawyer?"

"As I have told the gentlemen," Marina said stiffly.  No doubt she was old enough to remember the excesses of the Guardia Civil under Francisco Franco's rule, although the policing body had gentled since then.

"Exactly," said the officer, eyeing Kimmer's face.  "We had expected to have the statement before now.  We came to make sure there was no misunderstanding."

Bullshit.  You came to intimidate us.

Well, to try.

But Rio got the message: they didn't like how things were being handled.  They didn't quite buy what they were being told.  And although they were knuckling under to the influence of the Doña and her lawyer, they were also waiting to pounce if they found the slightest excuse.

He didn't really blame them.  This was their turf.  He and Kimmer had not only made a mess, they didn't quite add up.  The whole "run away at the airport" thing would only have been a complete success if they hadn't been caught.

As they wouldn't have been, if he'd followed Kimmer promptly to the airport as she'd expected.

Rio winced inside—but he also eyed Jurdan, who avoided his gaze.  Jurdan, who had yet to report back that he'd spoken to the girl about that incident.

"The statement was to be made by the end of the day," Kimmer said.  "But if there's a misunderstanding, it's easy enough to clear up.  We'll have Señor Zabala call your station right away."

"I would hate to think," Marina added, "that you came out here over such a simple thing."

Rio shot her a look.  We're dealing with it.  Don't push them.

But the officer said gruffly, "No need to bother Señor Zabala.  It would be soon enough if your statement reaches us by day's end."

For a moment Rio thought Marina might qualify the statement by noting the day ended at midnight—Kimmer must have thought so, too, because she affected great relief and said, "Thank you.  That makes things so much easier.  And I wonder if we could possibly excuse ourselves to go clean up?  We might as well take advantage of our bad luck to go deal with the statements earlier than expected."

In other words, now you're only delaying the thing you want to happen.  Said with a convincingly rueful smile, as if he and Kimmer hadn't, in fact, just been engaged in a firefight on the docks.

With any luck, they'll never know it happened.

In truth, the gunfire hadn't been shockingly obvious in the grand scheme of the dock hustle and bustle.  And they'd left the final thugboy tied to the anchor port with his pants, already coming to his senses but his mouth too full of what was left of Kimmer's shirt to cry for help.

And the Basajaun sure weren't likely to report the incident.

What they were likely to do about two not-so-average tourists who had eluded their grasp a second time...that was a big unknown.  As Kimmer had noted, they might well feel they now had a point to make.

Rio had no doubt they'd make themselves clear.

~~~

The Guardia Civil officers had barely closed the door behind themselves when the phone rang faintly in the background.  Kimmer paid it no attention, reaching for her backpack and ready to hit the shower and the closet—but Marina held up her hand.  "I put a call in to the Doña as they arrived," she said.  "She may wish to speak to you."

Within moments, a young woman emerged from the kitchen.  Larraitz.  "The Doña," she said, and then hesitated just long enough to smile at Rio, the faintest of flushes on her round cheeks.

Give it up, Kimmer told her silently as Marina led the way to her office.  And then to her surprise the young woman looked her way, the swiftest of glances.  It held challenge and secret triumph, and Kimmer found herself taking a step forward, responding to that challenge instinctively.  "You," she said.

So eloquent.

"¿Que?" the girl said, so prettily.

Kimmer didn't hesitate.  She switched to Spanish and went for the throat.  "You," she repeated.  "You interfered with our plans.  You made great trouble for me."  She smiled, and not nicely.  "And you tried to take what's mine."

"No, no no!" the young woman said, and even then she glanced at Rio for help, big Bambi eyes in full action.

Rio, wisely, said nothing.  Even his expression said nothing—unless you were Kimmer, and knew him well enough to know the very lack of response meant he'd decided the young woman—Larraitz—had earned what she was facing.

Seeing no help there, Larraitz insisted, "It was a misunderstanding.  I thought—"

"You thought nothing," Kimmer said.  "You thought about what you wanted, and interfered with our plans, and you tried to take what's mine."

"You could have taken a cab!" Larraitz burst out, and big brown Bambi had turned to deer in the headlights.

Jurdan stepped between them.  "The Doña," he said, somewhat hastily.  "She waits."  And he broke away from them to chide the young woman, escorting her back to the kitchen with extended emphasis.  And with, to Kimmer's keen eye, a completely besotted air.

No wonder he'd been protecting her.

Right.  They'd talk later, then.  Oh, yes.

She entered the office, Rio at her side, and took the proffered phone from Marina's hand.  "Doña," she said.  "I'm sorry you were inconvenienced by this misunderstanding.  It's being handled."

"Nonsense," said the older woman.  Her voice on the line had that same odd echoing quality as before, and Kimmer found herself just as discomfited by her inability to read the nuances of those words.  "I am already a poor hostess, restricted from travel while the doctors argue over my test results; I'm not so doddering that I don't recognize that what you have encountered is on my behalf.  Are you sure all is well?  Marina mentioned your appearance."

"The Basajaun made another try for us," Kimmer said bluntly, hoping for enough of a reaction to overcome her blindness to this woman.

No such luck.  "Again!" the Doña exclaimed.  "Have you gained any sense of their purpose?"

"We know exactly what they want—to trade us for the antiquity."

The Doña's silence of reaction was only momentary.  "They know, then."

"Unquestionably.  We've discussed it; we wonder if it might not be time to drop our pretense and make it clear that we're here to protect your interests."  In fact, she and Rio hadn't had drawn breath to talk about it yet.  No chance, what with the fleeing, fighting, diving, swimming, and dripping their way home.

Then again, they hardly had to—he'd made his feelings clear about the scenario from the start.

The Doña didn't even hesitate.  "Correct me if I'm mistaken, but you are at least a day away from complete security measures."

"Probably several," Kimmer admitted.  "Though we'll have partial security in place by tomorrow afternoon."

"Then, no.  It is not to be discussed.  Now, tell me what happened."

Kimmer did.  She patiently answered questions, stopped for interruptions, and squelched her surprise that the Doña wanted details.  She didn't mention the torn blouse; she didn't mention that Rio was packing around a bullet that had nearly bounced off him anyway.

And she didn't anticipate it when the Doña said, "You see?  It is true, what I said before."

Kimmer floundered for a response, until she finally said, "Doña?"

"Instead of acting to protect himself, your Rio compromised himself from concern for you.  There, in the Gardens, where you could have stopped this brutality before it started."

She wanted to say but there were innocent people there who could have been hurt and she wanted to say but we trusted each other to deal with whatever came up and we did.

But part of her knew that the Doña was right—that if Rio hadn't been worried for her, he would reacted to his thugboy's appearance with decisive finality.

Or he would at least have been free to try.

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

CHAPTER 11

"She won't budge," Kimmer told Rio, kicking the bedroom door closed behind her.  She'd grabbed a plump first aid kit from the kitchen, prowling long enough to know that Larraitz had gone into hiding.  Finally, pleasantly tangy ice teas also in hand, she'd taken her booty upstairs.  Rio was just emerging from the shared bathroom, toweling his hair.  "It's all about keeping the cover.  Tourists, we are."

"Tourists having a really bad vacation," Rio grumbled, and winced.  The damn bullet must feel like hell.  "Maybe we should take watch this evening anyway.  Things are too busy around this town."

"Watch," Kimmer agreed.  "Quietly."  She handed him his ice-tea-no-lemon; he downed it in big manly gulps, trickles escaping to run down his chin.

She dumped the first aid kit on her bed and glanced at his casual nakedness.  "Warning, warning—I asked for light sandwiches, in a room service way."

"I'm sure I can find clothes around here somewhere."  He grinned, blotted his chin, and went into the bathroom long enough to hang up the towel.  The view from behind, Kimmer thought darkly, would have been a lot nicer without that dark red punch-hole and the bruise spreading high in the muscle inside his shoulder.  He said, "When you're clean—"

"We'll deal with your back. If I touch you now, I'll infect it with thugboy germs."

"Thugboy, eh?"  Rio's voice held a grin.  "I like it."  When he emerged, he wore a pair of cut-offs, and paused so she could indicate her approval.

She gave him polite golf clap and—finally, thank God—it was her turn.  She pulled off her still-damp thugboy shirt and dropped it, kicked off her unsalvageable pants and left them on the floor.

Tea in hand, she stalked into the bathroom, full of simmering irritation—at the situation, at their logistically tied hands, at the fact that she'd waste time with the police statement.

It helped to scrub every trace of thugboy off her skin.  A quick towel dry and she tamed her hair into place with brush and product.  The foggy mirror gave her misty glimpses of the worry settled between her eyes and at the corner of her mouth; it showed her peeks of the bruises that clothing had hidden—bruises that this stupid restrictive Kimberly and Richard cover had given her.

And we came out lucky at that.

The Basajaun might not be sophisticated terrorists, but they were ruthless enough, determined enough.  Kimmer had no doubt there'd be retribution for the day's work.  If she and Rio hadn't planned to lock this place down tight with the Monaco grounds security specialists, she'd have called someone in specifically to keep watch against the Basajaun.

As it was, they'd get a nasty surprise if they came down on this place.

The mirror finally showed her a clear patch—Kimmer Reed, revealed—and she switched off the hair dryer.

That's when she heard voices.

Rio's voice.  A woman's voice.  That woman's voice.

Kimmer snatched a towel, made a hasty wrap of it, and burst out into Rio's room.  The young woman froze like a deer—Rio barely grabbed the sandwich tray from her hands as it tipped downward.  In Spanish, Kimmer said, "I still need to talk to you—"

The young woman squeaked and fled.

Rio cast Kimmer a look—head tipped, brow raised, body language warring between amusement and exasperation.

"Oh, fine," Kimmer muttered, and turned on her heel to reach her own room, where she made short work of getting dressed.  There, she also found her own food tray—tea refill, irresistible little crab-filled finger sandwiches—and ate her way through several of them before wandering back into Rio's room with her half-empty glass.

"She was trying to apologize for the airport mix-up when you...appeared," Rio told her, as if there hadn't been any gap in the conversation.  "She misunderstood our situation, she didn't realize it would be a problem at the airport, yada yada.  She'd been coached in it, but she looked sincere enough."  He hesitated, rubbing a hand across his chin.  "Or maybe that was more big-brown-eyes action."

"I still want to talk to her," Kimmer said.  "Because I'll know.  We can't afford to have her playing more Climb the American Tourist games while we're at this."

"No, we can't."  Rio set down his drained-dry glass, and took hers.  "But let's get this thing from my back before you go find her, huh?"

Kimmer winced.  Guilt, guilt, guilt.  "Be right back."  She swooped into her room long enough grab up the first aid kit, snagging a damp towel on her way out again.  Rio lay stretched on the bed, his toes dragging off the end.

She'd expected to find tension along the strong muscle of his back—signs of anticipation.  But he didn't react when she dropped the first aid kit on the far side of the bed and hesitated, running a gentle hand across the knotted scar tissue where there'd once been a kidney.  Then she climbed atop the bed—atop him—and sat just below that scar.

"Hope that thing comes with really big tweezers," he said, face-down words indistinct, as she unzipped the neat canvas first aid kit.

"Improvisation is our friend," Kimmer said, pulling out alcohol wipes and gauze pads and tiny packets of—bless them—surgical scrub, which she put to quick use, staining his skin.  She found the tweezers, decided they'd do, and swiped them down with alcohol.  "Here comes."

His hands, up by his shoulders, closed down on the bed covers.  His back tensed beneath her.  But the bullet wasn't far beneath the skin; hadn't tumbled away on its own erratic course.  Just needed a steady hand and a good fast ripping Band-aid effect.

Oh God, my hand's not steady.  Since when isn't my hand steady?

She swallowed hard.

"Kimmer?"  The pillow muffled his voice.  "Just do it, Kimmer.  Because it's gonna feel so good when it's not there anymore."

Right.  Of course.  But still she felt the hot prickle of sweat between her shoulder blades, and still her hand hesitated, a willful thing.  "Right," she said out loud.  "Just doing it."  Not such a big deal.  A very deep splinter.  A very deep, fat, metal splinter.

But still his body went rigid when she probed that angry hole; still he gave a little grunt of protest.  Still she lost the precarious grip she had on the thing, and his knuckles went white as she went back in for it.  In the end it took more than poking and probing; she had to use a finger as well, steadying the bullet so the tweezers could tease it upward.

And by then she was shaking.  She poured the surgical antiseptic right into the wound, letting it sit for a moment before dabbing most of it up and taping a gauze square slathered with antibiotic ointment to his back.  Rio sighed with relief and she shoved the first aid kit away, leaning forward to lie over his body, damp chest to his damp back.  Draped there.

"Hey," he said, and he sounded sleepy in the aftermath of it all.  "Hey...it's okay, Kimmer."

"Should have taken you to a hospital."

For the Doña had been right.  She cared too much.  Here she was, light-headed over a simple procedure, one which hadn't held any risk and which hadn't hurt Rio nearly as badly as it might have.

Hell, not so long ago she'd shot him. Kimmer balled her hands into fists.  Not so long ago, she'd simply done what she had to do.

Just that suddenly, she wasn't at all sure she could do it again.

"Hey," he said.  "C'mere."  And he tipped himself up so she had two choices—fall off his back, or ease into the space he'd made up front.  She took the invitation, spooning up in front of him.  He folded his arm back over her and snuggled up against her rear, and his gentle erection nudged her even as his breathing quickly deepened, tickling the fine feathering of hair behind her ear.

Relief flooded her as she realized—he took his flight meds.  However she'd hurt him, it hadn't been as bad as it could have been.

Quick anger followed; she almost turned to give him a good smack.  You should have told me, Oafboy!

But she didn't.  She slipped from his arms and smoothed his short, bright hair back and kissed his temple.

And then she headed downstairs to find Larraitz.

~~~

"She's gone?" Kimmer repeated, unaffected by Jurdan's obvious remorse.  It was a little too obvious.  "You mean you sent her home?"

"I—" he said.  And, more miserably, "Yes."

She couldn't help but throw her hands up.  "You knew I wanted to talk to her.  Don't even try to tell me you didn't know that."

"It would be a lie to say so," he agreed.  They stood outside the swinging kitchen door, out of the way of Jefa and the housekeeper, who prepared for the following days of Ascension celebration among the staff.

The whole world, it seemed, did not stop for the Etxea.  Kimmer glimpsed trays of finger foods, pincho moruno kabobs ready for the barbecue, and Atze loading old-timey soda bottles into the auxiliary refrigerator.  Jurdan drew her aside, as if mindful that Jefa—even short on staff—might still find time to put an ear to the door.  "I felt she had caused too much trouble here.  She is a confused girl."  He made an exaggerated gesture, the ol' universal whirly finger.  "She thinks her life will change if she can seduce a handsome American.  But she crossed the line, and so it has made things unnecessarily hard here.  Best if she is gone for now."

"You're covering for her," Kimmer said flatly.

He grimaced.  "No, I—"

"You're sweet on her," Kimmer said.  "But it was okay when you came on to me?"

"That was different," he said, drawing himself up into a display of dignity.  "She thought—and that was just a—"  Wisely, he stopped.  Even if it was already too late.

"Yes, yes," she said.  Oink, oink.  "You were only using me, and she suggested it might be worth your while.  And you did it for her.  That's damned twisted."

"It made sense when she—"  He stopped again, and shook his head.  "My mama knows hers, which makes it even worse."  For a moment, he traded his dignity for a hen-pecked look.  "If I didn't protect her, my life would not be worth living."

She only glared.  If he thought she couldn't make his life not be worth living, he hadn't paid attention.

He brightened.  "I did talk to her about the incident this morning.  She admits she was trying to drive a wedge between you.  I assure you, Miss Kimberly, she does not know of your true purpose here.  She has no idea that she caused anything other than inconvenience—she only thought it would give her a better chance for—"

"She's not Richard's type," Kimmer said shortly.

"She came to me and told me she tried to apologize for the childish way in which she tried to drive a wedge between you and Mr. Richard, but...that didn't work out well, either, and now she doesn't know what to do.  And she's—"  He hesitated, and said it.  "She's afraid of you now."

"She's not supposed to know—"

He held up both hands, an emphatic gesture.  "No, no.  She doesn't.  It's just...when you spoke to her..."  He gave up.  "You can be quite fierce, Miss Kimberly.  Surely you know that.  And so I sent her home, so we would have time to talk, and you would have time to tell your brothe—"

Kimmer's glare sent him groping for other words.  "—Your partner," he amended hastily.  "So that by the time she returns tomorrow, all will be settled."

Now Kimmer just wanted to hit something.  But other than Jurdan, everything within reach would just break her knuckles.  So she settled for pushing the heels of her hands over her eyes as she groaned, "We really didn't need a Spanish soap opera in the middle of this mess."

"Basque," Jurdan said, a little too shortly to be casual.  She removed her hands, looked up at him.  "Basque," he repeated, less intently.  "She is.  I am.  Many of us here are.  It matters."

"So it does," she agreed.  Note to Rio—recheck the files.  Never mind staff history...who had reason to care about the Etxea, one way or the other?

Well, Rio was sleeping.  And Kimmer...Kimmer was back to jittery, back to ready for action.  If she could whip through some paperwork and then snag a couple of likely villa workers for surreptitious interviews, it might be a more direct way to proceed.

Especially now that the Basajaun knew of the Dwelling's existence here.

~~~

THINKING OF YOU.  HOPE YOU'RE HAVING FUN.

Kimmer scowled at her email inbox.  Right.

Late afternoon found Kimmer finishing up paperwork both professional and personal.  She skimmed Rio's notes, emailed her promised statement to the Doña's lawyer, and sent a quick email update to Owen—including a forward of the most recent email note from her secret admirer, although he'd had no luck with the last.

It'd make her crazy to think about it, so she grabbed moments with Karlene and Sandy, grinning large while reading their Caro-enabled email—including pictures of Karlene's dog bath penance for the dog haircut incident.

Caro's email was more concerning.  Open-hearted, struggling with her feelings—she, more than the girls, had needed that cancelled time with Kimmer and Rio.  Time for casual conversations...time to work things through.  Email just couldn't do it.

Kimmer searched for the right words...found herself without them.

What do I know about family?

In the end, she made the email equivalent to I'm listening noises, offered a few silent gestures of frustration to the room at large, and stabbed the hot keys to send.

And then, with Rio still sleeping, Kimmer finally grabbed a few moments with the groundskeepers.

Some were Spanish, some clearly Basque; both had reasons to go for the antiquity.  But none of them pinged her uh-oh alarms.  If the oldest of them wanted to cheat on his wife, that was his problem.  She had the feeling he'd get what was coming to him.  So did he, to judge by how close to the surface it sat.

A quick check of the basement revealed Atze Ezkibel getting ready to leave for the day—with Jurdan already gone—leaving the Etxea security to the pathetically inadequate house alarm system.

Or so he thought.  Kimmer and Rio had discussed covering the cellar that evening, and she still intended to do it.  At least, once she could get down there without attracting attention—for Marina and Jefa were live-ins, as was the woman who oversaw the maintenance and repairs to the household itself.

Atze gave her a wary glance, but she merely wished him a good evening.  As long as he did his job, he could be an asshole all day long.  And had been.

Kimmer jittered around the grounds for a while, pondering a run.  Instead she headed for the terrace behind her room, barefooting her way through a series of stretches and calisthenics.  By then she was hungry in a weird sugar-crash way, and she hunted up some cheese and crackers, bringing the remains to Rio's room along with some ice water.

Just one more night, she told herself.  And then the Monaco crew would be here, the security would be installed...

Surely they could get through a single night without being kidnapped by the Basajaun.

Surely.

Rio slept through her arrival, still on his stomach, his arm caught awkwardly under his body.  Sturdy Danish bones, strong muscle, lean sinew.  Dark blond lashes swept up to emphasize the angle of his eyes and cheeks, a deceptively open face that had always drawn Kimmer—and always defied her ability to read him.

Whether Rio would continue his work with Hunter after this, Kimmer wasn't sure.  After the tragically botched scenario that had ended his CIA career, he had no patience for botching.  None.  He was here only because he'd seen Owen stand behind his own—stand behind Kimmer, when it came to that.

Now Owen had compromised them, sending them into a flawed scenario because of his own interests.  Her loyal side—the one that owed Owen for pulling young Kimmer off the streets, for playing Pygmalion and turning out a polished Hunter agent—reminded her that when he'd sent them in, he'd had no idea that the Basajaun would make not one but two plays for Señora de Florez's "niece and nephew."

But if he hadn't compromised to get them there in the first place, the bad cover wouldn't have been a factor.  Owen knew it; Rio knew it.

And so did Kimmer.

Bah.  She needed a workout bag.

She sighed those thoughts away and looked at Rio, sleeping so deeply. Wakey wakey....

She knelt at his head, waving the plate of cheeses—some of them quite pungent—near his nose.  It only took a moment...his face twitched.  His eyes opened, deep dark brown and sleepy.  "Oh, yeahh," he mumbled.  "How'd I get hungry so fast?"

"Worked it off during the day?" Kimmer responded dryly.

"Right," he said, rolling over to his back—carefully—and rubbing his eyes with his hand.  Or trying to.  The arm was fast asleep, and his hand fell on his face.

Kimmer couldn't stop herself; she burst into laughter.

"Hey," he protested.  "That's not nice."

"No one ever said I was nice."

This gave him momentary pause.  "No one ever did, did they?  C'mere, then.  My hand and I will teach you a lesson."

She gave the cheese plate and cider a pointed look.

"Oh, put them somewhere.  Anywhere.  The woman laughs at me and thinks I care about cheese?"

Kimmer put the plate down and stalked back to the bed and didn't so much as hesitate before she sat on his thighs, where she could so conveniently unzip his jeans.  His eyes widened.  "Doors?" he said, his voice half sleepy, half-strained as his body instantly responded to hers.

"Locked 'em when I came in," she said smugly, and stripped off her shirt.  He took a grip on her hips and pulled her forward, one hand still clumsy, until she settled into just the right place.  Yeah.  Just right.  But she still put a hand on his stomach, stopping his hands on their way up to her breasts.  "Rio—"

He stilled.  "I know," he said.  "This job is a mess.  We need to talk.  But right now I—"  He closed his eyes, lifting his hips in a way that made her bite her lip and push back.  "I, uh—"

She bent forward and licked his neck, the slightly sweaty taste of his skin mingling with the totally Rio scent of him.  Oh yeah.  Another lick, and she breathed gently on the damp spot she'd made.  He shivered and she nipped, quite suddenly feeling very not-nice indeed.

"Oh, hell," he said, and found her breasts after all.  "We'll talk—"

"Later," she breathed in his ear.

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

CHAPTER 12

Sensations swirled around her, sensual abandon gone straight through to fierce fighting wild child...

Dreaming?  Was she—

She cried out, and the sound echoed inside her head, turning it to something twisted and mocking and wrong.  Loss wrenched her, skirling up from her toes, tightening her into a claw of a fetal curl.

Rio!  She threw his name away into the desolation as though it might physically snag him, bring him back.  Rio!!

Dreaming?

Silence answered, taunting her.  Her body, her very self, scattered into a kaleidoscope of screaming little pieces that thudded against invisible walls, ricocheting to—

What the hell?

Kimmer opened her eyes and found darkness.  Not the darkness of nighttime with moon and starlight, but absolute blackness.  Stuffy air, damp and earthy.  Cool.

What the hell?

Where?  How?

The hallucinatory dream still ached in her chest; body memory told her she had truly called Rio's name.  But she didn't know why.

Then figure it out.

Start at the beginning.

She lay in a curled, careless slump.  She rolled to her side and spread her fingers beside her—and found not floor, but ground.  Rough, packed dirt.  Suspicion wormed into her thoughts; she spread her exploration and found stone, chunky under her fingers and crudely shaped.

The cellar.  And not just the cellar, but the little carved-out hollow that had held the Etxea—now empty.

Quickly now, ignoring a haze of dizziness and the throb of her head, she widened the sweep of her hands.  True aches and sharp pains sprang into play, a counterpoint to the emotional tightness lingering in her chest.  Rio, what the hell?

But memory still failed her, and what there was came murky—more like her half-remembered dreams than reality.

The last she remembered...she'd talked to Jurdan.  She'd doctored Rio.  She'd—

Dammit, she'd what?

Had her way with Rio, that's what.  Her body told her as much, still flushed and sated in counterpoint to the confusion and pains.

That's not the same as memory.

Her sweeping hands followed the edge of the wall and found wood.  The door.  God, let it not be—

Locked.  It was locked.

Kimmer slumped back against the wall and took a slow, steady breath.  Another.  Remember, goddammit!

But she didn't.

And so she sat for several long, dark moments, hugging herself and her aches and scowling fiercely at the same time.

It came to her that she wore Rio's jacket, the one with the zippers and pockets, way too big for her.

Didn't stop her from stealing it every chance she got.

The sleeve brushed her knuckles, and that stung; lightly exploring fingers found the skin rough and abraded.  Her lip felt clumsy; her tongue discovered blood and a big puffy section.  She absently licked the blood from one knuckle and the sleeve cuff brought with it a sweet smell.  A smell not of Kimmer or Rio.

Chloroform.

Well, that explained the headache and dizziness.  She'd damned well been chloroformed.  And to judge by the rest of her, she hadn't gone down easily.  "I hope I broke bones," she snarled into the darkness.  "Lots of them."

And only then did it occur to her murky mind to ask; only then did she realize.  They—whoever—hadn't come here just to stuff her into this room.  Kimmer lurched to her feet, reeling into the wall and groping along the stone.  Her hurried fingers almost missed the niche...but not quite.  She stilled, her fingers resting in the empty spot.

The Etxea was gone.

~~~

She sat beneath the empty niche, arms draped over jutting knees, head tipped back.  Easy to doze in this stuffy room, even easier with the aftereffects of chloroform in her system.  Questions battered at her through the murkiness, repeating themselves mercilessly and endlessly.

Rio.  Where was he?  What had happened?  She had to have seen the thieves...she had to remember their faces.  But...

Not yet.

Eventually she heard noise on the other side of the door, and excited voices.  She lifted her head in time for the cellar light—excruciatingly bright after the utter darkness—to slice across her eyes.  But she squinted into it, identifying Jurdan's shoulders.  Crowding in behind him came Atze; someone had called for the cavalry.

Such as it was.  "Jurdan," she said.  Her voice croaked, but after she cleared her throat she sounded normal enough.  "Jurdan, is Rio there?  What's going on?"

"That is for you to say," he told her, and his voice was distant as his light hovered on the stone niche over her head.  Not the voice of a friend.  "The Etxea.  What has been done with it?"

"That," Kimmer said pointedly, "would have happened on your side of that big thick door.  Probably while I was sleeping off a nice dose of chloroform."

It occurred to her then that he should have asked who'd taken it.

It occurred to her that he thought she was involved.

"Sonuva bitch," she said, out loud in her astonishment.  "Son of a fucking bitch."

"Come out," Jurdan said, and gestured, a twitch of his fingers.  He didn't come over to help.

Fine by her.  She staggered a little, caught her balance, and stalked out of the room, mad as a wet cat.  Stalked right up the stairs, in fact, with Jurdan and Atze hastening behind her, making it clear they weren't letting her out of their sight.  So you think.

She had a Rio to find.

Marina waited in the kitchen.  Jefa lurked at a distance, her hands clasped by those of the frightened housekeeper.

Marina's lips were as thin as Kimmer had yet seen them.  She looked at Kimmer and at the men, and she said flatly, "It is gone, then."

"Yes," Jurdan said.

"Come."  Marina turned on her heel and led the way into the house, to a study Kimmer had seen upon their initial tour here, but had not spent time in since.  In the study, Marina pointed to a barely stuffed leather chair with rollover arms.  "Sit."

Kimmer sat.  But she was the only one.  Jurdan and Atze stood on either side of her.  Watching her.  And, it suddenly occurred to her, guarding her.  Kimmer stopped a short, bitter laugh.  Did they really think they could keep her here?

Probably they did.  Could turn out badly for them, then.

Marina sat in a matching chair opposite Kimmer.  She didn't cross her legs; she didn't relax.  She folded her hands in her lap—unlike the others, she'd dressed, and wore black slacks and a collarless, button-front shirt—and she said, "Tell me what you have done."

Kimmer ignored that.  "Where's Rio?  Did anyone see anything?"

Marina didn't respond, but a flicker of stress crossed her tight features.

She knows nothing.  They thought they'd find out what happened from Kimmer...and they were wrong.  "Look," Kimmer said.  "They used chloroform."  She didn't know the Spanish word for chloroform; she used English—but Marina's bleak expression indicated understanding.  "I don't know what happened.  Is there any blood anywhere?  Did anyone hear gunshots?  Anything?"

"I heard voices."  This from just outside the door, and Jefa hesitantly put herself within view.

"Yes, yes," Marina said impatiently.  "There is certainly nothing to hide from you now.  The Doña has had the keeping of the Etxea of Sabina de Arano, these many years.  Now it is stolen.  Come in, if you can help us."

"That's all," the woman said.  "Voices, and then...from the cellar, a struggle."

"Rio..."  Kimmer closed her eyes, squinted the memory into place—not the moments themselves, but the planning they'd done earlier in the evening.  In bed, lazily entwined, discussing their late night guard duty.  "He should have been outside the kitchen door.  But there was no struggle in the kitchen itself‑?"

Jefa timidly shook her head, wispy grey hair escaping from her long, thin braid.

Atze snorted loudly.  "He betrayed you, your Rio.  His name isn't even Richard, then."

"Rio," Kimmer said.  "My name is Kimmer.  We gave you only our cover names.  Deal with it."  The reality of what he'd said hit her; she glared at him.  "He didn't betray me."

"He is gone," Jurdan said pointedly.  "The Dwelling is gone.  If he didn't betray you, then it means you planned this."

She wanted to laugh out loud.  She wanted to hurt him, too.

Instead she sat very quietly.  She looked at Marina and found the doubt in her eyes, and she sat very quietly indeed.  On my own, then.

Marina said, "Tell us what happened."

"Chloroform," Kimmer said, just as pointedly as Jurdan the moment before.

"Tell us what you do know.  The things we do not."

Not a bad place to start.  "We didn't think security was adequate," Kimmer said slowly, tucking Rio's jacket around her.  Sure enough, her knuckles were badly abraded, several fingers swollen.  "We decided to stand watch this evening."  Ah, a glimmer of memory...  "Rio took the kitchen door.  I was in the cellar.  Two tiers of defense."

The impression of a struggle from the kitchen, while she prowled the cellar.  A clash on the stairs...the crack of bone.  Fighting even as the chloroform took hold...  And someone cursing...a breathless command.  "Leave her!  He is enough!"

Memories, but no answers.

Really sketchy memories.

Where did they take you, Rio?

While Marina regarded her with disapproval.  "So you disregarded the Doña's wishes not to act outside your cover identity."

"Yes," Kimmer said—immediately, without repentance.  "That cover was a stupid plan.  It got us where we are right now.  It got us kidnapped—twice—and nearly killed.  It brought the Guardia's attention to us.  It left the Etxea more vulnerable than necessary."

"I saw him," the housekeeper said, just as uncertain as Jefa and speaking up for the first time as she eased into the room.  Her short, permed hair was in poodly disarray, and the distress in her eyes had not faded.  "Richard.  Rio?"  She shook her head.  "I couldn't sleep, and I thought a glass of cider..."  She trailed off, and then repeated, "I saw him at the cellar door.  Just standing there.  So I went back to bed."

"Did you see anything else?" Kimmer demanded, perhaps a little too fiercely.

The woman backed up a step; the cook put an arm around her.  "There is another thing," she said.  "It might not matter.  But in case it does—Larraitz will not be here in the morning."

"What?" Jurdan demanded, tumultuous hurt in his eyes—and the beginning of anger.  "She told me she would be back for early preparation."

"I don't know why she did that," Jefa said, her voice firming up as she found more familiar turf—that of dealing with the help.  "She had a personal matter to tend, and asked for the morning off."

Coincidence, NOT.

Not able to put it together so it made sense, either. Nor Jurdan, apparently, for he murmured a few words to excuse himself and left the study.  Atze moved up more closely beside Kimmer, not the least bit subtle.

Marina's fingers twined together, disengaged, and retwined.  "There is little we can do," she said.  "The Guardia will take the matter from here."

"The Guardia?" Kimmer said.  That's not good.

"Yes," Marina said simply.  "We brought you in to keep this from happening.  Now you have failed us.  Your partner has betrayed the Doña, or perhaps he has betrayed you and the Doña both.  Perhaps you were supposed to go with him, yes?  It is not for us to decide.  The Guardia will find the truth of it.  With Andoni Gandiaga's arrival tomorrow, we cannot afford to keep this to ourselves."

"Rio didn't," Kimmer said fiercely.  "We didn't."  But she already knew it was useless.  Marina was no longer thinking things through.  She had closed her mind.

So it wasn't surprising when Marina held Kimmer's eye and said, "Tell me your Rio hasn't been affected by drugs since his arrival.  Tell me you can accurately predict what any man will do when chained to such evils.  Tell me you yourself haven't acted strangely—breaking things, roaming this house at all hours, attacking those who work here."

Attacking—?

Atze.  Marina meant Atze.  Maybe even Jurdan, when he'd come into her room.  And while Kimmer might well have muttered he started it, had she been sitting in front of Owen—Owen, who knew she did only what had to be done regardless of her aggressive style—it would be meaningless to this woman, who already had her mind made up.

So she didn't argue at all.  "I need to talk to Owen Hunter."

"In time," Marina said.  "I am not used to such situations; I am not comfortable with the best way to proceed.  Until the Guardia arrive, you will wait here."  She rose from the chair, so tense and self-controlled that Kimmer was surprised she could even move.  "I will make that call."

Jurdan re-appeared in the doorway with such haste that the cook and housekeeper recoiled slightly.  "I checked the house alarm.  It wasn't bypassed.  Whoever took the Etxea had the code."  He looked as grim as Kimmer had seen him.

Of course she and Rio had that code.  Of course.

"I have to make a call," Jurdan said, and disappeared again.

Great.  Everyone making their phone calls but Kimmer.  Her Hunter phone was in her backpack, in her room.

She glanced out the open curtains at the darkness, and suddenly realized she had no idea of the time—"middle of the night" was close enough. And who the hell was Jurdan going to call in the middle of the night?  She disentangled her crossed arms to tug back a sleeve of the oversized jacket and look at her watch.

Atze took exception to the movement, and put what was meant to be an intimidating hand on her shoulder.

"Oh," she said.  "I wouldn't."

"Be still," he told her, and squeezed his hand in a painful grip.

"Seriously," she told him.  "Don't do that."

He bent close to her ear.  "It is nothing compared to what the Guardia will do."

"They're going to rude me to death?"  But she hardly thought about her flippant words.  She thought, instead, about her situation.  Furiously.

She really needed to talk to Owen.

She really didn't want to be in Guardia hands.  Even if she revealed her cover immediately, they'd be furious that she'd been playing on their turf.  They'd feel that she'd made a fool of them, acting the tourist while taking down airport thugboys.  And if they connected her to the activity at the harbor...

No, she really didn't want to be in Guardia hands.

And Rio.  She had to find him.  She still had no idea what had happened in the kitchen—just that bare sense that they'd stuffed her in the cave room, unprepared to deal with her ferocity, right before the chloroform cool-whipped her brain.  She had no idea why the hell Rio had gone with them—or why, if he'd gone after them, he would leave her closed up behind, slumped next to the niche where the Etxea had once resided.

She wouldn't know until she found him.

And she wouldn't find him—or find the Etxea, or stop whatever political mischief might occur in the wake of the theft—if she continued to sit nicely in this chair.  If she waited for the Guardia.  If they tied her up in knots of questioning and suspicion.

Marina wrapped up her phone conversation with the Guardia just out of sight.  Atze ignored her most recent comment; his hand lingered on her shoulder.

Kimmer didn't want to hurt him.  He was untrained; he had only his willingness to act tough and his belief that he was—especially now that he thought he was ready for her.  He completely lacked the perspective to imagine that she had met and matched much worse than him.

Otherwise he might have at least bothered to secure her hands.

Not that it would have mattered.

She glanced back at him—made it uncertain.  Opened her mouth on words she didn't say and closed it again.  Sighed, huddled in on herself, and then...another glance back.

Curiosity got him.  "What do you want?"

"Please," she said, quietly enough so he'd have to move closer to hear the words that followed.  "I need to call Owen.  My boss."

"What?  Speak up!"

"My boss," she repeated, without raising her voice.

And move closer he did, trying to hear.  She waited...waited...waited...

Struck, her hand flashing out to grab and twist his nose.  And because he was untrained he didn't instantly strike back.  He yelped and grabbed at his nose, and by then she was up, whirling to slam her hand up against his throat, high under his jaw where it wouldn't do permanent harm even as it gagged him

Marina shrieked as Kimmer leapt up on the chair, cranked Atze by the nose to twist him around before her, his back to her front, and wrapped her arm around his throat.

Only then did he fight, battering back at her, trying to jerk her over the chair.  But no blood in the brain...it didn't last long.

He slumped and she let him fall, leaping off the chair.  Jefa and the housekeeper had long since fled, and Marina stood poised with one startled hand at her throat, the other reaching as though she could actually ward off Kimmer.

Except Kimmer wanted nothing to do with her.  "I'll find your Etxea," she said, her voice on a verge of tremble with its very intensity.  "I'll find your Etxea and I'll find your thieves and I'll find Rio—and then we'll be back.  Together."

And she ran.

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

CHAPTER 13

But Kimmer didn't run far.  Straight up the narrow stairs, all the while aware that she might run into Jurdan and that Atze wouldn't be out for long.  Into her bedroom, scooping up her backpack, grabbing her laptop...and right out the terrace door, stuffing the laptop into the pack as she ran.

She thought she heard a shout deep within the house and let it spur her on.  Jamming her arms through the pack, she leapt one terrace wall and then another, and then the tall retaining wall upon which Rio had once waited for her.  Straight out to the car, knowing she'd left the keys in it, hoping they'd still be there...

Ohh, yeah.

She forced herself to ease down on the gas, headlights off.  In the east, dawn barely peeked over the top of the nearest craggy ridge; it was enough light, barely, to navigate—as she drove right off the driveway and onto the lawn, heading cross-country across the groomed villa grounds.  She dodged around a few spreading, pampered oaks and drove straight to the huge hedges that lined the boundary; the iron-spike fencing that edged the wrought iron driveway gates was only token at best.

Kimmer pulled up parallel to the hedges and rolled the window down, then cut the engine.  Dark car, dark hedges...pre-dawn.  She didn't think she'd be seen—and she didn't think she'd have to wait long.

And in the meantime she pulled her phone from the damp backpack.  Waterproof casing, she'd been told.  Ha.

Surprise gave her a double-take when the display blinked to life; hope flared.  Don't get cocky, she told herself.  There was, after all, still the issue of the battery life.  And she was in a rural area—a goat might just come along.

She didn't have good luck with goats.

All the same, she auto-dialed Owen, wincing as she calculated the time difference in her head.  But she never doubted that he'd pick up—even if with a sleep-graveled voice.  "Kimmer.  What is it?"

"You screwed us on this one, Owen."  She hadn't meant to say it.  Not first thing, not so bluntly.

Only the slightest hesitation.  "Situation?"

She laughed, short and hard.  "I'm in a stolen car, about to evade the Guardia.  Heck, maybe they'll get the National Police and the Basque Ertzaintza in on this one.  The more, the merrier."

"Kimmer," Owen said, his voice unusually gentle.  Had she actually sounded that close to hysteria?  Surely not.

"The Etxea has been stolen," she said, snapping out the words in a concise report.  "Rio is gone.  I was chloroformed and missed the whole thing—but the Doña's people think we were involved.  The Doña may think so too, for all I know.  Marina called the Guardia.  And oh, did I mention that the Basajaun made another play at us?  Never mind whoever's sending me those little love notes."

"I got the forwards," Owen said.  "About that—"

His voice told her everything.  "No clue, huh?  Well, guess what.  They're the least of my worries right now."

"Do you want to come in?"

She snorted.  "With Rio still missing?  What do you think?"

"Go to ground, then."  He knew better than to suggest working with the Guardia if she'd already decided on evasion.  "I'll get some people in there ASAP—"

She interrupted him.  "I don't think so, Owen.  You knew what you were doing, dangling an opportunity to work with Rio overseas, didn't you?  Well, yay for you.  We came into this damned scenario against better judgment, and no one's listened to us since we got here.  We've had two skirmishes with the Basajaun because of the damned cover, and we've been blind because I couldn't openly interview staff.  It looks to be an inside job, did I mention?"

"Kimmer—"  He wouldn't have used that placating tone if he weren’t offering tacit acknowledgment of her point.  Something inside her hurt a little more for knowing he'd done this thing, that he'd compromised their scenario for his own means.

"Don't even go there," she snapped, though her voice broke.  She cleared it.  "You wanted insight on the current local conditions, even if it meant putting us out here.  Well guess what, Owen?  You're damned well going to get it.  We're in the thick of it now."

"I can help," Owen said.  "The Monaco crew can back you up."

"I don't think so.  I'm going my own way, Owen.  Rio is missing, did you hear that?  Rio.  So Chimera is on the loose, and you can explain that to the Doña and the Guardia however you damned well please."

He didn't respond right away.  She read it not as hesitation...but as the time it took him to accept the responsibility that was his—and the certainty that she, too, would do as she damned well pleased, even if it resulted in losing Hunter when she returned to the States.

So now, finally, she'd do what was right for her—for Rio.  For Andoni Gandiaga, the politician who didn't yet know he was part of this—and for the people of Bilbao, who would suffer if the area was destabilized.

But face it.  Mostly for Rio.

Even if the Doña was right.  Even if together, they weren't stronger after all.

~~~

Rio came back to himself with one single, overriding and wordless awareness.  The smell.

He gagged, rolling to his side—and came face to face with a dead rat, whereupon he heaved up the sparse contents of his stomach with noisy enthusiasm.  But his attempts to then distance himself from the rat only netted a curse and a particularly vicious kick to the small of his back.  More retching, thank you so much.

Someone snapped annoyed orders—Euskari, that knotted language—and he'd barely had time to think I have a bad feeling about this when someone hauled him to his feet and shoved him from the shelter of the dark shipping container into bright morning sunlight.  From there—shove—into a large metal building—shove—through shadows, and into a tiny little—shove—bathroom with one bare light bulb, a crusted sink, and a really bad excuse for a toilet.  He was given no command, but he scarcely needed one.  Clean up.  Take stock.  And figure out what the hell was going on.

Or try to.

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

CHAPTER 14

Kimmer sat down at a twenty-four hour Internet café table and flipped her laptop open.  A little time with Hunter's satellite mapping program and she'd pin down the very best way—the most invisible way—to get from this trendy little tourist café to the Edorta Ginea's leather shop.

After all, who better than Owen's favorite contact to put Kimmer on the right track in this big port city with its swirl of combined cultures and underswirl of unrest and violence?

Whether or not he wants to.

But first she wanted to make sure she hadn't been followed.  A few quiet moments here should do it.

Rather than meet the Guardia on the road, she'd waited for them to rush through the gates...and then she drove quietly along the hedges and out the gate, into the brightening dawn.

Another forty minutes and she was back here in the artsy section of the city, as close to the Guggenheim as she seemed likely to get.

Where she could, for the moment, play tourist.

She download the pictures from her camera card—lone survivor of the dunking—and flipped through them.  Her usual hodgepodge, the camera wielded so casually that she never even thought about what she was doing—lights and shadow and lines that had caught her eye, a few candids of people who hadn't even realized her presence.

And yes, the one where she and Rio mugged it up in front of the Café Iruña, taken by a friendly fellow tourist before they'd gone in to eat.

Play tourist, they'd been told.  Well, they'd tried.

She imported the photo into a simple editor and drew horns on Rio and gave herself mustachios and sent it home to the girls, giving herself a quiet smile in the midst of a difficult moment, imagining their laughter.

She skimmed Carolyne's new email, reading, with some frustration, the despair between the lines now that Caro was back home again.  Caro trying to be light, talking about the girls, about their visit, about her hope that she could try another visit with Kimmer and Rio soon.  Honest enough to mention that the girls were unhappy but resigned in their foster care.

Right.  Karlene resigned to causing chaos; Sandy resigned to reading and thinking and coming up with the quiet, sensible escape plot of the century.  Both of them counting on Kimmer, who wanted the right thing for them as badly as she wanted the right thing for herself...but who was mired in total uncertainty about whether that right thing would bring them together.

Right.  Instant family.  Not that easy, Kimmer.

At least, not for someone who'd never learned what family was.

Kimmer had no idea what to say to Caro.  Sorry, running for my life again, get back to you later...

Except this time she wasn't yet running for her life—

But she thought she might be running for Rio's.

She wrote a quick email to Caro that had nothing to do with any of it.  And then she logged off, leaving the laptop open in the thinnest of disguises, the street map filling the screen.  Watching the street itself.  Thinking about Rio.  About herself.  About the two of them.

Because he hadn't been the only one off his game since their arrival.  Kimmer's jittery nature...she couldn't explain that.

Restless, yes.  Edgy, yes.  But nail-biting, ankle-jiggling jittery?  Mistake-making jittery?

And Rio.  If he was going to mess up with narcotics, he'd have damned well been that way when they'd met.  He'd still been working on his recovery, and that particular adventure hadn't done his back any good.  But he habitually turned to ice packs and heating pads and stretching and strengthening.

Besides, he wasn't coy about the damned meds when he took them.  He rummaged; he shouted over his shoulder and across the house, wondering if she'd seen them.  He groaned and flopped on the bed beside her and fell asleep snoring.

He didn't stagger around looking baffled about it.

It didn't make sense.

What made less sense was everyone's interest in making it into a problem—Jurdan and Larraitz all too happy to feel them out even as they flirted 'round one another, disparaging remarks all around.  We make each other weak, because we care too much.

Kimmer wasn't the least bit sure it wasn't true.  But she knew, with sudden wrenching clarity, that it didn't change anything.

Here she was.  The Etxea was gone, and had to be recovered.  Rio was gone, and by damn he had to be found.  The rest came later.

She drew his jacket close in the café's chilly air conditioning.  It carried Rio's scent, and she drank it in unabashedly.

And then she checked out the café window one last time.

No thugboys.  No suspicious characters.  No Ertzaintza officers hanging around looking wary.

Time to get to work.

~~~

From the café across town to this less savory part of the port city, outside Edorta Ginea's leather shop—distinctly off the tourist track.  Here we are.

Kimmer's hand closed around the familiar shaped wood of her war club, still within one of the jacket's many pockets—in another, the SIG Sauer Owen had had waiting for her here, the one she'd never had the chance to draw at the restaurant.

Owen had no doubt mentioned to Ginea that he had an operative on the ground, but the man didn't know she was coming—and that was how Kimmer wanted it.  She had no assurance that Edorta Ginea was one of the good guys—she knew only that he was willing to talk in exchange for whatever concessions Hunter had offered.

The leather shop's blind was raised, the little flip-sign—in both Spanish and Euskara—invited her inside.  But she saw no sign of movement; she wouldn't be surprised if the owner was back upstairs in the living quarters, shaving or eating or finishing off the morning paper.

Kimmer eased the door open, slowly enough to keep the inevitable bells from jingling.  And eased it closed, just as silently, slipping inside.  Once hidden from the street view through the door glass, she hesitated.  Watching.  Listening.  And sniffing—the evidence of a damn fine breakfast, full of spices and sausage.  The scents almost held their own against pungent leather—stacks of hides, rows of leather laces and string rawhides, shelves of dyes and tools.  Beside her, a stack of bins held tanned furs; Kimmer ran her fingers over some silky thing that had probably been fancy rabbit.

But her other hand stayed in her pocket, fingers wrapped around a red oak handle warmed by her touch.

A heavy step creaked overhead; a glance up revealed an unfinished ceiling, the floor boards flexing visibly.  Not someone small.  There were no stairs here, which meant they were behind the grimy apology for a curtain.  Kimmer moved for it, ignoring the signs that sternly apprised her there should be no customers past this point.

She was not, after all, a customer.

Next to the goods-stuffed shopfront, the back area greeted her with post-cyclonic chaos—stock and projects and tools and corners full of years left behind.  She satisfied herself with spotting the wooden door and a small, grimy window that made up her potential exits.

The enclosed stairs spilled out in the back corner, running the length of the room with an inevitable storage closet beneath.  Up above, someone else—someone lighter and more hesitant—moved from one room to another.  A toilet flushed; yet a third set of footsteps—medium in weight, faster in movement—moved briskly across the floor above her and—ah ha—started down the stairs.

And because she didn't know these people or their affiliations, Kimmer slipped in along the wall of the stairs and waited for the man to reach the bottom.  But when he would have turned into the room with the carelessness of long familiarity, she straight-armed him between his shoulder blades, propelling him forward into the pile of stiff reject skins against the wall.

Scrambling on sliding leather, he exclaimed a word as pungent as the shop; Kimmer kicked his feet out from under him and jammed the end of the war club in his back.  "Relax.  I just want to talk."

It was easy enough to translate his Euskara reaction.  You're just a girl!

Yeah, yeah, yeah.

She replied in Spanish.  "Owen Hunter sent me.  I'm looking for Edorta Ginea.  I need information."

"You attack me and now want favors?"  He snorted, and behind it was intent—to fling himself to his feet and—

"Don't," she snapped, and jabbed him.  "You might hurt me, but I'm damned sure going to hurt you first.  Don't be an idiot—of course I took you down.  For all I know you're the type to shoot first and ask questions later."

"Then Owen Hunter didn't send you!"

Well, that was a good point.  If she'd discussed this contact with Owen, she'd have known their protocol.  But Owen didn't know her plans, and that's the way Kimmer wanted it right now.  Running deep.

And she didn't know how far this would go.  How much distance Owen might need from her.

"We lost touch before I got details."  She eased up on the reversed war club, lest he start to consider the non-gun-like feel of it.  "I only know your name."

"Not me.  My—"

"Ahhhhyiiiiii!"  The shrill scream came from the stairs, and Kimmer whipped only halfway around before a hurtling object slammed into her, staggering her backward to hit the floor.  She tried to roll on impact but ended up as a landing mat for an attacker no heavier than Kimmer, plenty bony, little muscle, lots of dark, wild hair, arm instantly drawing back to land a vicious blow—

But not enough room between them to keep Kimmer from surging up to slam her forehead into the barely visible face.

Her assailant shrieked like a baby-girl and reeled backward.  Kimmer flung herself after, reversing their positions.  She drew her arm back for the same blow she'd just blocked—only she held the war club, and the results would be decisive.  Decisive and ugly and damn! as the wild thick hair fell back and revealed the terrified countenance of a young teen.  Not feigned fear, not canny submission, but honest-to-God wet-your-pants-terror.

Kimmer twisted; the blow landed on the wooden floor, denting it deeply.  The girl shrieked, and off to the side the man shouted, "Get away from her!" in a voice that held more panic than command.

A voice that held threat and promise amidst the panic.  The worst combination ever—

Kimmer threw herself down on the girl, rolled, and came up with that adolescent body between herself and the man.  The girl struggled, but by then Kimmer had a painful grip on her hair.  She clenched her fingers and snarled, "Be still, or I'll tear your head off!"

Nice, Chimera.  Be mean to the little girl.

As if.  She started it.

Kimmer looked over the girl's trembling shoulder and found the man had a pistol pointed straight at them.  A grimy, nasty, ancient pistol.  "Good God," she told him.  "Don't shoot that thing.  You'll blow yourself up."

"I'll take my chances," he said, and his face was as red as she'd ever seen a face, the pistol shaking in his grip.

"You'll shoot the girl before you shoot me," she said steadily.  "There's no way your aim is that good.  Not with that thing.  Now, can we talk?"

"Aitatxo!" the girl shouted, and Kimmer winced, because now the kid was mad.  "Shoot her, Aitatxo, shoot her!"

"Little girl," Kimmer told her, "I have a knife, too."

"I'm not afraid of you!"

"Of course you are.  And you should be.  Because I will slice the clothes right off your back and leave you topless in front of the world."

Her gasp was outraged.  "You bitch!"

"That Bitch Kimmer, to be precise," Kimmer muttered.  This was Karlene six years from now, she just knew it.

Heavy tread on the stairs silenced them all.

The man's feet appeared first, clad in leather slippers.  His ankles and knees followed, bowed and covered by sturdy tan pants of indeterminate design and evident wear.  A belly pushing hard against a worn leather belt, a barrel chest—and then the hard, knowing features of the sort she'd expected to encounter here, if older than anticipated.  A man with a history.  A man who hadn't expected her, but wasn't surprised to see her.

"Kaixo, lagunok," he greeted her, dryly enough so she wished she knew exactly what he'd said.  And to the man with the gun, in Spanish, "She is perfectly correct.  Where is the semi-automatic?"

The man muttered something about the semi-automatic's heritage, and Kimmer gathered he wasn't comfortable using it.  "Get rid of that thing," she told the older man, nodding at the pistol.  "And what did you say to me?"

"Ah," he said.  "An informal greeting to a colleague.  He nodded at the girl.  "Now, you'll release my granddaughter?  I myself am quite comfortable with the semi-automatic."

"Owen Hunter gave me your name," Kimmer said.  "He planned for us to meet under better circumstances, but things happened and this is what we've got.  Can you deal with that, or is something ugly going to happen here?"

"If Danele is unhurt, we will talk."

Not exactly a blanket reassurance, but sincere words; almost before he finished speaking, Kimmer released the girl and gave her a little shove.

Danele scrambled away, bounded to her feet, and ran to the foot of the stairs to be with her grandfather—although not without wickedly kicking Kimmer in the leg on the way by.  Kimmer responded instantly, a blow that would have taken out the girl's knee—if she hadn't pulled it.

Barely.

The girl was oblivious; her grandfather, not so much.  "You are a woman of decisiveness," he said.  "Or do you trust so easily?  I think not, from what I just saw."

"Edorta Ginea," she said.  Not interested in conversation, no.  "My name is Kimmer Reed.  I'm here to—"

"Yes, yes."  He waved her off—not an easy task with lanky young Danele twined around his arm.  "You are here to guard the Etxea.  And apparently to foil the Basajaun."

Then again, he wouldn't be a contact for Owen if he wasn't a formidable man.

He smiled, displaying tobacco-stained teeth.  A genuine, self-amused smile.  "You expected someone other than an old man, yes?  But I have lived through times you don't even want to imagine—from Franco to my own zealous people."

So have I, Kimmer thought—but again held her tongue.  Not the time, not the place.  She rearranged herself, sitting straighter, crossing her legs—and took both hands out of her pockets to rest them in her lap.  The other man—the girl's father—came to attention, along with his pistol.  "Seriously," she said.  "Just put that thing down."

"Good faith goes both ways," Ginea told his—what, son-in-law?  There was no resemblance.  "Give her credit.  And if she moves wrong, you can fling yourself on her as your daughter did, and squash her flat."

Ha ha.  Kimmer wasn't nearly as amused as Ginea.  Not by any of it.  Her leg throbbed where the girl had kicked her—that was going to be another bruise, dammit.  And she didn't have time to waste here.

"The Etxea has been stolen," she said, making note that the man did indeed put the weapon on a workbench.  Still too close to hand, but if she had to beat him to it, she could.  "There's been a young woman, Larraitz, working there.  I need background on her."  She'd seen it on Jurdan's face—his reaction to her absence from the villa this morning.  Everything that had been explained by the young woman's manipulating ways and her fears of the consequences...

No longer so explicable.

She said, rapid-fire, "I need to know about Andoni Gandiaga—who are his enemies, what steps are they likely to take if the Etxea falls into their hands?"

Ginea's face had grown grim.  "This is not good.  None of it.  Those young people—"

"I need to know more about the Etxea, too," Kimmer added, when he didn't quite seem inclined to finish that thought.  "I have little understanding of its bigger meaning to Euskal Herria.  Why everyone wants it."

"Owen did not brief you?" Ginea said with some scorn.  He sat heavily on the steps, and Danele sat beside him.

"Señora de Florez kept many details to herself."  Kimmer couldn't keep her annoyance from her expression.  "Since then, the Basajaun have complicated our attempts to absorb information.  I know there's national emotion behind it."

Ginea snorted, easy enough to read.  Understatement.

"There's another thing," she told him, ignoring his frown.  "My partner went missing when the Etxea did.  I need to find him."  I need to find him RIGHT NOW.

"He went missing?" said Danele's father.  "Maybe he—"

"Don't," Kimmer told him, and she didn't bother to keep the danger from her voice.  "Don't even say it."

"Why not?" Danele asked.  "How do you know?"

Kimmer turned a hard look on her.  "I know."

Ginea ignored the exchange.  "Tell me what happened."

From the top of the stairs, an older woman's voice filtered down—not strong; not in Spanish.  A query.  Ginea responded with a gentle tone.  When he turned back to Kimmer, he said, "My wife wants to know if I'm bringing guests up for coffee.  I told her we have no guest.  She is unwell, and I will not have her disturbed.  Do we have that understanding?"

"Of course," Kimmer said.  "Give me what I need, and I'll be gone."

"Owen Hunter cannot provide you with these things?"

Kimmer snorted.  "He provided me with you," she said.  "And words on paper."  Files that hadn't revealed any concerns within the Doña's staff, when they'd found Atze belligerent, Jurdan conflicted, and Larraitz...well, it remained to be seen.  "Your resources are better."

Not to mention that the less she contacted Owen, the more deniability he had.  And the less time she'd spend fighting to do things her way.

Ginea tugged thoughtfully on his ear.  "Tell me of the theft."

Chagrined, she shook her head, fingers playing with the overlong cuffs of Rio's jacket.  "I don't know what happened.  We were preparing to install layered security measures today, after which it would have been impossible to get to the Etxea.  Yesterday we learned the Basajaun knew of its presence, so we decided to stand watch.  That's all I know.  They used—" and here she scowled, until finally she put her hand over her nose and mouth, mimed putting herself out, and simply used the English word again.  "Chloroform.  I don't remember exactly what happened, if I ever knew."

Fighting at the stairs, the world gone cloying and thick but her blows still striking home.  Voices of panic and abrupt decision, being shoved backwards...

"Ah, but you know something."  Ginea raised his thick old-man's eyebrows at her.  "Was there blood?  Were there bullet holes?  Were there bodies?"

"No," Kimmer said, wincing at the very thought.  "And at least one person knew the alarm code for the house."  Though if Kimmer and Rio had been allowed to interview the staff directly...they would have been alert to potential trouble.

Ginea had followed her train of thought, more or less.  "Larraitz, you're thinking."

She shrugged.  "It makes sense."  It especially made sense with Jurdan's reaction to discovering the alarm had been turned off.  Marina, Atze, and the Doña might well blame Rio for that, but Kimmer knew better.  And she knew Jurdan hadn't been on the grounds when she'd made her escape; he would have tried to stop her.

So that meant he was either after Larraitz...or he was with her.

"Jurdan Etxeberri," she added.  "I need to know more about him."

"Well, it wasn't the Basajaun."  Danele's father spoke bluntly, his voice full of scorn.  "They would have left a blood trail."

They would have tried.  But she couldn't argue.  It certainly would have been their style.  Why bother with an alarm code when you can blast the whole door frame away with illicit full auto weaponry?

"There are some young people just newly pretending to be important," Ginea said, eyeing her thoughtfully.  "I'll look into it."

She didn't pretend not to understand, and she didn't mince words.  "In return for?"

"Recovery of the Etxea."  If he was taken aback by her directness, he didn't let it slow him down.  "And protection of Gandiaga, if that's what it takes."

"You think I'm right."  She drew her knees up to her chin, no longer concerned about Danele's father.  "You think the theft and his safety are tied together."

"The Etxea is a great symbol for all of Euskal Herria," Ginea said.  "The Basajaun would not fail to use it as a rallying symbol.  It would spur them to do things they might otherwise not even try."

"Because of its power," Kimmer murmured, more to herself than Ginea.  "Because it'll carry the day.  And Gandiaga has been a thorn in their violently nationalist sides for a while now, it seems."

"You understand more than you think," Ginea said, approval on his weathered face.  Approval and...satisfaction.

Satisfaction.  Kimmer suddenly felt as though she'd stepped into a pair of shoes left lying around—as though Ginea had been waiting for someone to fill those shoes, and now wouldn't hesitate to use her.

He nodded, an eerie echo to her thoughts.  "Yes, I'll look into the matter of your missing partner.  And while I'm doing that, Danele will take you to some people who will know of the Doña, and who can help you learn of Larraitz, and Jurdan Etxeberri."

"Aitatxi!" Danele blurted, looking at Kimmer in disbelief and then to her grandfather.

"You speak our language, child," Ginea said.  "She needs your translation.  You will not, I trust, kick her again?"

Yeah.  Let's not have any more of that.

"Aita," the girl's father said, moving closer—albeit keeping a certain amount of room between himself and Kimmer.  "Are you certain...will she be safe?"

"There is nothing dangerous," Ginea said.  "Conversations with neighbors."

But Kimmer snorted.  "She's safe.  I know how to use a semi-automatic," she said.  "And I have one."

That startled him.  "Here?  Now?"

"What do you think?"  Oh, the joy of these pockets.  It was really too bad she'd have to shed it in the day's heat.  "I'm not going to let anything happen to the girl."  But she shifted her gaze to the sullen young teen and added sweetly, "Other than my unavoidable and understandable reaction to hitting, kicking, pinching, or tripping."

"I was protecting my papa."  Danele's face held the sullen look of a teen who knew she'd gone over the line with that last kick.

As patently reasonable as she ever got, Kimmer said, "but you don't need to do that any longer, do you?"

Ginea looked down at the girl, his arm around her with much affection.  "There," he said.  "That's that, my lovely Dani, is it not?  You'll do this for me?"

The girl straightened with obvious pride.  "Yes, Aitatxi."

"And remember," Ginea said, this time hiding a smile.  "The bad words are the ones every traveler learns first.  So she will know if you name-call."

And Danele half-dropped her lids for a resentful stare at Kimmer, who only smiled back.

Oh yeaah.  This was gonna be the start of a beautiful partnership.

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

CHAPTER 15

Rio could do only so much cleaning up in the dirty little sink.

Or so he thought, until he realized he'd been, for now, forgotten.  So his quick splash and drip turned into a more careful application of water with the hem of his shirt.  The grungy mirror wasn't much help, but the rusty red water trickling back into the sink told the story.

He straightened his clothes, finger-combed his hair, and spent some time assessing the damage.  Tender spots on his face, not bad.  Tender spots over his ribs, he could live with.  Decisively squeamish spot on his back, he wasn't so happy about.  That remaining kidney is off-limits, he told them silently, and had the feeling he'd be peeing blood soon enough.

The gauze pad remained over his erstwhile bullet wound, heavily taped.  The least of his worries.  He tugged his shirt back into place and sat against the sink.

They'd given him time to clean up.  They'd given him time to clean up twice.  He pondered the door.  Not the sturdiest.  Definitely had potential.

And the grimy little window...with the various exposed plumping running up the walls and exposed structure of the ceiling, he could probably make it up there.  But fit through it?  No.  He'd be left hanging like Pooh Bear at the honey tree.  The Basajaun would use him for target practice.

He tested the inside walls—looked flimsy, felt flimsy, but without a crowbar that's as far as it went.  Then he eyed the pipes, pondering whether he could disassemble anything.  Hmm.  Maybe later.

The door knob turned in his hand—not many bathrooms locked from the outside, not even unsavory terrorist bathrooms—but someone had thoughtfully blocked the door.  Rio winced as something slammed against it in response to his quiet probing, complete with the kind of shouting that translated the gist of the words even if he didn't know the language.

Okay, so they hadn't forgotten him.  They'd simply stashed him.

Then take advantage of it.

So far he'd been in survival mode—it didn't matter where he was or how he'd gotten here or what he'd left behind; what mattered was the imminent threat.  The drive for imminent escape.

Now didn't seem like the moment—not that second chances were guaranteed.  So now it mattered where he was and how he'd gotten here and what he'd left behind.

He was at the docks, for starters—the same basic area from which he and Kimmer had fled less than twenty-four hours earlier.  How he'd gotten here?  Didn't have a clue.  What he'd left behind...?

Kimmer.

He sat back against that sink and he let his gaze lose focus.  His memories were vague, but they were there.  He'd been at the house...there'd been chloroform...not quite enough.

He remembered hazy awareness in a moving vehicle—rising up to do battle and being bashed right back down again.  He raised his hand to his head, where—sure enough—he found a distinct goose egg behind his ear.

But exactly what had happened at the house...that was still hazy.  Had he warned Kimmer?  Had they reached her?  Had they gotten the Etxea?  And what about Kimmer?

He hadn't the faintest idea.  Because you were out cold, dumbass.  A few moments of concentration gained only the memory of surprise—of betrayal.  He didn't linger too long on the frustration of not-knowing; chloroform could be like that.  If he left it alone, things might come to him.

But now he had a goal.  He had to find answers for those questions...for all of them.  Getting away from here might be part of that...

And it might not.

And so, when they finally came for him, he behaved as a good little captive should.

That might also have had something to do with the Groza rifles the Basajaun carried—ungainly bull-pup assault weapons that looked like pistols with Elephant Man syndrome.  Rio wasn't quite ready to go up against seven hundred and fifty rounds per minute.

Yet.

They shoved him back out in the hot, bright sunshine, two armed men who, if they weren't mad at the world, were doing a pretty good imitation.  Shove, push, shove...along the shadowed aisles of stacked shipping containers.  Classic unto trite.  One row after another, a sharp turn, and then they shoved him into another container.

This one was much cleaner than the first—not a dead rat in sight; a little makeshift office that probably wouldn't be here tomorrow, already occupied by several men.  Rio settled onto an upside down crate as directed and propped an elbow on his knee, chin in hand, to watch the gaggle of men as they sorted themselves out.  Some of them quite clearly belonged on the dock and had to return to work, while others seemed to have little obvious purpose.

None of them were happy.

Finally a single voice rose above the conversation, issuing orders.  Someone's mind had been made up.  Most of the men left, with the notable exception of those toting the assault rifles.  One seemed content to lurk at the mouth of the container, sending the occasional sneer in Rio's direction; the other came to stand directly behind Rio.

The man who'd taken charge pulled up his own empty packing crate and sat across from Rio.  Not within reach, dammit.

This one had thoughtfulness tacked onto his simmering anger.  Not necessarily a good thing.  He wore dark cotton slacks and a casual button-up shirt—a neatly groomed man, a little on the beefy side, average features...he'd blend in just about anywhere but these docks.  He assessed Rio openly and said without preamble, "Where is the Etxea?"

It was the last question Rio had expected.  For a brief moment he pretended to think about that accented but understandable English—thinking instead of all the reasons the Basajaun might ask such a question of the very man they'd kidnapped from guarding the thing.  Because if Kimmer had thwarted them, the Basajaun would damned well know it.  So what the hell?

In the end he went a little wide-eyed and made a show of patting all his pockets.  "Gosh," he said.  "I don't seem to have it on me."

Wham!  The room jerked and spun and Rio fell off the crate to his knees, reeling from the impact of the ugly squared-off butt of the rifle.  Dammit, should have expected that.

"That's one," he muttered, pulling himself back up on the packing crate to face his inquisitor.

"It was promised to us," the man said, "and we want it.  Now.  We know you were in on its theft.  You might not know where it is, but you know the people you're working with.  You know where to start looking."

There was so not gonna be a right answer to this.  "If I was working with them," Rio agreed.  "But I'm not.  I don't even know who them is."

Wham!  The rifle butt slammed into the top of his shoulder; if he hadn't been ready for and managed to roll with it, his collarbone would have broken.  This time he stayed down longer, his entire arm numb and the floor of the container looking more welcoming than expected.  "That," he muttered, "is two."

And slowly, cradling his arm, he got back on the crate.  He didn't straighten right away...he took a moment to remind himself that he needed information before escape.  These thugboys might have it and they might not, but there was damn sure something going on here—something unexpected—that needed to cough up into the open.  Like a hairball, Kimmer would have said, still adjusting to life with a cat in the house.

"Cooperation would be easier," his inquisitor said.

"I am cooperating."  Idiots.  "The problem isn't that I'm not talking, it's that you're not listening."

And this time he didn't wait for the blow.  This time he rammed his elbow straight back into the conveniently located crotch of his guard, instantly slipping off the crate to pivot on the ball of his foot, still crouching, and sweep out his other leg to take the agonized man off his feet.  He pounced on the rifle, didn't bother to disentangle the strap from the man's arms, and there.  Just like that.  He was behind the crate, behind the green-faced guard, and the ugly Groza pointed directly at his inquisitor.  "Nobody," Rio told the whimpering guard, "gets a three."

His inquisitor had jumped to his feet somewhere along the way; now he stood frozen, his shout of command still hanging in the echoes of the empty shipping container—a wise hold-fire order to the door guard, who'd leaped to act even with the inquisitor in his line of fire.

Rio said, clearly and distinctly, "Now.  Let's figure out what's happening here, since neither of us really seems to know.  You first.  Start wherever you want.  Just don't leave anything out."  As he spoke he absently unclipped the rifle sling and pulled it free of the guard's arms; its movement brought the man out of his pain to look up.  Rio cuffed his head with a hand still clumsy.  "Stay down," he said.  "You already used up your asshole points."

He doubted the guard spoke English...but some concepts crossed language.  The man stayed down even as Rio gave him a one-handed frisk and acquired a combat knife so gawky and Rambo-big as to make it useless.

But not quite.  He stuck the sheath in his back pocket, never looking away from his inquisitor.  "I'm waiting.  Start with your name."

"Ixaka," the man responded, his tone measured, his gaze flicking to the end of the container, the other guard, the rifle, the downed guard...

"Relax, Ixaka," Rio told him.  "We're talking, right?  Isn't that what you wanted to do in the first place?"

Ixaka shifted his attention to Rio's face, his own expression a mixture of anger and wary acquiescence.  Only for the moment, Rio was sure—the instant Rio lost the advantage, it'd be back to the whapping.

With any luck he'd be gone before then.

He threw Ixaka a bone to get things started.  "Look," he said.  "You got taken.  When your pals grabbed the Etxea, they grabbed me, and they used chloroform.  You ever been on the receiving end of that stuff?  Screws with your memory.  So all in all, I don't know crap."  He hesitated, thinking of it.  They'd have had to get close for the chloroform.  Which wouldn't have happened unless he'd known one of them.  "Yeah.  Inside job.  Had to have been.  But I don't know who—" because dammit, he and Kimmer hadn't been allowed to deal with the staff in a timely manner "-and I don't even know if actually they got the Etxea.  There.  That's my little gift to you.  Your turn.  Where's Kimmer?"

Ixaka hesitated, and Rio laughed.  "You think I'm just going to wait around?  If you're not going to talk, we're done.  I shoot you, I shoot your friend, and I bash this guy over the head because he's nice and close."

Cautiously, Ixaka said, "I don't know anything of this Kimmer."

"Woman," Rio said shortly.  "Dynamite in a small package."  Mine.

Ixaka's eyes widened briefly—the realization.  "That woman—"

"Yes," Rio said.  "That woman."  His hands tightened around the ugly rifle.  "Where...is...she?"

Ixaka sneered faintly at him.  "I can no more answer that than you can tell me what happened to the Etxea."

Rio's unwavering stare, full of promise, was as much a product of his attempt to maintain control as it was a threat, but Ixaka relented enough to add, "She is not at the villa—we have been and gone, with none the wiser.  We know three things—the Etxea is not there, the American bitch is not there, and you are here."

Suddenly weary, Rio shook out his still-tingling hand.  "Start," he said, "at the beginning."

Ixaka shrugged.  "We were promised the Etxea."

"By whom?"

Another shrug.  "They are inconsequential.  Local children, acting out—they would never dare cross us.  But when we went to the exchange, there was no Etxea.  There was only you."

Gift-wrapped for the Basajaun.  Wonderful.  "So you assumed I was in on it?  Mighty big leap, fella.  Seems more likely they did cross you, and dumped me just to confuse the issue.  Which, by the way, really seems to be working."

The guard by the entry shifted.  Rio said, "Uh-uh.  Be still.  I don't have anything to lose by taking you down. I'm just being a nice guy here."

Ixaka snapped something at the man.  No doubt something like, Don't make trouble, I'm stringing him along just fine and then we'll kill him the moment we get the chance.

Yeah, no doubt.  But Rio wasn't quite done with them yet.  "What did they want in return for the Etxea?"

Ixaka affected surprise.  Rio snorted.  "Oh, please.  You get something, they get something.  What was it?"

Ixaka waved a vague gesture.  "We would do some work for them that we were inclined to do anyway."

"Ah.  Gandiaga."  Rio said it in an old news voice and was gratified to see surprise surface briefly on Ixaka's face.

Looked as though Jurdan had been right.  Of course, maybe Jurdan had also known more than he'd said.

Jurdan was, after all, on the inside.

So.  Ixaka's group of children, enabled by a villa insider, had stolen the Etxea and offered it to Basajaun, strengthening the cause in exchange for a little political assassination.  But then they'd yanked the prize...why?

In sudden insight—staring at Ixaka's impatient anger, Rio said, "You're going to do it anyway, aren't you?  You're all geared up for a little public statement and you're going to do it anyway."

Ixaka said nothing.  He'd closed up into terrorist poker face.  The conversation, such as it had been, was over.

Well, Rio knew more than he had.  He knew what they had to stop and he knew he had to find Kimmer and he knew where to start looking for the Etxea.  Budding young terrorists.

He just had to get out of this shipping container maze of hell so he could do those things.

Alive.

~~~

Kimmer left her car parked behind the leather shop—and quite a trick that was, maneuvering it through the tiny alleys into that tiny space.  Danele, self-important and impatient, had guided Kimmer through the exact sequence of alleys that made it possible.

After that they left on foot, although Kimmer took the time to text a single-word query to Owen—Rio?—and struggled to hide her reaction to the negative reply.  A cold spot settled in her stomach, making her glad it was empty.

But not jittery.  Interesting.  Things could hardly get worse, could they?  Rio missing, the Etxea missing, the authorities on her heels, the client believing that she and Rio had been in on the theft...

And yet she felt like herself again.  Focused.  Driving forward.  Striking out on her own.

She slung the backpack over one shoulder and threaded Rio's jacket under the top flap, covering the war club jammed into her back pocket.  Danele gave the whole arrangement a glance of disdain and led Kimmer onward, into a warren of back streets and tight, tall houses.

It felt good to stretch her legs, regardless of the circumstances; only the rising summer heat kept her from breaking into an impatient jog now and then.

Danele gave her a sideways glance and muttered something with the scathing tone only a teen could produce.  Kimmer silently took back her previous conclusion that in seven years, Karlene would be this girl.  Karlene would kick this one's butt.

Because for all her irascible behavior, Karlene already knew the difference between annoyances and significant problems.  Not to mention actual dangers.

This one didn't.  This one was stuck in it's all about me, with no idea of the implications of the events developing around her.

No idea of the potential dangers.

Now Danele headed for a doorway with painted thistle heads around the frame and two small laurels planted on either side of the door.  Half a sun arced across the lintel, and when Danele knocked, her entire presentation morphed into that of a respectful young person.  Kimmer took note of it and released a deep breath, schooling the intensity of her demeanor.

The woman who opened the door was aged and she wore it well.  At the sight of Danele, her face relaxed into a smile.  She welcomed the girl with opened arms—but when she looked over Danele's head to Kimmer, her expression closed.

Danele backed away to indicate Kimmer, and Kimmer could only hope the Basque introduction wasn't, "This is some bitch my grandfather made me bring here.  She needs information.  I don't like her."

But if it was, the woman knew how to interpret teen-speak; she gave a short nod and gestured for Kimmer to come inside.

Danele nodded, and told Kimmer, "This is Maite Etxeto.  She is sorgina."

At Kimmer's obvious lack of comprehension she reverted to an eye-roll.  "Witch, you might say—but more.  So people come to her.  She knows your Doña, that's the important thing."

Kimmer decided to bypass the sarcasm and nodded at Maite.  "My name is Kimmer Reed.  If you can help me I'll be grateful."

The woman was wise at that.  She looked at Kimmer and nodded in a way that made her feel as though Maite had seen right through Kimmer's effort to remain casual.

She gestured for them to enter, closing the door promptly behind them and leading Kimmer down a long, narrow hallway to a narrow door that emptied into tidy, closed parlor.

Nothing airy and Mediterranean about this home; it had a closed in, old-world feel to it, with leafy carvings in the wooden end tables and a lauburu carved in above the tight little fireplace.  Tied herb bundles were placed in every nook and cranny—more than decorative.  The room was rich with the scent of them.

Witch, Danele had said.  Herbalist, healer...wisewoman.

As long as she was a nosy wisewoman, and willing to talk to Kimmer.

Maite saw them seated in threadbare chairs and excused herself long enough to speak to someone at the back of the house.  When she came back, a few words to Danele netted the information that tea was forthcoming, a special brew of her own.  Then she seated herself and turned to Kimmer, hands folded in her lap over a voluminous black skirt. She also wore a conservative white head scarf and a blousey long-sleeved shirt—and although the house was still comfortable in the shadows of its neighbors and the depths of the interior, Kimmer wondered how the woman could stay cool under so much material.

Danele translated as Maite spoke to Kimmer.  "She asks what you would like to know about the Doña."

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 anyone, 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.

"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 bear 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."

Right.  Because if Marina had called the hospital and asked for the Doña, she would have learned the truth.

"I'll call the hospital now," Marina said.  "Then we'll see."

"You should," Kimmer agreed, but with some dark amusement.  "Just don't expect to get anywhere near a phone while I'm still here.  That little threat about the Ertzaintza?  I have a good memory."

"I—" Marina fell short on her words, and then reluctantly accepted the inevitable.

Kimmer grinned at her—fierce and Chimera cold.  "Don't worry.  I'm on my way out.  I expected too much of you.  Now, I just want you to think about it—we were brought here to fail."

Marina scoffed; Jefa blinked a startled disbelief.

"The stupid cover, the persistent lack of information, the interference and the drugs—we were guarding the Etxea blindfolded and hobbled."  She stopped, and took a breath, and let it out slowly.  "The question is... why?"

Blank stares, pretty much.  Marina, Jefa, and the housekeeper.  Even Danele.

Kimmer fought exasperation.  "Hello?  If we understand why, we can stop her.  Hell, just look what she's done to this household!  You—" she turned on Marina, "Until this moment, you didn't even know how sick she really is!  Your good friend!"

Marina drew a sharp breath, looking away.  But when she turned back to Kimmer, her eyes glittered with anger and denial.  "You are absurd.  How can this all be someone's complicated conspiracy?  Who even knew that the Doña would fall—"  But she stopped, hearing her own words.

Kimmer bit her tongue, giving Marina time.

Who even knew that the Doña would fall ill?

It only took a moment.  Even Danele looked aghast by the time Marina whispered, "She made it happen.  She made my Doña ill."

She, he...whoever.  Anyone could be behind that altered voice.  Although...now that she understood...Kimmer felt a faintly familiar touch to it all.

And then she noticed the look on the housekeeper's face—hesitation and concern.  She knew better than to ignore it.  "What's wrong?"

"Are we certain?" the older woman asked.  "Certain that Larraitz is part of this?"

"Why?" Kimmer asked, startled to find Marina asking the same, a demanding chorus.

"She—"  The woman engaged in an interlude of classic hand-wringing and finally blurted, "She was to come in later this morning, but she asked me to call if Miss Kimberly returned—she said she was frightened of Miss Kimberly after the misunderstanding with Mr. Richard."

"Dios," said Marina under her breath.

Kimmer said something rather different under her own breath.  And then said to the housekeeper, "You called her."

"Before I told Miss Marina you were here," the woman admitted.

"No matter," Marina said firmly, looking as though she was trying to believe it.  "So she does not come in today at all."

Kimmer snorted.  "This isn't about whether Larraitz comes in.  It's about finding me—stopping me.  The fake Doña can't afford to have me prowling around.  I don't even know why she got Hunter involved in the first place—"

And she stopped short, for there was one damned good question.  Why bring in an expert out-of-country team to work security on an object you ultimately intend to steal?  Why risk the chance that said team would thwart the theft, even after being crippled by the scenario and the meddling help of a willing toadie?

She specifically asked for us.

She'd asked for them, she'd welcomed them...and then she'd set them up to fail.  Resoundingly.

THINKING OF YOU.

Not so random after all, those postcards, those emails.

This is about us as much as the Etxea.

It's about US.

"We need to get out of here," Kimmer said to Danele.  "Larraitz' people are on their way, you can bet on it.  Besides, I need to see what your grandfather has learned about our friend Gandiaga."

And coincidentally return you to him.  Get you out of this mess.

"But—"

Aurgh.  "We'll talk on the way," Kimmer said, bodily directing the girl at the door.  "Because we're not hanging around here."  It had seemed like a good and reasonable next step to come here, and safe enough.

And Kimmer—

Well, she'd learned more than she ever expected.  But now?

This was the last place they wanted to be.

~~~

"You're all right?" Sein asked Rio, as they stopped to catch breath.  Again.

"Sure," Rio said.  Better, anyway.  "Nothing a Twinkie wouldn't cure."

"Twinkie," Sein said flatly.

"Never mind."  Rio straightened against a lamp post, looking north into Bilbao and once more ruing the loss of his phone.  Forget calling Owen...he'd call for a damned cab.  His back burned fiercely, his arm throbbed with amazing intensity, and the rest of him just hurt like hell.

He could just about call himself crabby.

"We're almost to the bus stop," Sein said.  So far, calm and reliable.  So far, keeping the tentative trust.

"If the driver lets me board."  His torn and grungy clothes were the least of it.

Sein shrugged.  "You wouldn't be the first man in Bilbao to have a bad day."

Rio couldn't help it.  He laughed out loud, an arm tight over pained ribs.  A bad day.  That certainly put things into perspective.

"All right," he said.  "The bus.  And keep your eye out for a phone."  He'd call Owen the hard way.  Owen would know if Kimmer still had her phone, if she was still active.  And if Owen hadn't heard from her...

That would mean something, too.

He lurched away from the lamp post and down the sidewalk, on a street that was becoming noticeably less dock-oriented and more business-like.  When the hell had things gone so wrong, anyway?  Before Kimmer started doubting their ability to team up on the job, or after?

But he knew the answer to that.  Before.  Long before.  Right when he hadn't refused to play by the stupid rules imposed upon them.  That decision had set them up for the rest of it.  And how they'd get themselves out of this place...

He didn't much want to think about it.  He'd find Kimmer first.  He'd make sure she was all right—please, God, be all right—and he'd see what she knew of the Etxea.  And then together they'd tear up this whole damn op by the roots and see what shook out.

~~~

"Why Andoni Gandiaga?" Danele asked, stumbling a little as she followed Kimmer out to the car at a jog.

Just because Kimmer had cut the cord to the kitchen phone didn't mean it would take Marina more than a few moments to find another, if she was still of a mind to call the Ertzaintza.

Danele persisted, on Kimmer's heels in more than one way.  "He's a stupid politician, that's all.  He thinks he's clever, but he's just made everyone mad and he's not doing the Nationalist Party any good, either."

Kimmer recognized parroted thoughts when she heard them.  But they gave her insight nonetheless—on Ginea's thoughts about Gandiaga.

Damned similar to Jurdan's, when it came down to that.

She opened the passenger door, guiding Danele's head down with a protective hand, and ignoring her faint girly slaps of protest as she collapsed down into the car seat.

The cops would be the least of their problems if Larraitz' people came here to clean up after their mess.

Before she slid in behind the wheel, Kimmer dug her phone from her pack, auto-dialing Owen's number even as she started the car.  Two short rings and—

"An actual phone call," he said.  If she'd caught him at an inconvenient time, he gave no sign; he never did.  "It's an honor."

"Yeah, yeah."  Kimmer pulled Danele's seatbelt into place while ignoring her eye rolling, then accelerated around the circular drive, gently spitting gravel.  "Rio?"

"No.  I'll let you know if he gets in touch, Kimmer."

As if she could not ask.  "Look, the Doña isn't the Doña.  Someone's been playing the role—she's in intensive care in Barcelona, and I wouldn't assume it's from natural causes.  We've got someone very clever on the line here.  As far as I can tell, screwing with me and Rio was a distinct part of that plan.  Did you have a clue, Owen, or were you so intent on getting intel from Basque country that you didn't look deeply enough?"

It was the first time she'd ever known him to be speechless.  Heading down the driveway just a little faster than she should, she listened to his silence.  The profound nature of it reached her more deeply than any sputtered denials.

"There's a car—" Danele said, her fingers tightening around the seatbelt where it crossed her still-flat chest.

Kimmer saw it.  Fake it.  Just ordinary visitors, sedately driving away.  Finally Owen managed, "Kimmer—"

"Fine," she said.  She could read Owen over the phone as well as anyone, and if his stunned silence hadn't been enough, the self-recrimination in that one word would have done it.  "Now fix it.  Somehow."

"Tell me everything you know," he said instantly.

And she would have done it—gone back to working deeply with Hunter, now that she knew Owen understood.  Except she suddenly realized the oncoming car was traveling far too fast; she just as suddenly found herself close enough to see the set of the driver's shoulders and the jut of the passenger's jaw and the way they'd both braced themselves, and she had just enough time to blurt, "Oh, shit!" before she dropped the phone.

She grabbed the wheel with both hands, cranked it hard, and hit the brakes, slewing the car's back end into the path of the thugboys.  "Hold on!" she shouted at Danele, but Danele was already screaming, high and thin.

The impact turned the world hollow for an instant, reverberating with percussive sound.  Then she blinked and the car had stopped, spun around the way they'd come.  No airbags, and her forehead stung from impact with the side window.  Danele, frozen in shock with both hands still clutching the seatbelt across her body, seemed not to have so much as a scratch.

Damned freaking thugboys—took Rio!

Purpose returned with a flood, and Kimmer scrabbled at her seatbelt.  She banged at the jammed door, and when she finally stepped out of the car, her knees went out from under her.  Screw that!  Up to her feet again and she ran around the front of the car to the thugboys' car.

It had not fared well.  Kimmer ran to the passenger side and jerked the door open, slashing the seatbelt with the toothpick knife from inside her waistband.  She dragged the man out with little regard for potential injuries and then headed for the driver through the passenger side, yanking the keys first thing, pulling a quick pat-down.

Nine-mil Glock—clunky.  She tossed it out the shattered driver's window where she could pick it up on the way back to her car.

But first she had a conversation to conduct.  Opportunity knocks.

She backed out of the car, heard a faint shriek of warning—couldn't turn before a shoulder slammed into her from behind—low and hard, a reaching tackle.  The passenger.  She bounced off the car body, landing hard—no way to roll out of that one, not with a thugboy still attached to her legs.

Too bad for him that he'd used up both his arms in the process.  She levered up and clapped her cupped hands over his ears—his eyes popped open wide and a grunt of animalistic pain escaped—but she made no effort to escape.  Opportunity, dammit.

Her fingers curled around those abused ears and she brought her thumbs around to the corners of his eyes, applying just enough pressure to get his attention.  "Now," she said.  "Let's talk."

Ooh, was that defiance on his face?  She grinned, the Chimera grin.  "Or, hey, you can be blind.  I'd rather avoid that, though.  Eyeballs bleed, and I don't have a change of clothes."  She dug her nails into the thin skin behind his ears, holding on.

"My eyes, you whore!"

"If that makes you feel better."  Kimmer applied a little more pressure.  "Last night you stole the Etxea.  Where is it?"

"I don't know!"

And dammit, that was true enough; she had no doubt, and no time to waste beating against thugboy ignorance.  "Then who does know?"

"I don't know!"

"Tsk," Kimmer said, eyes narrowing.  "Now you're just lying."

Danele's voice came hesitant in her ear—far too close, as the girl crept up to view the thugboys and their car with a hesitant and shaky awe.  "How do you know?"

"I know," Kimmer told her, too distracted to be anything but grimly matter-of-fact.  "And you should have stayed in the car."  She tightened her hold on the wounded thug—I'm still paying attention to you.  "But since you're here, keep an eye on the driver for me.  Let me know if he moves."

"Your head is bleeding."

"Yeah, well, maybe that's why I keep my hair so short.  Damned pesky scalp wounds."

Danele was finally getting to know her well enough to recognize the dark, dry humor, and she laughed in a quiet exhalation.  And then she said, "How do you know?"

"Just watch the driver," Kimmer said shortly.  "And you—"  She pushed hard enough on one eye to feel it shift in the socket.  Yuck.  "Give me a name."

"It doesn't matter."  Brave thugboy, indeed.  "We have it now—it means our success."

She snorted.  "You think Gandiaga's security isn't up to a batch of wannabe nationalist dilettantes?"  For she'd had time now, to assess both of these thugboys.  Demotion to punkboys.  Both were as young as Larraitz, both well-dressed, both well-groomed.  And neither was truly prepared for this encounter, in spite of the extravagant gesture with the car.  "You think that your pretend Doña de Florez is interested in you, now that she has the Etxea stolen away?  She'll get that thing to someone who can really do the job.  Like the Basajaun."

Oh, score!  He flinched when she first mentioned Gandiaga; he scowled when she mentioned the Doña and the Basajaun.

So.  The Basajaun in the city with the Etxea.  Simple as a game of Clue.

Not that she knew where the Doña was, or if the Basajaun would attack as expected at the next day's Ascension activities.  But Owen could follow through on those things—send up the warning flares, alarm the right people.

All she had to do now was find Rio.  She bent her face close to the wannabe and whispered, "So far you can still see.  Want to keep it that way?  Tell me what you did with the man from the house.  The tall guy with the great ass.  Blond hair.  Tell me what happened at the house.  Tell me where you took him.  Why."

He relaxed slightly.  It wasn't, after all, as though she could change the past with her knowledge.  "He was too slow to suspect Larraitz—she had the cloroformo."

Finally.  The word for chloroform.  Her world was complete.  "Why not take me?" she demanded.  "Why just Rio?"

He rolled his eyes, trying to get a good look at her.  "You broke Lander's arm, Sasoin's ribs.  We didn't have enough of us to carry you both, and we already had him."

A fight at the bottom of the stairs, the crack of bone, falling backward into the darkness...  "Why take us at all?"

"The Do—"  He caught himself; she encouraged him—just a little pressure at the corner of his eye—a little thumbnail behind it.  Involuntary tears trickled down his face.  "We had the impression it was personal.  We were told to take him to an alley.  We did."

"Where?" Kimmer asked, oh-so-sweetly.  "Which alley?"

He must have sensed his sudden danger; he blurted out words that meant nothing to Kimmer.  But Danele said—still in that whisper—"I know where that is.  It's bad, that part of town."

Well, it wouldn't be a good one, would it?  "Danele," Kimmer said evenly, fighting her impulse to grab the girl, dive for the car, and break all speed limits on the way to that particular alley, "take the knife from my waistband.  Cut the seatbelt out of the car."

Danele might still be frightened and shaky, but she didn't hesitate.  Kimmer felt her light touch, and a moment later she returned with several lengths of seatbelt.  "All right," Kimmer said to the punkboy, "you're going down."  And if he wasn't sure what she meant by that, he didn't resist when she slowly torqued his head around.  He twisted to follow that motion—going down, and saving not only his eye but his neck.

"Tie his arms," Kimmer told Danele.  "And don't you dare tell your grandfather about this."

Danele mustered a grin.  "You're afraid of him."

"Don't you think I should be?" Kimmer retorted.

Danele only grinned.

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

CHAPTER 18

Kimmer spared a moment to kick her borrowed villa car into shape—literally, pulling crumped metal away from the back wheel—still trying to beat that inevitable moment when someone from the villa finally caught on that there was major drama happening just out of sight.  Back in the car, she pointed meaningfully at Danele's seat belt, and then she located her cell phone.  Time to call Owen back, to drop most of this in his lap.

The phone didn't respond.

"Oh, come on," Kimmer said in disbelief.  "It was only a little accident.  You're supposed to be nearly indestructible!  Owen said—!"

"Let me see," Danele said, taking the phone with the assertion of a teen.  She pushed and prodded—and shrugged.  "You shouldn't have thrown it when you grabbed the steering wheel."

"I didn't throw—" Kimmer started, but gave up.  She had the cell phone curse.  She was lucky the thing had lasted this long.

"So much for calling my grandfather."  Danele gave the phone a wistful look.

"So much for calling Owen," Kimmer said, more sour than wistful as she started the car.  "But he's got enough information to run with.  Gandiaga appears tomorrow for Ascension; bunches of people want to kill him.  One bunch in particular has the Etxea to convince themselves they're right and strong and invincible.  He'll get word to the local LEOs and pull in the crew from Monaco."

"Oh, no," Danele said, more of a correction than an expression of dismay, although there was something of dismay in there too—she'd obviously gotten local law enforcement officers from the context.  "Didn't you know?  Gandiaga is having a big reception this evening, for those who have publicly supported his new policies."

"No," Kimmer said, as if she could make it not so by saying it wasn't so.  "No, no, no."

Danele nodded solemnly.  A bruise had shown up on her cheek, nearly hidden in the shadow of her wild, dark hair.  "In the Jardine, outside the Nationalist Party headquarters."

This evening.  Kimmer glanced at her watch.  Barely mid-day.  "We've got time," she muttered.  Time to find a phone that worked, even if it wasn't secure.  Time to warn Gandiaga, even if it meant ending up in the hands of the Guardia or Ertzaintza.  And time to head for the drop location she'd just wrangled out of her squeamish captive punkboy.

Time to find Rio.

~~~

Rio gave Sein the most skeptical of looks.  "This alley?  Right here?  The one we're trying not to smell?"

"This alley," Sein confirmed.  "What did you expect?"

How about a sign post?  With an arrow?  Rio, this way.  Love, Kimmer.  But this...

There wasn't much here at all.  Classic alley—narrow, old packed dirt gone weedy against the brick buildings.  Just wide enough for a car, with plenty of tire marks laid down to prove it.  One area near the street had a definite urinal-of-convenience stench.  Near the back, a single ubiquitous black garbage bag hunkered down, abandoned.

Rio walked the edges of both buildings, scuffing up the old matches and lighters and cigarette butts and condoms, hunting for something newer.  Something that spoke to him of Kimmer.

Yeah, a note would have been nice.

If they'd actually left her here, the Basajaun would have ended up with her, just as they'd ended up with him.  She wouldn't have left him.

So she hadn't been here at all.

But those who'd dumped him—those same who'd taken the Etxea—might lead him to some answers.  "Somewhere between three and six a.m.," he guessed—knowing when they'd gone on watch, knowing he'd been chloroformed; knowing what he'd been through since then.  He turned to Sein.  "Someone might have seen them."

Sein lingered near the street—and if at first he only shrugged, he then suddenly perked up.  "Whores," he suggested, perhaps particularly intrigued by the thought of this specific trail.  "We'd have to wait until tonight to ask."

Rio left the alley to look the street up and down.  On the edge of the business district, on the way to the docks...a couple blocks down, he thought he saw a mini-diner and coffee shop crammed into a tiny space between two larger buildings of indeterminate office use.  Diner.  Coffee.  He was willing the bet the coffee was black and hot, the pastries weren't fresh, and the eggs were mixed with seafood and spices to start the day right.  To start the day early.

It was worth a try.  "There," he said, and started out before Sein had quite understood his intent.

But he didn't get far.  And yeah, this was so much better than a sign post.

Kimmer.

Somewhere deep in a body full of ache and fatigue, a spark of energy bloomed.

For he'd walked only a single block when two pedestrians turned the corner, deep in discussion: a lanky young teen—and a petite form so familiar that Rio could damned well feel the grin spreading across his face.

Oh, yeah.  Petite and curvy and gamine and by God ready to kick ass; he could see it in every movement she made, potential explosions tempered down into merely mortal movement—and her presence here too coincidental to be coincidence at all.

She argued with the girl, barely watching where she was going; the girl argued back with a familiarity that told Rio that these two had spent some time together—but not enough time for the girl to know better.

Rio didn't wait for her to notice.  "Yo, bay-bee," he said, using his best Stallone Rocky voice.  Sein looked at him as though he'd truly gone mad, but Kimmer didn't need to hear it twice.  She stiffened, and she turned, and she didn't waste time with any open-mouthed surprise or explanations to her companion.  By the time she cried his name in greeting, she was already on the move.  Running, in fact.

Not stopping.

Rio realized it just in time to brace himself, to hold out his arms—and then she leaped and there they were, turning circles in the street and grinning like fools while she wrapped her legs around his waist and he settled his single working hand firmly on her ass to hold her there, very much appreciating the hard outline of the semi-automatic in her back pocket.

Only a moment passed that way—long enough to make Rio stagger on legs that weren't up to the task; long enough to see the light glimmer in those luminous blue eyes and know his tough-chick girl was blinking back tears of relief.  Kimmer?

And then she bit him.  Not hard but definite, ducking her head to take hold of his ear and apply just enough pressure so it couldn't possibly be called a love bite.  "Yow!" Rio said, and would have let her fall if those teeth hadn't still been just a little too attached.

But only for a moment, and she slid down on her own, hitting every tender rib along the way.

He must have winced, for she stepped back to give him a more critical eye, and then right there on the sidewalk in front of God and everyone, tugged his shirt up to assess his bruises.  "Oh, please," she said, as Sein made a startled noise, keeping his distance.  "What were you thinking?"

Wasn't a whole hell of a lot he could say to that.  He held his tongue as she walked all the way around, no doubt getting a good hard look at his back.  Yeah...she sucked her breath in.

He had other things on his mind.  "What the hell happened?  One moment I was keeping watch, and then suddenly the Basajaun were playing host, and they're really—really—annoyed that they found me in that alley instead of the Etxea."  In afterthought, he added, "Oh yeah—I got away."

"So you did.  Me, too."  Kimmer's voice held a hard edge as she came around to face him again.  "I don't have all the details yet.  Chloroform—they left me in the cellar.  But it was an inside job."

Rio's eyes narrowed, seeing her face—seeing there was more to it than that, much more.  Sein and the girl eyed each other without welcome, still standing off—and both listening with unfettered fascination.

She nodded, an unconscious acknowledgment of his reaction, frowning a little at Sein.  "The Doña is a fake.  She's the inside man—or one of them, along with Larraitz.  The real Doña is critically ill and she damned sure isn't making phone calls.  Not only that, whoever this is...they want—"

Her gaze flicked back to his and he knew.  "Us," he said.

"The postcards.  Thinking of you.  The emails—you saw the first one?"

He nodded, picking up the pieces.  "She asked for us.  She insisted on that ridiculous cover.  She tied our hands every step of the way."

"More than that—she had us drugged."

That final fact fell into place with the giant snick of a perfect fit.  "The way I slept—"

"The way I didn't.  That was more than coincidence.  That was preying on perceived weakness.  You and your back and your meds...me and my—"  But she stopped, not finding a word.

"Intensity," Rio said firmly.

"The kindness of you," Kimmer labeled that one, wry and self-aware.  "Yeah, this is about us as much as it is the Etxea.  And none of it is over."

"Dammit," Rio said.  "I should have listened to my gut.  I should have turned this job down."

"You mean I should have turned it down."

Rio shook his head, decisive and intractable—and eased them back toward the coffee shop he'd been targeting in the first place.  "No.  Owen played you."

She snorted.  "I would have known."

"Only if he was doing it on purpose."  Rio didn't give an inch.  He found dried blood near Kimmer's hair line and reached out to run a thumb across it without thinking, assessing the injury.  "He sure as hell took you for granted.  He didn't have the time to do the proper groundwork, but he wanted the HUMINT factor, so..."  He shook his head.  No handler should send his human intelligence in blind.  "The next time that man shows up at our house, I'll know better."

She gave him a startled look, and he realized that somewhere in the middle of all this, she'd lost track of the new home, of her new way of life.  Our house.  But she recovered quickly.  "That goes for both of us.  I don't suppose you have your phone?"

He shook his head, grinning helplessly.  "You broke yours, didn't you?  You dropped it or you gave it to a goat—"

"I never gave my phone to that goat!" she said indignantly.  "He stole it.  Besides, I still have my laptop in the car.  We should be able to get a signal.  Texting or IMing, what's the difference?"

"No difference at all," Rio said, straight-faced.  As if he could talk; he'd lost his phone entirely.

And finally, as Sein grew more uneasy—easing some distance away as if keeping watch—and the girl grew more restless, the girl finally cleared her throat and said something in Spanish.  Kimmer did an oh, right kind of eye roll, and nodded, speaking low enough so Sein wouldn't hear.  "This is Danele—the granddaughter of Edorta Ginea, Owen's contact.  Now that she's decided I'm not always an idiot, she's using me to make her mark on the world.  I doubt she thought the world would be quite so eager to make its mark back on her."

Rio gave her a little wave.  "Rio Carlsen," he said, making his own introduction.  "Thanks for your help."

But the girl had a little smirk as she said something to Kimmer, who snorted.  "She says you're a mess, but you're really hot."

The girl recoiled, horrified, Kimmer gave her a look.  "It's time we got her back to her grandfather.  We need to talk to him, anyway.  Gandiaga throws things wide open early this evening—without a clue as to what's at stake, unless Owen gets through to someone.  So Edorta Ginea may be an old man with a single eye in the middle of his hairy forehead, but—"

"Hey!"  The girl swelled up like a puffer fish.

Kimmer laughed.  "Speak English again, do you?"

Danele didn't respond—at least not directly.  She gestured at Sein.  "And who's that?"

"How cute," Kimmer said, taking her attention back to Sein, her first good long look.  "We both have new sidekicks..."

But there was something about the way she trailed off that got Rio's attention; something about the way she stiffened slightly.

Because she saw what no one else could see.  The body language, the expression...she didn't even think about it.  A natural.

And she didn't like Sein.

"Ah, damn," Rio muttered.  "He really had me convinced, too."  Affable kid, indignant and fed up with being pushed around, being used, watching his people abused.

Kimmer grimaced.  "Grab him and let's get the hell out of here.  Danele, you don't wait.  Get to the car."  She gave the girl a little push.  Not a gentle one.

"But—"

And Rio had taken only one step toward Sein, just one, when the young man's body language changed completely.  Behind him, Kimmer said, "Now, Danele!  Get back to your grandfather—tell him—"

Danele's little shriek cut her off, and Sein's sudden shout of command.  Dammit!

Movement flashed in the edges of Rio's vision; he spun to discover them flanked, men with rifles on all sides as bystanders melted away.  Kimmer cursed low and hard and holy shit the little rat had set him up but good.

And now they have Kimmer, too—

Which must have been what they wanted all along.

But now they knew he and Kimmer no longer had the Etxea, so why—?

"It's not about the Etxea," he realized, backing up to Kimmer—glancing over his shoulder to the protective hold she had around the girl.

"Not this time," she said, her voice low, her gaze meeting his with solid certainty.  That blue...not sheened with tears this time, but with determination.  She'd go down fighting before she let them take Danele.  Before she'd let them take Rio.  "It's about us."

For a long moment, they hovered in public stand-off—the men gauging them; trying to intimidate them.  Waiting for that moment of the first move.

Kimmer.  "Danele, go!"  She pushed the girl, again, harder this time, and suddenly Danele sprinted away and Kimmer ran after her, twisting as she ran to fire covering shots—covering Rio, too, as he ran behind her.

But she couldn't cover them all.  Too many men, too many rifles.

Rio jerked at a sudden sting in his thigh, no intention of stopping—but his limbs turned suddenly leaden.  He stumbled, shouting some senseless demand at Kimmer.  Keep going!

And Kimmer looked back, her gaze both stricken and stunned, one hand on the dart that bloomed from beneath her collarbone.  Petite woman, big dart...her eyes rolled up and her knees went out.  Rio—big man, same dart—had just enough time to cushion her fall before he, too, went down.

And the girl ran screaming.

~~~

Kimmer struggled with reality even before she opened her eyes.  This time, she remembered it all.  She knew why she was groggy; she knew Rio had gone down, and that he was with her now as she lay on her side, restrained back to back in a careless jumble of limbs.  She knew Danele had run, but not if she'd made it.  She knew it was hot here, wherever she was.  Significantly warmer than the afternoon she'd left behind.  Hell, maybe.

What she couldn't figure out was why hell smelled good enough to eat.

She must have shifted, perhaps just tensed.  Rio murmured, "Welcome back."

Nothing for it but to open her eyes.  The jumbled shapes didn't make sense, and she closed her eyes long enough for a mental reset.

"C-class truck," Rio told her, still low enough to avoid attracting attention—at least, unless someone was babysitting right on top of them, which was possible.  They'd already escaped this splinter terrorist group a record number of times in short order.  If the Basajaun had learned anything, they wouldn't take chances this time.

She realized, then, that her wrists—restrained awkwardly behind her and entwined with Rio's—were held with cold, cutting metal.  Not plastic.

Yeah, they were learning.

Shape and form fell into place when she dared to open her eyes again.  The inside of a truck.  She and Rio were just behind the cab seats, up against a stiff white wire mesh with an access gap in the middle.  The rest of the white interior was fitted out with bays for service trays and food bins and—

"Caterer," Kimmer said in surprise.  "The reception!"

"Doesn't look like Owen managed to stop it," Rio said, his voice grim with all the implications.  "And we wouldn't be here if they didn't have a use for us."

"We've already taken the blame for the Etxea's theft."  Kimmer tested her legs, found she could move them freely.  Okay, that was a thugboy mistake.  "Why not this?"  She gave her head a rueful shake, knowing Rio would feel it even if he couldn't see it—as tangled as they were, elbows interlocking and legs askew, she could feel every move he made, every twitch of pain.  "God, whoever's behind this must have peed her pants with joy when I set the stage with that airport cop."

Rio snorted; she felt that, too.  And she was about to ask if he was all right—to see just how deeply some of those bruises ran, and his arm—when the truck shifted.

Someone climbed into the front cab to crouch between the seats.  "About time you woke up."

Kimmer didn't recognize the voice—but Rio did.  She felt it in him, the cording muscles in his arms and back.  Anger.  That alone told her it was personal.

And that told her who it was.  The sidekick, the nervous young man to whom she should have paid more attention.  She might have stopped this.

Or not.  The men with the tranq guns had been waiting.

She cranked her head around, couldn't quite see him.  "That ambush was damned subtle compared to what you people have managed so far.  You've got someone pulling the strings now?"

All he said was, "They're not my people."

Rio snorted again, louder.  "Sein.  You were more convincing before you betrayed us to them."

Sein's shrug was barely visible in the corner of Kimmer's eye—a mere glimpse of movement.  "Most of what I told you was true.  I have to live on those docks.  My family lives there.  The more the Basajaun value me, the better."

"And if you'd been helping, you might have ended up free of them."  Rio was as close to snarling as he ever came.  "No one wants them here.  The ETA and the government are both working for a peaceful resolution to the Basque independence issues, and your Basajaun are getting in everyone's way.  You could have ended up a hero instead of a—"

"—Pretend-to-be thugboy," Kimmer filled in for him.

"It doesn't matter," Sein said bitterly.  "Whatever I do, my family will pay.  This way, they pay least.  And soon enough, you will be in no position to pass judgment.”

"But I'm right," Kimmer said, shifting—quietly exploring the limits of their bonds.  "Someone else is pulling the strings now."

"Must be," Rio said.  "Last I knew, Ixaka's people were using my ribs for a xylophone because they found me in that alley instead of the Etxea."  He tipped his head back, touching Kimmer's.  "The thieves stole the Etxea, stole me—left me, but not it.  Used me to get Ixaka's attention...then Ixaka used me to finish the job of grabbing you."

"We made it all easy for them," Kimmer said, feeling the bite of it.  "Predictable.  Both looking for each other."

"And look where we are now," Sein said in that same bitter voice.  "Success beyond everyone's wildest dreams."

"Pure dumb luck," Rio muttered.

"I beg your pardon," Kimmer told him, quite archly.  "You may have been operating on luck, but I was following a lead.  A solid lead.  With a sidekick who didn't, in fact, betray me.  A good sidekick."

"Pure dumb luck timing," Rio corrected.  "What should have happened was that the thugboys followed me around all day while I hunted up a trail.  Eventually they would have gotten bored and pulled me in, and then you'd still be on the loose."

Kimmer shrugged.  "We're back together.  This way is better."

Rio tried to turn to look at her—no luck.  "Do you believe that?"  After what you just said?

The words had, in fact, just come out.  But...

"Yes."  And she nodded, shifted her shoulder against his, the closest she could get to a reassuring touch.  Predictable, okay.  Maybe more like not thinking smart after too many days of being led around in circles.  "Now, we know what's going on. Larraitz and her stupid little dilettantes are at the beck and call of the fake Doña.  The Basajaun are being played—but only to do what they want to do in the first place.  Kidnap people, get their hands on the Etxea...blow up Gandiaga."

Rio growled, his easy-going ways making way for rare anger as the facts sank in.  "Scapegoats for the Doña."

"Not that they weren't looking for an excuse," Kimmer said dryly.  "So here we are, ready to be scapegoated along with them—must have been what she wanted all along.  Worked out great for everyone but us.  Hey, Sein, bet there's a bomb in this truck, huh?  Bet Rio and I won't be around to defend ourselves, huh?"

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 and 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 find 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.

Another glance; she upgraded them to Public Display of Lust.  And not paying any attention at ALL.  She and Rio mounted the scooter in casual unison as she started it, moving onto the path and into the glory of the gardens in one smooth movement.

These grounds were altogether too dignified, too Old World and groomed, to host such carnage as Romajn had engineered.  Massive oaks swept their branches over the entire air, filtering the sunlight to green; the lush grass alongside the paths was dappled with just the right amount of early evening summer sunlight.  Totally surreal.  San Vincente's gothic spires rose a block away, and colorful flowers ringed the trees and bushes.

To reach Gandiaga's reception, they had to pass the second catering truck...and to do that, they approached a grim little procession from behind, two men escorting a third between them, and none-too-gently at that.

Rio leaned forward, pushing the sling full of cans into Kimmer's back.  "That's Jurdan."

And so it was.  What the hell was he doing here?  This morning Kimmer hadn't even been certain of his loyalties.  He'd disappeared far too conveniently, and his reactions had been all over the place before he did.  She'd known only that he felt betrayed.  By her, by Larraitz?  She wasn't sure.

And yet it didn't look as though the Basajaun were keen on him, either.

She turned her head to catch a glimpse of Rio from the corner of her eye, lifting her chin at the trio in question—and felt Rio's answer as his splinted arm tightened slightly around her waist.

Lovely little sleek Sinclair scooter, amazing acceleration. Ooh, baby.  Kimmer stuck her leg out and braced for impact, swooping in fast and close—taking out a thugboy leg from behind.  He hit the asphalt hard and she cranked the scooter around in a tight, fast turn it hadn't been engineered to make.

Behind her, Rio shifted; she left the second thugboy to him, catching Jurdan's astonished eye as they closed the distance.  Rio tossed the thugboy a lit Sterno can, filling his hands.

The man's eyes widened at his new package; he shouted in alarm, juggling the Sterno "bomb."  Jurdan broke away, sprinting top speed—gathering a scattering of startled reactions.  Kimmer cranked the scooter around again to catch up, slowing to pace him.  "No room here!" she told him.

"I have my own!" he shouted back.  "Larraitz, she—"  He couldn't say it; Kimmer knew it anyway: She played me.  He'd done stupid things for her, but he hadn't been with her.  "We have to warn—"

Warn.  That was a good sign, too.

But Kimmer had spotted a familiar figure.  Romajn.  She'd lost weight since she'd left the States—sleeker, meaner.  She strolled the path with a brisk but confident stride.  Without concern.

Kimmer couldn't help a little snarl.

Jurdan's hand landed on her arm, even as he jogged alongside the scooter.  "We have to warn—"

Right.  An entire reception full of people who had no clue, with their hearty political streamers and banners and colorful bunting on buffet tables.

Kimmer snarled again, this time for an entirely different reason.  Because he was right—and because Romajn was more than likely to take advantage of the ensuing chaos to walk calmly away.  Again.

A faint, jumbled sound rose above the purr of the scooter even as Jurdan peeled away toward the second catering truck to get his own wheels.  He turned toward the park even as he hit the kickstand start, making no bones about whose side he was on, then—at least not at the moment.

The noise came again; Rio nudged her and pointed, and she turned—and then faltered on the throttle.

Damned if a small flood of people hadn't crested the curb of the street to head in their direction—quiet, dignified, and purposeful—and damned if they weren't led by Danele.

"Yes!" Kimmer said, startled by her own relief.  Safe!

Her grandfather followed close on her heels, and Kimmer found Maite in the crowd, got a glimpse of Maite's pale, frightened granddaughter—a girl facing the consequences of her actions.  And there...coming up the rear...was that the crew from Monaco?  All in matching sky blue polo shirts, casual but alert?

Kimmer headed straight across the manicured grass, gouging sod as she skidded sideways in her abrupt stop before the group.  From the noise behind them, it seemed they were finally garnering some attention from the crowd.

That was okay.  It was time.  "Stay away from the trucks," she said, glancing between Danele and her grandfather.  "Bomb.  I don't care if you panic the entire neighborhood, get this park cleared."  And if Ginea got the right person's attention in the process, maybe he would have his chance to be a real voice for these people.  She saw the awareness of it on his face.

But dammit, out there in the street—there went Romajn, slipping into a sleek Peugeot 407.  The car pulled immediately away from the curb, jerky progress in tight traffic.

Ohh, no.  No, I don't think so.

Ginea would clear the park—was already clearing the park, directing his people while Danele hesitated beside Kimmer.  The Monaco crew—bar the single man left behind—fanned out to help.  Andoni would be safe, along with everyone else.  Now we can damned well get That Bitch Romajn.

She was so focused on Romajn, she almost failed to notice that Danele hefted a black bag in her direction—a suddenly familiar and wonderful bag, most recently abandoned in the stolen villa car.  Kimmer reached for it, one eye on the slow progress of the Peugeot.  Not here.  We'll follow until the crowd thins out.  "Sweet!  Thank you!"

Danele shrugged as Ginea returned to them; she said, "I figured you'd be here, if you weren't dead already."

"Not dead yet," Kimmer informed her dryly.  Jurdan hovered in the edge of her vision, easing out into the street by impatient inches as Kimmer yanked Rio's jacket from the bag, donning it even in the heat—wanting the pockets.  The defunct phone swung heavily inside one of them; Kimmer added the war club and several knives and her second gun, the SIG, and gave the pack back to Danele.  "I'll be back for it."

Behind her, Rio ducked to pull the makeshift sling over his head and handed that over, too.  "Light a few of these and toss them around if anyone's slow to move."

Danele gave them a skeptical look.  "But these are—"

"Bomb," said an older gentleman from the Monaco crew, interrupting them with an impatience born of skepticism.  "Are you certain, as you cause this chaos?  How do you even know?"

She opened her mouth to explain, and didn't have to.

"She knows," Danele said, lofty with it.  And snuck Kimmer a glance from the corner of her eye, a hint of a smile there.

Kimmer grinned back.

"Excellent," Ginea said, giving Danele a hearty slap on the back—staggering her, even as her smile bloomed.  He gestured at the park, where the evacuation was well under way, to the tune of protests and confusion and alarm.  "Danele, now we do our part."

But Danele's smile faded away; she cast a doubtful look at Kimmer's bruises, Rio's battered face and splinted arm.  "Are you sure—?"

Kimmer cut her off with an apologetic shrug.  "Gotta go, kid.  Bad guys to catch, treasures to save.  Go get things stirred up, will you?"

Jurdan had given up waiting—he shot out into a gap in traffic.  Both of Rio's hands, good and bad, settled firmly on Kimmer's hips.  Kimmer nodded at the park—at the crowd, at the truck, at the bombs—and cranked up the accelerator, tires spitting sod and leaving Danele's shout of good luck behind them.

They'll be safe, Kimmer told herself, squinting into their wind.  Ginea knew what he was doing...the Monaco crew would know what they were doing.  And as long as they could move people away from the trucks—

The first explosion happened far too soon—a profound clap of noise that smacked Kimmer's ears and left her chest briefly stuttering for air.  Her self-assurances suddenly seemed foolish and naive—she slowed, fighting the impulse to turn around.  To make sure Maite hadn't been trampled in any panic, or Danele felled by shrapnel—

But the Guardia and Ertzaintza—already casually patrolling the area due to the gathering—would swarm the place within moments.  And the instant she and Rio intersected with either, they'd be out of the game.  Back in cuffs, back behind bars, waiting for the confusion to clear and their innocence to be declared.

Except...

Not exactly innocent.

Not for a long time now.  But especially not when she made the decision to accelerate away from new friends in peril, heading away from a young teen who couldn't possibly have understood the stakes when she took up warning people away from that park.

Dammit, you'd better be okay!

Up ahead, the convergence of reacting vehicles jelled the road that swooped along the river; Jurdan wove through standstill traffic.  He hopped onto a sidewalk and off again, dodging cars and foot traffic alike.  Kimmer followed without hesitation.

Here, the city rose around them in a mix of modern and traditional, the classy face of Bilbao sweeping along the port of Biscay.  Here the people were dressed in business best, making the most of the last, late work hours before the Ascension holiday.  Here, surprised foot commuters fought to keep their balance in the wake of Jurdan's abrupt passage.  Kimmer brushed past in his wake, her jeans whispering against good linen and silk.

But as Jurdan jinked around a flower cart, his front wheel wobbled wildly and swerved toward street traffic; he surrendered to the inevitable and laid the scooter down.  It slammed into an economy car whose driver was even at that moment hitting the brakes to avoid the stopped, empty car in front of it.

The Peugeot 407.

Jurdan bounced to his feet, already running—lurching—and Kimmer slowed her scooter, hunting their quarry.

There.

Three figures, just now reaching the oscillating curves of the famous Campo Volantin river footbridge.

She hit the accelerator, gearing up to top speed—raising slightly over the scooter, Rio's hands still on her hips, reaching and overtaking Jurdan.

At the footbridge, two men, hands hovering at the opening of their suit coats—guns, yeah—waited for the third: a woman struggling to find the rhythm of the run as if she'd never truly done it before.

But ahh, Kimmer knew how to run.

Ditching the scooter at the bottom of the curving stairs up to the footbridge, she made sure Rio was on her heels, found Jurdan just behind them, and then bounded up the stairs in a satisfying rush of effort.  Two and three at a time, with pedestrians looking askance at her—and then, seeing her expression and her bloodied face, seeing battered Rio charging up behind her with that same determination—standing well aside.

Good.  Better for them if they stayed away altogether.  Maybe that's even what Jurdan was yelling, breathless and bringing up the rear, his feet pounding where Kimmer's landed lightly.

Jurdan, she thought, had gone down hard on that scooter.

Near the top of the rise she flattened across the metal steps, feeling Rio ease up beside her—giving her room, but right there.  She popped up far enough to see only one thugboy glancing behind them, and he wasn't glancing down.

But the moment she jumped to her feet and began pursuit across the thick glass bricks of the footbridge...

She had no doubt the guns would come out.

She did a quick check with Rio—and then a double-take.  Too pale, the flush of exertion riding high on angled cheeks.  It clenched something inside her.  "You good?"

"For now," he said, and it was an admission—for now, but reaching my limit.

Not many people could run a marathon after taking the beating that was written all over his body.

"Tell me," she said.  Tell me when I'm on my own.  Tell me when I can't count on you to be a hundred percent.

Because she couldn't read it for herself.  She couldn't see it on his face, not for sure—not with the determination setting a hard cast to his features.  She'd just have to damn well trust him.  Or make up for him.

"I'll tell you."  Straight, calm assurance.  No lie there.

Memory of a tinny phone voice flashed through her mind.  You're weaker together, because you hold each other back.  You overprotect.

"Yeah, well fuck you, too," Kimmer muttered.  "And while I'm at it, I hereby demote you from goonboss to punkboss."

Rio laughed softly behind her; Jurdan's head appeared behind him—half-crouching, waiting for Kimmer's move.  "Go get 'er."

Kimmer launched up the last step, a runner exploding from the blocks; she sprinted full bore along the artsy suspension bridge, acutely angled guy wires flashing overhead, glass bricks an unfamiliar and unyielding surface beneath her feet.  She ran silent, watching her quarry, gaining ground, every step a victory—

The wary thugboy turned—the dip of his shoulder all the warning she needed.  Kimmer went low.  By the time the thugboy focused on her, she was crouched and stable, the SIG aimed directly at his very important lower body.

Romajn and her lead thugboy jerked around in belated alarm as Rio caught up to Kimmer, long legs making up the distance.  Both of them, now—enough of a stand-off to give the thugboys pause.  To give even Romajn pause, clear enough on her face for Kimmer to see.

A stand-off that lasted only seconds.  Less.

Jurdan.

He didn't have the experience; he didn't have hardened nerve.  Hurt, lurching, armed with desperate intent, he came up from behind and didn't pause to assess the situation.

And that's when Kimmer discovered he had his own gun.

When, to her astonishment, he blew right into the stand-off, loosing a series of wild shots.  She cringed, drawing into herself; Rio crouched beside her.

But she never took her eyes off their enemies.  Nor did Paula Romajn look away from Kimmer.  This is between the two of us, clear on that face with its mean smile even as Jurdan and her thugboys exchanged fire.

Romajn hid behind one man; the other gave a sudden wet grunt and staggered, falling against the arcing suspension lines before slumping down.

And Jurdan sprawled forward, blood flowing freely over the glass bricks.  But Kimmer didn't dare look away from Romajn—and watching that mean face told her what she needed to know.

Romajn thought Jurdan was dead.

So did the people screaming in the background.

"And here we are," Romajn said, raising her voice over the rising breeze, over the spectator fuss.  "You do make my life more interesting than strictly necessary, Kimmer Reed."

"Could say the same about you," Kimmer said, not bothering with smart ass mode.  Chimera hunting.  "I could even say that we wouldn't be here, making your life interesting, if you hadn't made it happen."

"It seems I underestimated you."  Romajn could afford to feel complacent, mostly shielded by a thugboy who visibly grew more uneasy by the moment.  Antsy, unhappy with the yada yada yada, ready to shoot and run.  "But I heard the explosion, didn't you?  Even if Gandiaga survives, his political career won't.  Not once it's clear the Basque have aligned against him."

"The Basajaun speak for no one but themselves."  Kimmer held her aim steady—and knew, even if Romajn did not, that she could make this shot if she had to.  "And if Andiago lives, it's because the most respected euskaldun in Bilbao came to warn him.  Did warn him.  Or did you miss that little detail when you turned tail at the sight of us?"

"Us," Romajn mocked her.  "Didn't you learn your lesson?  Us makes you weak, not strong."

"Yawn."

But Romajn's eyes held a peculiar light, shifting toward Rio; a thrill of dread shook Kimmer.  She didn't look away from Romajn—not quite—but put Rio in her peripheral vision.

Not all of that spreading blood was Jurdan's.

She kept her voice low and even.  "Rio?"

"I'm here," he said.  "Damned ricochet, no worry.  But Kimmer—"

"I hear you," she said.  And she did.  She'd trusted him to tell her when he'd reached his limit, and he had.

"Back you up from here."

"That's good enough."

"I doubt it," Romajn said, as if it had been her conversation from the start.  "Because if you don't drop that gun, I'm not planning to shoot you, and neither is Ramont."  This seemed to come as a surprise to the thugboy, who put on his wary listening ears.  "We're going to shoot your darling partner.  Oh, but wait—you already did that, didn't you?"

Kimmer couldn't keep the surprise from her face.  "You?  You broke Rio's cover on the last op?"

"Indeed I did," Romajn murmured, full of smug.  "Laying the groundwork for just this.  Of course, if you hadn't survived, that would have been fine, too."

Kimmer spat out a succinct sizzle of a suggestion.  And then tried to squash the spark of fear in her chest when Rio shifted awkwardly against her.

"Very nice," Romajn said.  "He already doesn't look so good, but—" oh, the satisfaction in her voice “-he's going to look much, much worse."

Rio was, in fact, leaning into her—sinking, the blood loss a last straw for a body pushed to the edge.  But it didn't keep him from muttering, "Taunting.  That is such a bad idea."

And it didn't keep Kimmer from giving Romajn a feral kind of grin.  "Unless I what?  Let you go?  Drop the gun and trust you to walk away like you did last time?"

"You're the one who reads people so well.  You tell me what I'll do."

Didn't matter, really.  "Too bad," Kimmer said softly, "you can't tell what I'm thinking."

It was a blow with impact.  Romajn couldn't, and she knew it.  "Thirty seconds," she snapped.  "Thirty seconds to drop that gun.  You can't get us both before we kill him—and he's of no use to you now.  So drop it, and we walk away."

Back you up from here, Rio had said.  Romajn counted him out of the game and he must look it, half slumped against her, half against the handrail wire behind them.  But he'd said otherwise...

And yes, she trusted him.

Romajn had that look again.  The one that said she'd won, that Kimmer's hesitation had told her the wrong thing.

Because her partnership with Rio didn't make her weaker at all.  Didn't make her easy to manipulate.

"Five..." said Romajn.  "Four...three..."

Kimmer gave her that wolfish smile, freezing the count briefly at three.  Romajn took breath to start again.

Kimmer moved.

Strong enough to believe in Rio.

She dove forward, pushing right off her battered Rio, firing point blank at Ramont—hitting home and sliding across glass bricks on her side, waiting for the thugboy to fall out of her way...waiting...waiting—

Get my back, Rio—

Romajn found her gaze, locked onto it—spilling over with hate, spilling over with rage.  Fast enough to bring her gun around as her living shield staggered and held.

Fast enough to fire it, a punch in the gut so hard that Kimmer lost all her air, couldn't find more, couldn't bring her own gun back up, couldn't think, couldn't see, couldn't do anything but feel the massive regret of chances taken and chances lost—

Another gunshot—whose?—and the world fell down on her, hard enough to flatten her to nothingness and leave her that way.

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

CHAPTER 20

"What do you mean, she fell on me?"  Kimmer turned a bleary eye on Rio, cradled in his lap and her thoughts not yet coming together.

"I had your back," Rio said, a little too much amusement behind his patience.

Not to mention the relief.

"I shot her," he added, when she clearly didn't get it.  "As soon as old Ramont got out of the way.  By, you know.  Falling."  He held out an object; she couldn't make anything of it.  "You were already stunned, probably not breathing much.  The weight of her—"

"No," Kimmer said, decisive in this if nothing else, and ignoring the chaos around them.  Officialdom, descending upon them.  "I did not faint because a goonboss fell on me."

Apologetic now, he kissed her forehead and said, "You might have."  Then he showed her the object again.  "On the other hand, you only got slammed by that bullet instead of killed by it."

The object.  She squinted at it.  Was that—?

"You're kidding," she said, still not quite able to focus—but close enough.

Rio pressed the battered object into her hand.  "The Hunter super-operative phone," he said.  "It slices, it dices, it handles scrambled conversation and text messaging and global positioning.  Made to withstand radiation, laugh at signal drop-out, and perform complex calculations.  Made," he said, a smile on lips bruised from his treatment at the hands of the Basajaun, "to withstand everything but Kimmer Reed."

She turned the phone over in her hands, still fuzzy and dazed and barely paying attention to the police activity around them.  The Spanish paramedics, taking Jurdan away in critical condition; the cops marking brass and photographing bodies and blocking the footbridge from all casual traffic.  "The damned phone stopped her bullet?"  She dropped it, pulling up at Rio's purloined jacket, pulling her shirt up as well.  Just to the inside of one hip bone, above her short-rise jeans, the skin already bloomed with color.

But no blood.

And Rio sat beside her, his leg sticking out and bleeding only sluggishly, his arm cradled in his lap.  "You need to be seen," he said.  "Make sure there's no internal damage."

"But—"  She looked down at herself again, and over at the twisted, unmoving body of Paula Romajn.  Not quite done with that image of Romajn's gun, pointing her way...the look on Romajn's face.  Vengeance and death.  "I thought—"

"I told you," he said, and wiped a probably invisible smudge off her cheek, his hand lingering.  "I had your back."

She found some dignity, some edge to put in her voice.  "I knew that."

And while Rio laughed, not nice at all, an Ertzaintza cop walked up to them with a phone in his hand and a puzzled look on his face.  "Señorita," he said.  "I have been speaking to this man, Owen Hunter.  He says—"

"I'll take it," Kimmer said, and reached for the phone as she struggled upright.

"His phone?  Ohh, no."  Rio intercepted the phone on the fly, his longer reach making it effortless.  "I'll take it.  Just in case he'd like to have it back when we're done."

She would have hit him.  She should have.  But somehow she just ended up tucked beneath his shoulder while she listened to the one-sided conversation.  Listened, and found her gaze on Paula Romajn's blank stare.

Wrong, she told the dead woman.  You were totally, completely, utterly wrong.

After all, right now, she and Rio were the only things holding each other up.  And sometimes that was just the way it was supposed to be.

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

CHAPTER 21

U.S. soil greeted them with very little fanfare.  They hopped from JFK to Buffalo to the tiny Elmira-Corning airport in southwestern New York, blessedly close to home at the southwestern end of Seneca Lake.

Not so bad, then, Kimmer decided.  This traveling with a medicated partner.

"Are you sure," Rio said as they took their time traversing the short terminal, "that I agreed to ceramic gnomes?  Along the driveway?"

"Absolutely certain."  Kimmer kept her face straight.  Let him believe her.  If the gnomes actually appeared, she'd use them for target practice.

Rio made a disgruntled noise and lengthened his stride; Kimmer let a grin slip out.

Plenty enough to smile about.  She and Rio had left Spain with official blessings—Gandiaga safe, minor injuries in the crowd...Sein and another thugboy, dead.  They'd had an uneventful flight home, laden with little girl gifts.

Not that Spain wasn't decidedly unhappy they'd been there under false pretenses, leaving locals out of the loop.  Couldn't blame them for that.  But that was just as decidedly now Owen's cross to bear.

Before they left she'd seen Danele and Ginea, discovering them with little more than scrapes and bruises.  On the plus side, Ginea not only had a new respect for his granddaughter, he had a new role as a local advisor to the unharmed senator.

Now Rio limped swiftly down the terminal.  Fleeing the gnomes.

"I talked to Owen while you were sleeping," she told him, her most casual voice.  It nearly stopped him short; he slowed until she caught up, then kept her easy pace.  No hurrying for Kimmer—she was still stiff and bruised all the way through.

She told him, "The real Doña is happy to report that the Etxea is finally ensconced in the museum.  She's making quite the recovery now that Romajn isn't meddling with her.  And she's kept Jurdan on staff—his big mistake was letting Larraitz lead him around by his hormones, but he's learned better.  And Larraitz...is in jail, where she belongs.  Along with those two posers I met coming out of the driveway."

"Not so much the posers," Rio muttered.  "They took us down at the villa."

"They cheated," Kimmer said indignantly.

Rio gave her a sideways look as they exited the secure area.  A long one.  No longer thinking of posers and cheating, but going back to the most crucial thing on his mind.  "Gnomes?"

Kimmer burst into laughter.  "Maybe not."

"Uncle Rio!"

Unexpected, that voice, but no mistaking it.

"Uncle Rio!"  A welcoming committee.  Wound up and charging forth for a small person interception.

The girls?  What?

Sandy ran up on her sister's heels, and to Kimmer's surprise, Caro wasn't too far behind—smiling at the girls' antics, waving at Kimmer and Rio and their surprise.

"Uncle Rio!" Karlene cried again, and it sounded more like a challenge this time, barely a pause in it as Kimmer met her with a lift and a little toss, finishing with a big hug before letting her slide down to the carpet again.  "Did you really get shot?  I want to see!"

That garnered some attention, reunions stopping short all around them.  Rio cleared his throat and said, "Hey, kiddo. Later, huh?  Because, you know...no undressing out here on the concourse."

"What's a concourse?" Karlene demanded, and Kimmer left Rio to it so she could open her arms to Sandy.  The girl was too big to hoist and toss—but not too big for a good swing before her hug.  Arm around the girl's shoulder, she glanced at Rio—broken arm and all, he'd pulled Karlene up to sit on his shoulders, towering fearlessly over the world.  Good enough.

She guided Sandy out of the way from the people piling up behind them, and met Carolyne.

No big hugs there; Caro had long respected Kimmer's reserved nature, and understood that the girls were an exception.  But Rio leaned over to give his cousin a kiss, swinging Karlene down from his shoulders.  "This is a nice surprise," he said, and there was a question in it; the girls were six hours from home.  So was Caro, for that matter, if from the opposite direction—and their visit had ended a week earlier.

"Oh, it's sort of an experiment," Caro said, and she was far too casual about it to pass muster.

Kimmer put it together, right then and there, much faster than Caro had likely intended.  "You," she said.  "You're—"

Thinking about fostering them.  Permanently.

But Caro's eyes widened as she looked at the girls, and Kimmer shut herself up.  They didn't know yet.

Of course they didn't know.

But here was Caro, trying to find her way, yearning for family, and here were two girls in need.  Two girls who were almost family already.

Except as far as Caro knew, Kimmer herself planned to take the mommy role.

"Sex," Karlene said suddenly, just as loudly as ever.  "It's about sex.  It always is, when they stop talking all of a sudden.  Or else it's bad things happening."

"Karlene," Kimmer said, hunting an edge of stern.  "I've always been straight with you about the bad things."

Karlene nodded solemnly.  "Must be sex, then."

"Let's get soft pretzels," Kimmer said brightly, pointing to the closest store front.

Karlene squealed in happy assent and ran off to get in line, while Sandy lingered, her hand quietly curled around Kimmer's.  "Is it sex?" she asked.

Kimmer gave Caro a rueful look.  "And that," she said pointedly, "is why I'm better off as an aunt."

Caro didn't miss the unspoken message.  She was, after all, a genius.  Her eyes widened; she looked at Rio.

"Aunt," he said, putting an arm around Kimmer in a gesture that felt amazingly intimate in this public place.  "Uncle."

Caro faltered...all over her face, it was—especially for Kimmer.  I don't dare believe.  "You mean, I can—?"

Kimmer lifted a shoulder, pretending not to notice Caro's reddening eyes, her little hiccough of emotion.  She left it to Rio to sling an arm around his cousin, giving her a supportive squeeze.

And that, too, was why.  Kimmer was what her life had made her, no matter how much self-awareness she had in the aftermath.  Figuring out what it meant to be partner—in every way—still needed some time.

Maybe one day she'd get past that.  Looking at Rio—at the way his gaze fell on the girls and softened—she thought...

Yeah.  Maybe.  But not now.

Karlene bounced up and down in the pretzel line, waving them over, and Sandy—waiting for Caro's nod of permission—headed over to join her.  It gave Kimmer the chance to say rather fiercely, "We want visits.  Lots of them."

Caro drew a sharp breath.  "Single mother," she said.  "They might not—"

"Bureaucratic blah-blah-blah," Kimmer said, dismissing it.  Besides, Hunter owed them one or two right now...and Hunter was not without influence.

"Family," Rio reminded her.  "We'll work it."  He laid a big hand on top of her head and messed her hair.  With one last glance at the girls, he said, his voice low but true, "It's better this way."

"I don't understand."  Caro shook her head, but the shine in her eye had taken on a purpose—already planning, those genius thoughts spinning.  "Because of work?"

Kimmer didn't quite say it.  Because of me.  Because of us.  Rio knew it.  Caro, shell-shocked and beginning to believe, didn't need to think about it.

Genius or not, she didn't quite catch the undercurrent.  "It's just...I was sure, after all that happened this trip..."  She indicated Rio's leg, his arm, and shook her head again.

Heaven forbid she should see the incredible mutating monstrosity of Kimmer's bruised abdomen.

"You thought we'd quit?"  Rio shook his head, and when he looked over at Kimmer, his grin had returned.  Possessive, confident...totally Rio.

Totally hers.

She grinned back at him.  Tall, strong...strikingly battered on that striking face, Danish bones and Japanese angles.

"Not a chance," he said, pretty much making the rest of the world disappear.  No Caro, no girls, no bustling airport.

Kimmer gave Caro the merest glance, a grin, before leaning into Rio.  "We're playing by our rules, now."

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

Other Works by Doranna Durgin

http://doranna.net

FANTASY

Changespell Saga:

Dun Lady's Jess (Winner, Compton Crook Award)

Changespell

Changespell Legacy

Barrenlands (prequel)

King's Wolf Saga

Touched by Magic

Wolf Justice

Stand-Alone Fantasies

Wolverine's Daughter

Seer's Blood

A Feral Darkness

ROMANCE

Action Romance

Shaken and Stirred (Femme Fatale Novella)

Chameleon (Smokescreen Novella)

Exception to the Rules

Beyond the Rules
Making the Rules (author e-published only)

Heavy Metal Honey

Survival Instinct

Hidden Steel

Checkmate: Athena Force

Comeback  Athena Force 2

Paranormal

Sentinels: Jaguar Night

Sentinels: Lion Heart

Sentinels:  Wolf Hunt

Demon Blade

The Reckoners Series:

The Reckoners

Storm of Reckoning

MYSTERY

Nose for Trouble

Scent of Danger

FRANCHISE BOOKS

Star Trek: Next Generation

Tooth and Claw, #60

Earth: Final Conflict

Heritage

Angel

Impressions

Fearless

Mage Knight

Dark Debts

Ghost Whisperer

Revenge

Ghost Trap

SHORT STORIES

Harvest of Souls

Fool's Gold

A Bitch in Time

The Right Bitch

Bitch Bewitched

Mornglom Dreaming

Bummed out

The Yoke of the Soul

Feef's House

Hair of the Dog

Call from the Wild

Just Hanah

Emerging Legacy

The Scoria

Bitch Bewitched

Fountane Of