One Wrong Move

by Shannon McKenna

  “Not me,” she said. “I never have any luck with—”

  “Shut up and hail the fucking cab.” He jerked her arm up high.

  “You don’t understand! They don’t stop for me, either!” she yelled.

  He gave her a disbelieving stare. “Why not? You’re a woman, you’re young, good-looking, not slutty or sloppy or punked out, you’re not wearing leather, your hair’s not green. What’s not to stop for?”

  “You’ll see,” she muttered grimly.

  She stared into the street, arm up, lips flattened to an angry line, and maybe it was her pissed-off vibe, but a river of empty cabs with their numbers lit flowed by. Aaro studied the drivers, perplexed. They didn’t even flick their gaze over to check out a possible fare and then dismiss her, like they did to him. They didn’t seem to see her at all.

  Fuck it. The cars had slowed for the red, so he chose an idling cab at random and jerked open the door without a visual invitation from the driver. He bundled Nina inside, shoved in his duffel, and climbed in.

  “Hey! Wait! I am not in service!” The turbaned Sikh driver swiveled, his eyes alarmed. “I was on my break! You cannot get in here!”

  “Your light was on,” Aaro said calmly.

  “But I—”

  “Take us to the car rental on Wilburn,” Aaro said, cutting off his protests, and suddenly was conscious of the trickle of hot blood rolling down his temple. He looked fresh out of mortal combat.

  He gave the guy a smile that spoke of a long, painful death.

  The cabbie whipped his head around and laid on the gas.

  Aaro peered out the window, trying to define the thought that hadn’t had a chance to form yet, with all the chaos and noise.

  “I saw your face, right before that Audi pulled up,” he said. “I saw the car turn the corner exactly when you did, but your face changed before the window rolled down. You knew that car, Nina?”

  He tried to keep from sounding accusatory, without much success. Nina still looked affronted. “No! I have never seen that car!”

  “Then why the look?” he pressed. “What gave you the jump on them? Out with it, Nina. If I’m going help you, you have to tell me everything. Every last nasty, secret detail. Every sore and every score.”

  Her throat bobbed. “My personal life is boring and quiet. I do not have nasty, secret, private details to titillate you with. No sores, no scores.” She spat the words at him. “And I did try to tell you everything. I tried this morning, when I sent you that file, remember? We’d both know a hell of a lot more if you’d condescended to help me earlier!”

  “Don’t scold me,” he ground out. “Just tell me how you knew who was in that car.”

  Her eyes flicked away. “Um. Well,” she murmured. “It’s just that, ah, Shira told me about this guy, Sergei. He came to the shelter to ask about Helga Kasyanov, and me. And, um, she saw his black Audi.”

  She was lying. Like a rug. Her lie buzzed against his nerves. It bugged the living shit out of him. “Who the fuck are Shira and Sergei?”

  “No need to snarl,” she said. “Shira works with me at the New Dawn administration office. Sergei is the dark guy with the ponytail, the one who was at my house. The one shooting at us, outside the office.”

  His jaw gaped. “What the fuck? You mean, you know this guy?”

  “No!” she wailed. “No, of course I don’t know him! I only heard about him from Shira! He came looking for me after I got needle stuck, and said he was Helga’s brother! I got a call from Shira after I left the hospital, and—”

  “Yeah, that was another question,” he broke in. “Why did you leave the hospital? What the hell were you thinking?”

  Her gaze flicked away again, and she waited a little too long to answer. “The doctor said she couldn’t justify admitting me,” she said. “I seemed fine. So I left.”

  Another lie. He stared at her, through slitted eyes, and decided to wait and see where she was going with it. As soon as he found the hole in her story, he’d stick his hand in it and unravel the whole fucking thing. “Fine. They told you to go. Where did you go?”

  “I went to Yuri’s house in Alphabet City, to see if he—”

  “Who’s Yuri?”

  “If you’d stop interrupting, maybe I could get through a complete sentence! Yuri Marchuk is the guy who was driving Helga this morning. He dumped us both off at the hospital and beat hell out of there, but Connor McCloud got someone to run his license plate number, so I had his name and address. So after you so courteously blew me off this morning, I left the hospital, and took the subway, to the East Village.”

  He stared at her, waiting for it.

  She exhaled sharply, and dug into her purse, rummaging until she came up with a travel pack of wet-wipe napkins. She fished one out, handed it to him. “For your face,” she said, gesturing with distaste at the bleeding slice on his temple. “All that blood.

  It’s distracting me.”

  Distracting her? He stared at the moist towelette, his nose wrinkling at its powdery perfume. He’d stink like a baby’s ass.

  Hell with it. He wiped the blood off his face with it, as best he could. The chemicals that dampened it made his cuts sting.

  What a woman. She’d escaped a violent death twice in twenty minutes, and still had her wet wipes at the ready. He crumpled the bloody rag in his fist. “So? You tracked Yuri down. And then?”

  “I went to his address. But when I got there . . .” She sucked 82

  in her lip, pressing down so the pillowy pink softness became a pale, sexless line. “It had yellow crime scene tape strung around it. An ambulance. Police everywhere.”

  His dread intensified. “What happened in there?”

  “He’d been murdered.” Her voice was small. “Tortured to death. A neighbor girl told me. I—I saw his daughter come out of there. Marya. She was soaked with blood.”

  He closed his eyes, dismayed. So bad. Worse than he’d imagined.

  Nina forged on. “I was coming home, and Shira called me. She said this guy came by who said he was Helga’s brother. I know Helga personally, and I know that she never had a brother, but Shira didn’t know that. Shira’s description of this guy matched the guy who shot up my closet. Tall, dark, ponytail, acne scars.

  And, um, a black Audi. I didn’t put it together until the car window came down.”

  It exploded out of him. “The fake brother, the murdered cab driver? Jesus, Nina! You didn’t think to mention those little details to me before we get mowed down by a hit squad?”

  “And when might I have done that? When have we had time for a chat? Between hails of bullets and the high-speed car chases? I am doing my best, Aaro! Don’t you dare get in my face!”

  He swallowed it back. No point driving her into a frenzy. This was a true McCloud-style clusterfuck. And he was in it up to his neck.

  “I didn’t put it together until I saw the car and remembered Shira . . . oh God! Shira!” Her eyes went huge. “I am such a self-absorbed idiot!” She dug in her purse, the big pocket of her skirt.

  “Oh, shit! ” She turned blazing eyes on him. “I lost my phone!

  Give me your phone!”

  He snapped into defensive mode. “What do you want it for?”

  “Shira! That guy who shot up my closet, he knew her name, and where she lives! He taunted me with it! Give me your fucking phone! ”

  He hissed silent obscenities through his teeth. He did not want his number on any register that connected him with this, but Nina was going to totally lose her shit if he didn’t oblige her.

  He gave into the inevitable, and handed her his phone. The account was registered to another name, but those identities were expensive to build.

  Nina punched in a number and hunched over it, waiting.

  “Shira?” she said, voice wobbling. “It’s me . . . yes, I know. Shira, you have got to hide somewhere. You’re in danger, and I . . . I know. I was the one they were shooting at . . . of course I’m fine!

  Wo
uld I be calling if I weren’t? The guys know where you live, Shira. You need to go into hiding . . . no, not me! I’m fine! This guy saved me. Shira, you have to . . .” A loud burst of words from the phone, and her gaze slid over him, uncertain. “He’s . . . well, I just met him, and there was a lot going on. He’s a friend of a friend.” Another burst, shrill and tinny. Aaro’s fingers curled into fists as he waited for Nina’s response.

  “I’m in a cab,” Nina recounted. “We got away, and we . . . no, I don’t know where. It’s complicated . . . no, I can’t tell you his name at the moment. But I’m fine. He saved me, Shira. Really.

  I’m not being constrained, or anything, believe me. I’m fine.”

  Oh, for fuck’s sake. He grabbed the phone from her. “Shira?”

  “Who the hell are you?” The woman’s voice was shrill.

  “I’m helping Nina go into hiding. You should hide, too. They know your name, where you live. Get out of town. Go someplace random.”

  “Look here, mister. You tell me who you are this minute,”

  Shira ordered. “I’ve got your number, and I’m giving it to the cops!”

  “If you care about your friend, you won’t do that.” He broke the connection, turned off the phone. He pried it open, pulled a new SIM card out of his wallet, and changed it out. Ka-ching. He started mentally totalling up how much this fiasco had cost him financially. How much worse it was liable to get before he could extricate himself. Ouch.

  “What, are you a new person now?” she asked. “Just like that?”

  He braced himself for more attitude. “Pretty much.”

  She harrumphed. “Well. In any case. Thank you. Just so it gets said, before I start screaming at you again.”

  He was startled. “Huh?”

  “I’m just saying it now,” she repeated. “You seem to bring out the worst in me, Aaro. But I appreciate being alive. So, uh . . .

  thanks.”

  His face was trying to grin again. He put a stop to it. He had no business encouraging her. That just led to misunderstandings.

  “Don’t thank me,” he said brusquely. “I’m doing this for Bruno.

  I owe him—”

  “Yes, you told me. This big favor you owe him. I totally get that.”

  “Don’t thank me. It’s nothing personal. I’ll hook you up with your bodyguard detail, and disappear. And you can forget I ever existed.”

  She gave him that are-you-for-real stare. “Your rudeness goes above and beyond the call of duty, Aaro. A normal person would have to make a huge, deliberate effort to be as needlessly rude as you are.”

  “Guess I’m not normal,” he said. “I’m not even breaking a sweat.”

  “You just can’t stand it when I try to be nice to you?”

  “Don’t try,” he told her. “It’s a waste of energy.”

  “That’s excellent advice,” she said, tight-lipped.

  “I’m just a font of good advice today,” he said. “That one’s right up there with my other big winners. Like, ‘Get your head down before it gets blown off.’ And ‘Put your clothes on.’ ”

  Nina blushed. “Asshole,” she muttered.

  Ah. That was more like it. He relaxed a little. On familiar ground.

  She fumed silently for a few minutes before her next swipe at him. “So besides routinely pissing me off, do you have a plan?”

  “Not really,” he said. “More like a grocery list. New vehicle.

  Phone call to Bruno, to set up a rendezvous point. Someplace to hear that file. Hotel room.” His eyes flicked over her. “And a new look for you.”

  That put her right back on edge. “What’s wrong with my look?”

  “They’ve seen you,” he said. “They got a good, long look.

  Tent frock, bad glasses, long hair.” He lifted his hands when she glared. “Don’t get huffy. This is about you not getting dead.

  Nothing personal.”

  “Shut up,” she snapped. “Or do you think that your bad attitude will create a magic shield that bullets can’t penetrate?”

  He thought of it wistfully. “Wouldn’t that be convenient.”

  “So people shoot at you a lot, then?”

  “More often than I’d like,” he admitted.

  “Have you considered trying behavioral modification to address that problem?” she asked, a little too sweetly.

  He shrugged. “It’s more time effective to just shoot back.”

  Chapter 8

  Nina kept her hot face turned away. He was goading her.

  Shame on her for getting sucked into it. She didn’t recognize the person who currently possessed her body. Scolding, screaming rants; what was up with that? Was she infected with a super-contagious rudeness virus?

  She went to insane lengths to avoid confrontations. Violence, physical or verbal, shortened her breath and messed with her di-gestion. Sometimes she had to turn off the TV or walk out of movies if the screen characters were fighting. It was classic Stan fallout, of course, so she should be able to deal with it, right? But alas, it was never that easy. Just one damn mountain to climb after another. A girl got tired.

  Unfortunately, all of life’s endeavors that were worth the effort required the basic guts to face down opposition. Especially if one was advocating for victims of violence and abuse. No matter what one did, there would always be someone pissed off at her for doing it, or who thought that it had been done wrong, or whatever. It was a natural law, like thermodynamics. If you did anything beyond eating your breakfast cereal, you were sure to catch some shit for it. It all boiled down to getting a frigging spine. She tried, every day. With limited success, but hey, the effect of constant water on a stone, right?

  Look at her now. Mobsters started shooting at her, and she morphed into a screaming virago, haranguing a tough guy twice her size who was carrying four—no, was it five guns, now?

  Was it Helga’s drug? The thought chilled her.

  She thought, suddenly, of that awful subway ride through New York, other peoples’ thoughts and feelings tromping through her head. It had been so terrifying at the time, but the concept of terrifying was a lot more relative than she had ever imagined.

  Getting shot up by mobsters put other scary things into perspec-tive very quickly.

  So did hanging out with Aaro. He made her feel, well . . . elec-trified would be the most delicate way of putting it. Her hair was practically on end. She felt bad for lying to him. Or, well, not exactly lying. She’d just withheld a few details. Zombie ghouls, mind reading. She just wasn’t ready to watch that smolder of awareness go chilly and distant, then turn to distaste. Counting the minutes ’til he could get rid of the crazy girl. Pass her off to the guys in the white coats. Talk about a turnoff.

  Did that mean that she was considering turning him on?

  That fleeting thought knocked a door open in her head, and the blistering fantasy she’d had outside the closet door came roaring back.

  Did he want her, too? It occurred to her that she should know.

  Why hadn’t Aaro’s thoughts invaded her brain, like everybody else’s?

  She tried to drop the gray, fuzzy shield that had already become automatic. It was hard to let it down. She felt naked without it. She waited, for his thoughts to flow in and illuminate her.

  Nothing. Absolutely zippo. She tried again. Harder.

  “What?” he said, his voice testy. “What’s with the look?”

  She couldn’t think of a lie fast enough, so the truth flopped right out of her. “I was trying to read your mind.”

  The glance he gave her from under his hooded eyes made her notice how insanely long his eyelashes were. “What did you read?”

  “Absolutely nothing,” she said.

  “You don’t need to read my mind to know what I’m thinking.

  There are other indicators.” He paused. “Big ones.”

  She stared fixedly as the apartment buildings, storefronts, and schools crawled by. Bastard. Messing with her head. Heat and
sweat, rising in her body. She must look like a tomato. And now they were mired in a snarl of rush-hour traffic. No end in sight.

  “We’re going to be here for hours,” she muttered.

  “Get down.” He gripped her leg below the knee, pulling it so that her bottom slid forward over the slippery leather seat. His touch set off tingling sparkles over her skin, through layers of rayon and linen.

  “Stop that.” She batted his hand away.

  Aaro slid down to join her, but the position forced him to fold one leg up against the back of the driver’s seat, and angle the other one sideways, in her direction. His knee gently prodded hers. Contact, again. More tingles, more ripples. “I said, stop it,”

  she snapped.

  “Can’t help it,” he murmured. “I’m just. . . . really long.”

  “Would you cool it with the penis references, Aaro?” she snapped.

  “You said it, not me.” He looked away, but she could tell from the eye crinkles over his cheekbone that he was grinning.

  Heat rose into her face. His slow-spreading grin maddened her. “What?” she almost yelled. “What’s the smirk about?”

  “Don’t freak out,” he said. “It’s normal. What you’re feeling.”

  “What do you know about my feelings?”

  He gave her an offhand shrug. “Happens to me, too,” he said.

  “It’s normal. Post-combat stress reaction. Don’t sweat it.”

  Oh, for God’s sake, was he suggesting . . . Her eyes flicked down to peek at his muscular thigh, to see if he—

  Yes. He was. And she’d fallen right into his trap. He was laughing, under his breath, a deep, quiet rumble. Smug, self-satisfied bastard.

  “Mind in the gutter? Don’t be embarrassed. You’re not alone.”

  She squeezed her eyes shut, but it was impossible to block him out. He was overwhelming in the small space. Feelings pulsed through her, breath-stealing, heavy. The pull, the hot yearning. What the hell?

  “You’re dreaming,” she whispered, swallowing hard.

  “Yeah,” he agreed. “I still smell your hair. My hands remember everything. The curve of your back. The feel of your skin.

  Your hair, over my arm. You know those dimples over your tailbone?”