Hidden Steel

by Doranna Durgin

“And nothing to lose from being at that warehouse this evening. Because you know what? I looked at that firing schedule yesterday. Her stuff’s not on it.”

  “And her piece … isn’t ready.” Mickey pressed the heels of her hands against her eyes, a wave of self-recrimination battering up against her. “I’m such an idiot. I should be the one figuring out these details.”

  “You’ve got a lot on your mind,” Steve said. And then, when she lifted her hands to give him a silent oh, please, he added, all innocence, “Or a lot off your mind, whichever way you want to look at it. The point is … I think she’ll be there tonight. So no, you can’t borrow the bike. I think you should be there tonight too.”

  “And if she doesn’t show?” If she’s dead, if she can’t get away, if that’s not what she meant in the first place—

  “Then tomorrow, you can borrow the bike.”

  * * * * *

  “It’s a Glock 36,” Mickey said, holding the gun on display in one hand. It sat there comfortably. Too comfortably. And she knew …

  She knew far too much about it.

  “The magazine holds six rounds; there’s one in the chamber. Only thing you have to do to fire it is pull the trigger—it’s got a heavy pull, though. It’ll take you by surprise the first couple of times.”

  “I hope it always takes me by surprise,” Steve muttered. He sat beside her on her air mattress, both of them cross-legged. The spoils from Mickey’s shopping excursions were spread out before them—ropes and carabineers and harnesses, a new knife or two, a handful of broad-head hunting arrows. He was to stay out of sight, she’d told him—he was her secret weapon—and thanks to the silence of the bow, he could do some damage before they located him. But once that happened, he’d need to know how to use the gun.

  “This is the magazine catch, in case you need to reload. We’ve got a couple of extras now. This model sometimes doesn’t quite let go of the magazine, so don’t expect it to come shooting out like in the movies.”

  “Right,” he said, and his voice still very much indicated his disbelief that he was even having this conversation. But when she checked his expression, she found his eyes deep and dark and loaded with determination. She reminded herself …this was a man who taught self-defense for a living. Who knew his body; knew his capabilities. Who could pose for a sculptor any day, beautifully formed and proportioned and muscled.

  It was his heart she worried about.

  She quit biting her lip and cleared her throat. “Here’s the thing—it’s a lightweight gun, and it’s shooting .45 ammo. That means lots of recoil. Don’t go for the blamblamblam style of shooting—your gun’s just going to kick higher and higher. Aim a little lower than you think you should.” She chewed on her lower lip a moment, wondering if she’d told him enough—wondering if she’d remembered everything.

  Didn’t really matter. She’d told him what she could. “Here,” she said. “This one’s yours.”

  He took it. He turned it over in his hands and said, “You know I’m not going to hit anything, no matter how much advice you give me.”

  Probably not. And probably just as well that way. She said, “It’ll be covering fire.” And then she said, “You’re sure—”

  He held up one hand. “Mickey. Do you really think I’m going to just walk away?”

  She opened her mouth for a flippant response, and decided he deserved better. Looked at him, then—looked closely. Late afternoon light barely lit the third floor of the warehouse, hindered by the dirt-filmed windows, but it was enough to see that his dark brows and impossible lashes framed eyes that couldn’t have been more sincere. Totally aware of what he’d done, of how his life was changing with each passing moment. He couldn’t go back to the gym right now even if he wanted to … but she didn’t think he’d go even if he could.

  He met her scrutiny unfazed. “It’s not just about you anymore, Mickey. And even if it was—if it always had been—this is one I want to see to the end. This is one where the people I care about—where the person I care about—is going to win, dammit.”

  She wasn’t so sure the odds supported such determination. But she understood. He’d lost too much to look at it any other way. Anthony and now maybe Mosquito, the satisfying world he’d created for himself … and quite possibly everything he’d ever thought he was. Or hoped he’d be.

  All because she’d lost herself more thoroughly than he’d ever imagined before she’d stumbled into his gym.

  So maybe she owed him the chance to help make this a win.

  Without planning it, she said, “Every morning I wake up not knowing. Have you ever done that? You wake up and you have no idea where you are, what day it is, how you got there … and then you grasp at glimmers of remembering, until suddenly there you are in your own home, in your own bed, and it’s Tuesday, and you’ve got coffee on a timer in your own kitchen and things you plan to do that day.” She added a box of ammo to the semi-automatic she’d just given him, as matter-of-factly as though they did this every day. “But that never happens to me. I never wake up all the way. I fake it through each day, wondering when I’ll know how I got here in the first place.”

  “Antiques,” Steve said, and winced, looking as though he hadn’t truly intended to say anything at all. But he’d said it with such certainty—

  “You found me?” And then, “You found me and you didn’t tell me?”

  “You said—”

  She’d said she didn’t want to know. That it would muddle her thinking, confusing two different issues. That if it didn’t trigger the right memories, it would only get in the way of thinking through the situation—of figuring out how to find Naia and keep her safe. So she shook her head, sharply. “I know. I said I didn’t—” But she couldn’t finish the thought, too overrun by new ones. “You know more than my name? You know who I am? What I do? At least, what the world thinks …” She stopped again, trying to order her thoughts. Fat chance of that. “Antiques?”

  He nodded, watching her with wary caution. She couldn’t blame him … she’d already shown that mixing past and present could trigger brittle reactions. He added, “High end antiques, from what I can tell. Exclusive. Commissions. Finder’s fees and treasure hunts.”

  She’d been right. The table, the vase, the candlesticks—even the cat. She’d been right. She’d found that little piece of herself, by herself.

  “Hey, hey,” Steve said. “You’re not—you are—”

  Crying. She was crying. “Happy!” she choked, and offered him a watery smile. And she meant it. As much as the emotion had ambushed her, she meant it. Because maybe one of these days …

  She’d wake up not knowing, and she’d grasp at glimmers of remembering … and she’d find them.

  * * * * *

  Steve must have understood, for he put his arm around her shoulders and drew her in, and there in the midst of weapons and gear and hopes and escape plans, they sat together in silence. They listened to the noises below—the scraping of chairs and increased conversation and laughter, drifting up the stairwell to tell them the late afternoon class had ended. Shifting them closer to the evening, when they hoped for Naia to appear. They waited for the noise of the class exodus to fade away, and then in tacit accord, shifted away from one another.

  The air felt cool on Mickey’s side and shoulder where she’d been so comfortable against him; reality felt cold against her bones. She said, “Let’s talk about rappelling.”

  ~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

  Chapter 19

  Naia thought she might be ill. She sat at her desk, dressed as though she’d actually gone to classes, the room tidy and clean around her, ostensibly typing notes for her art history architectural comparisons paper. And quite, quite sure she was going to be sick. Hasbun Allah wa ni’am al-wakil. Words of solace, and she clung to them.

  It’s going to happen, Anna had told her when she asked about being in a tight situation. But you have the power to turn it into nothing. To keep it unrealized.

  Out
in the small living room, the television muttered, set to the sports station Fadil Hisami liked to watch. Badra worked her embroidery, patiently fulfilling her duties as she thought Naia’s father would desire.

  Except Naia’s father would never imprison her like this. He might well choose to confine her to the apartment—for her own safety, to prevent misunderstandings, even in censure. But not without speaking to her about it. Not without making sure she understood why.

  No, this wasn’t coming from her father at all. It wasn’t something he’d want, no matter what Fadil Hisami said. And that meant he probably knew nothing of this situation.

  Fadil still limped. Once she’d seen blood staining his trousers. It gave her a grim satisfaction she hadn’t known she could feel at someone else’s misfortune. But now … now it meant he wouldn’t be as fast as normal. It meant she might be faster.

  And it meant she had reason to be faster.

  Her stomach turned.

  Fear is good; we should listen to what it tells us, and then use it—but not be used by it. So put that part of yourself away. Close it into a little bubble of elsewhere.

  Naia imagined a bubble of elsewhere. She imagined her fear floating off in that bubble. She pictured it clearly, floating off into the dark recesses of her inner self. She returned to her work and hit print, and as soon as the page was done, fed it back for the second side. When it was done she folded it into a tiny rectangle, and while she folded it, she electronically shredded the file. No getting that one back.

  Hisami’s cell phone burbled; Naia started. Fear flooded her—animal fear, heart-pounding, gut-churning—

  For the care with which she was being treated would last only so long as it was expedient. And once she made this move, she would no longer be expedient at all. She would kick the situation into a crisis for those behind it.

  And those behind it had a lot to lose.

  She clapped her hand over her mouth, willing her stomach to stop heaving even as she pushed away from the desk and turned toward the hall.

  “Naia?” Badra called to her. “Is everything well?”

  Had she gasped? Made a sound of distress? She didn’t even know. She swallowed—or tried to. A second time she succeeded. She pretended she was Anna. Anna, who knew what she was doing, and who had somehow disappeared from Naia’s world … until that email. She knew—she knew—the email had something to do with Anna. She had to believe it, if she was going to make this move. “Everything’s fine,” she called. “I’m just finishing up on these notes.” Notes that weren’t about art history at all, but which detailed the conversation she’d overheard in Irhaddan. Not so very long ago, and yet …

  Lifetimes.

  But even if she didn’t find Anna this evening, she’d leave the notes in the dead drop. She should have done it earlier, but she’d been arrogant enough to think she could continue to bluff her way past Hisami’s people until she’d gotten advice from Anna.

  No longer.

  She made herself get up from the chair to stand in the doorway where Badra could see her. She wasn’t Naia at all … she was Anna’s courage, Anna’s confidence. “I’m just finishing up on these notes. I’d like to take a shower and have some dinner. You don’t think there would be a problem with ordering Chinese food, do you? There’s a place not far from here run by a nice family …”

  Badra looked to Hisami, who looked away from the television long enough to give her his standard disapproval. “Order something appropriate,” he commanded her, reminding her of her faith’s dietary restrictions. As if she needed him to tell her how to make such choices. Annoyance reinforced her faltering resolve.

  “Of course,” she told him, as respectful as she’d ever been. She put Anna’s courage into her legs and moved briskly for the bedroom, where she pulled out a casual long-sleeved lilac shirt and the matching wide-legged fleece pants. An evening lounge set, and one Badra had often seen her wear when she was in for the night. She spoke briefly to Badra with the clothing in her arms, and then she headed for the bathroom, where she closed and locked the door.

  She rustled the shower curtain, turning the water on full. And then, under the cover of the flushing toilet, she pulled the screen from the window and poked her head out.

  The fire escape from the bedroom wasn’t so very far away.

  Or so she tried to tell herself.

  * * * * *

  “That didn’t take long.” Mickey climbed over the lip of the third floor, out the elevator shaft and the doors they’d jammed open. She dumped the colorful mountain climbing rope in a coil at her feet and unclipped it from the carabineer at the front of the Swiss seat she wore.

  Elevator shaft. Perfect clandestine location for teaching someone how to rappel. And when Steve climbed out of the shaft behind her, his grin spread across a dirt-smudged face. Before she knew it, he’d wrapped his arms around her waist and hoisted her up, swinging her around once before letting her slide down his body—oh, my, yes—and stopping her when her toes barely touched the floor. “What—” she started to say, but he silenced her with a quick, hard kiss. When she could speak again, she laughed. “Had fun, did you?”

  “If it’s legal to have fun when I’m practicing to escape the ultimate international thugs …” He grinned. “Yeah, I had fun. And I will always let you climb out ahead of me. The view is amazing.”

  She gave him the slightest shove in an insincere suggestion to behave himself, but made no real attempt to pull away. “You did great. I don’t want to use our little escape route, but we’re in good shape in case we get trapped up here.” They’d also pried the second floor doors open enough to provide a crack of light; the elevator was stuck just below, and Mickey could just barely stand on the top of the car and see over the shelves that had been placed in front of the doors from the other side. Observation post Number One—except she wouldn’t use the rope this evening—she’d simply climb the wooden rungs snugged up against the side of the shaft for maintenance purposes.

  But before then, she needed to rig the ropes off the tower roof—one floor up on a spiral staircase that led past the tower-only fourth floor, a tiny area that seemed to be there for the sole purpose of providing sheltered access to the elevator machinery.

  She hoped Naia wasn’t afraid of heights.

  She stopped next to the air mattresses, rifling their stash of food for protein bars and a toaster pastry—she’d always preferred them cold, anyway.

  “Hey,” she said out loud. She held the toaster pastry out so Steve could behold its significance. “Check it out. I like them cold.”

  “That’s nice,” he offered, expression crooked with doubt.

  She laughed. “I mean, I know I like them cold. See? Haven’t taken a bite yet.”

  “Ah.” He nodded sagely. “The mysteries of you, revealed.”

  “Exactly.” She took a big bite, and found the lukewarm bottled water sitting crookedly on her mattress. “Leave that harness on. I know it’s a Village People kind of fashion statement, but if we’ve got to run for it, we’ll have enough trouble getting Naia harnessed up and ready to go.”

  He looked down at himself. “Village People. That about sums it up. You gonna break into song any time soon?”

  “You never know,” she told him primly, and jammed the power bar into her back pocket to eat along the way, grabbing the fingerless climbing gloves she’d dropped on the mattress. “I’m gonna get this stuff set up. Keep an eye on the stairs, will you? She said evening … it’s a little early, but I don’t want to chance missing her.”

  He stopped with a power bar halfway to his mouth, face still smudged. “And if she shows?”

  Maybe she’d tell him about that smudge; maybe she’d just enjoy the touch of ruffian it added to his unruly hair. “Don’t approach unless it looks like she’s leaving. But I shouldn’t be that long.” Just long enough to secure the ropes. Please, let there be some nice convenient projections. Pipes, metal framing … I’ll take anything.

  “O
kay.” He shrugged, visibly deciding he could deal with Naia, and headed for the stairwell. The bounce, Mickey was glad to see, was back in his step. For the moment, he had put the afternoon—the killing—behind them. Like Mickey, focusing more on the future than the past.

  She waited until she’d turned away before she let her smile fade. Steve, ever the hopeful … ever looking for that happy ending. In spite of her precautions and escape plans, it probably hadn’t truly sunk in that the evening could hold just as much violence as the afternoon. That she was preparing for more than just a sly departure.

  For if Naia made it here, she wasn’t likely to come alone.

  * * * * *

  Good thing I’m not afraid of heights. Mickey crouched on the steeply slanted tower roof, the ropes coiled neatly at her feet, the cluster of warehouses spread out before her. None of them had the character of this one; none of them rose as tall. This had been one of the first, and had gone on to a new purpose while the others still greeted big trucks and boldly colored delivery vehicles. The constant rumble of diesel engines had faded as evening came on; now she looked out over a quiet neighborhood.

  The other direction held the Caltrain station, barely visible. Next to it, the park to which Steve had almost taken her. It looked like a nice place. Some other time. And down the block, nearly hidden by carefully tended urban trees, the bus stop she’d been using.

  Not a bad view. And it came with a peaceful sense of distance from it all. “Bet I used to climb trees, too,” Mickey told the air around her. Bet I used to climb trees with that slingshot …

  But staying up here was a luxury, and she’d left Steve on his own, lurking in the stairwell in the spot they’d chosen as casting the fewest, faintest shadows—probably wishing he could call the hospital to ask about Mosquito, and knowing they wouldn’t tell him anything. So she returned to roof access—a quaint old trap door—surveyed the ropes one more time, and told them, “No offense, but I hope we don’t meet again.”