Making the Rules

by Doranna Durgin

  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 als
o 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?"