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.
Making the Rules Page 9
