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 o
n 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 he
ad 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."
Making the Rules Page 15
