Making the Rules

by Doranna Durgin

  Another glance; she upgraded them to Public Display of Lust. And not paying any attention at ALL. She and Rio mounted the scooter in casual unison as she started it, moving onto the path and into the glory of the gardens in one smooth movement.

  These grounds were altogether too dignified, too Old World and groomed, to host such carnage as Romajn had engineered. Massive oaks swept their branches over the entire air, filtering the sunlight to green; the lush grass alongside the paths was dappled with just the right amount of early evening summer sunlight. Totally surreal. San Vincente's gothic spires rose a block away, and colorful flowers ringed the trees and bushes.

  To reach Gandiaga's reception, they had to pass the second catering truck...and to do that, they approached a grim little procession from behind, two men escorting a third between them, and none-too-gently at that.

  Rio leaned forward, pushing the sling full of cans into Kimmer's back. "That's Jurdan."

  And so it was. What the hell was he doing here? This morning Kimmer hadn't even been certain of his loyalties. He'd disappeared far too conveniently, and his reactions had been all over the place before he did. She'd known only that he felt betrayed. By her, by Larraitz? She wasn't sure.

  And yet it didn't look as though the Basajaun were keen on him, either.

  She turned her head to catch a glimpse of Rio from the corner of her eye, lifting her chin at the trio in question—and felt Rio's answer as his splinted arm tightened slightly around her waist.

  Lovely little sleek Sinclair scooter, amazing acceleration. Ooh, baby. Kimmer stuck her leg out and braced for impact, swooping in fast and close—taking out a thugboy leg from behind. He hit the asphalt hard and she cranked the scooter around in a tight, fast turn it hadn't been engineered to make.

  Behind her, Rio shifted; she left the second thugboy to him, catching Jurdan's astonished eye as they closed the distance. Rio tossed the thugboy a lit Sterno can, filling his hands.

  The man's eyes widened at his new package; he shouted in alarm, juggling the Sterno "bomb." Jurdan broke away, sprinting top speed—gathering a scattering of startled reactions. Kimmer cranked the scooter around again to catch up, slowing to pace him. "No room here!" she told him.

  "I have my own!" he shouted back. "Larraitz, she—" He couldn't say it; Kimmer knew it anyway: She played me. He'd done stupid things for her, but he hadn't been with her. "We have to warn—"

  Warn. That was a good sign, too.

  But Kimmer had spotted a familiar figure. Romajn. She'd lost weight since she'd left the States—sleeker, meaner. She strolled the path with a brisk but confident stride. Without concern.

  Kimmer couldn't help a little snarl.

  Jurdan's hand landed on her arm, even as he jogged alongside the scooter. "We have to warn—"

  Right. An entire reception full of people who had no clue, with their hearty political streamers and banners and colorful bunting on buffet tables.

  Kimmer snarled again, this time for an entirely different reason. Because he was right—and because Romajn was more than likely to take advantage of the ensuing chaos to walk calmly away. Again.

  A faint, jumbled sound rose above the purr of the scooter even as Jurdan peeled away toward the second catering truck to get his own wheels. He turned toward the park even as he hit the kickstand start, making no bones about whose side he was on, then—at least not at the moment.

  The noise came again; Rio nudged her and pointed, and she turned—and then faltered on the throttle.

  Damned if a small flood of people hadn't crested the curb of the street to head in their direction—quiet, dignified, and purposeful—and damned if they weren't led by Danele.

  "Yes!" Kimmer said, startled by her own relief. Safe!

  Her grandfather followed close on her heels, and Kimmer found Maite in the crowd, got a glimpse of Maite's pale, frightened granddaughter—a girl facing the consequences of her actions. And there...coming up the rear...was that the crew from Monaco? All in matching sky blue polo shirts, casual but alert?

  Kimmer headed straight across the manicured grass, gouging sod as she skidded sideways in her abrupt stop before the group. From the noise behind them, it seemed they were finally garnering some attention from the crowd.

  That was okay. It was time. "Stay away from the trucks," she said, glancing between Danele and her grandfather. "Bomb. I don't care if you panic the entire neighborhood, get this park cleared." And if Ginea got the right person's attention in the process, maybe he would have his chance to be a real voice for these people. She saw the awareness of it on his face.

  But dammit, out there in the street—there went Romajn, slipping into a sleek Peugeot 407. The car pulled immediately away from the curb, jerky progress in tight traffic.

  Ohh, no. No, I don't think so.

  Ginea would clear the park—was already clearing the park, directing his people while Danele hesitated beside Kimmer. The Monaco crew—bar the single man left behind—fanned out to help. Andoni would be safe, along with everyone else. Now we can damned well get That Bitch Romajn.

  She was so focused on Romajn, she almost failed to notice that Danele hefted a black bag in her direction—a suddenly familiar and wonderful bag, most recently abandoned in the stolen villa car. Kimmer reached for it, one eye on the slow progress of the Peugeot. Not here. We'll follow until the crowd thins out. "Sweet! Thank you!"

  Danele shrugged as Ginea returned to them; she said, "I figured you'd be here, if you weren't dead already."

  "Not dead yet," Kimmer informed her dryly. Jurdan hovered in the edge of her vision, easing out into the street by impatient inches as Kimmer yanked Rio's jacket from the bag, donning it even in the heat—wanting the pockets. The defunct phone swung heavily inside one of them; Kimmer added the war club and several knives and her second gun, the SIG, and gave the pack back to Danele. "I'll be back for it."

  Behind her, Rio ducked to pull the makeshift sling over his head and handed that over, too. "Light a few of these and toss them around if anyone's slow to move."

  Danele gave them a skeptical look. "But these are—"

  "Bomb," said an older gentleman from the Monaco crew, interrupting them with an impatience born of skepticism. "Are you certain, as you cause this chaos? How do you even know?"

  She opened her mouth to explain, and didn't have to.

  "She knows," Danele said, lofty with it. And snuck Kimmer a glance from the corner of her eye, a hint of a smile there.

  Kimmer grinned back.

  "Excellent," Ginea said, giving Danele a hearty slap on the back—staggering her, even as her smile bloomed. He gestured at the park, where the evacuation was well under way, to the tune of protests and confusion and alarm. "Danele, now we do our part."

  But Danele's smile faded away; she cast a doubtful look at Kimmer's bruises, Rio's battered face and splinted arm. "Are you sure—?"

  Kimmer cut her off with an apologetic shrug. "Gotta go, kid. Bad guys to catch, treasures to save. Go get things stirred up, will you?"

  Jurdan had given up waiting—he shot out into a gap in traffic. Both of Rio's hands, good and bad, settled firmly on Kimmer's hips. Kimmer nodded at the park—at the crowd, at the truck, at the bombs—and cranked up the accelerator, tires spitting sod and leaving Danele's shout of good luck behind them.

  They'll be safe, Kimmer told herself, squinting into their wind. Ginea knew what he was doing...the Monaco crew would know what they were doing. And as long as they could move people away from the trucks—

  The first explosion happened far too soon—a profound clap of noise that smacked Kimmer's ears and left her chest briefly stuttering for air. Her self-assurances suddenly seemed foolish and naive—she slowed, fighting the impulse to turn around. To make sure Maite hadn't been trampled in any panic, or Danele felled by shrapnel—

  But the Guardia and Ertzaintza—already casually patrolling the area due to the gathering—would swarm the place within moments. And the instant she and Rio intersected with e
ither, they'd be out of the game. Back in cuffs, back behind bars, waiting for the confusion to clear and their innocence to be declared.

  Except...

  Not exactly innocent.

  Not for a long time now. But especially not when she made the decision to accelerate away from new friends in peril, heading away from a young teen who couldn't possibly have understood the stakes when she took up warning people away from that park.

  Dammit, you'd better be okay!

  Up ahead, the convergence of reacting vehicles jelled the road that swooped along the river; Jurdan wove through standstill traffic. He hopped onto a sidewalk and off again, dodging cars and foot traffic alike. Kimmer followed without hesitation.

  Here, the city rose around them in a mix of modern and traditional, the classy face of Bilbao sweeping along the port of Biscay. Here the people were dressed in business best, making the most of the last, late work hours before the Ascension holiday. Here, surprised foot commuters fought to keep their balance in the wake of Jurdan's abrupt passage. Kimmer brushed past in his wake, her jeans whispering against good linen and silk.

  But as Jurdan jinked around a flower cart, his front wheel wobbled wildly and swerved toward street traffic; he surrendered to the inevitable and laid the scooter down. It slammed into an economy car whose driver was even at that moment hitting the brakes to avoid the stopped, empty car in front of it.

  The Peugeot 407.

  Jurdan bounced to his feet, already running—lurching—and Kimmer slowed her scooter, hunting their quarry.

  There.

  Three figures, just now reaching the oscillating curves of the famous Campo Volantin river footbridge.

  She hit the accelerator, gearing up to top speed—raising slightly over the scooter, Rio's hands still on her hips, reaching and overtaking Jurdan.

  At the footbridge, two men, hands hovering at the opening of their suit coats—guns, yeah—waited for the third: a woman struggling to find the rhythm of the run as if she'd never truly done it before.

  But ahh, Kimmer knew how to run.

  Ditching the scooter at the bottom of the curving stairs up to the footbridge, she made sure Rio was on her heels, found Jurdan just behind them, and then bounded up the stairs in a satisfying rush of effort. Two and three at a time, with pedestrians looking askance at her—and then, seeing her expression and her bloodied face, seeing battered Rio charging up behind her with that same determination—standing well aside.

  Good. Better for them if they stayed away altogether. Maybe that's even what Jurdan was yelling, breathless and bringing up the rear, his feet pounding where Kimmer's landed lightly.

  Jurdan, she thought, had gone down hard on that scooter.

  Near the top of the rise she flattened across the metal steps, feeling Rio ease up beside her—giving her room, but right there. She popped up far enough to see only one thugboy glancing behind them, and he wasn't glancing down.

  But the moment she jumped to her feet and began pursuit across the thick glass bricks of the footbridge...

  She had no doubt the guns would come out.

  She did a quick check with Rio—and then a double-take. Too pale, the flush of exertion riding high on angled cheeks. It clenched something inside her. "You good?"

  "For now," he said, and it was an admission—for now, but reaching my limit.

  Not many people could run a marathon after taking the beating that was written all over his body.

  "Tell me," she said. Tell me when I'm on my own. Tell me when I can't count on you to be a hundred percent.

  Because she couldn't read it for herself. She couldn't see it on his face, not for sure—not with the determination setting a hard cast to his features. She'd just have to damn well trust him. Or make up for him.

  "I'll tell you." Straight, calm assurance. No lie there.

  Memory of a tinny phone voice flashed through her mind. You're weaker together, because you hold each other back. You overprotect.

  "Yeah, well fuck you, too," Kimmer muttered. "And while I'm at it, I hereby demote you from goonboss to punkboss."

  Rio laughed softly behind her; Jurdan's head appeared behind him—half-crouching, waiting for Kimmer's move. "Go get 'er."

  Kimmer launched up the last step, a runner exploding from the blocks; she sprinted full bore along the artsy suspension bridge, acutely angled guy wires flashing overhead, glass bricks an unfamiliar and unyielding surface beneath her feet. She ran silent, watching her quarry, gaining ground, every step a victory—

  The wary thugboy turned—the dip of his shoulder all the warning she needed. Kimmer went low. By the time the thugboy focused on her, she was crouched and stable, the SIG aimed directly at his very important lower body.

  Romajn and her lead thugboy jerked around in belated alarm as Rio caught up to Kimmer, long legs making up the distance. Both of them, now—enough of a stand-off to give the thugboys pause. To give even Romajn pause, clear enough on her face for Kimmer to see.

  A stand-off that lasted only seconds. Less.

  Jurdan.

  He didn't have the experience; he didn't have hardened nerve. Hurt, lurching, armed with desperate intent, he came up from behind and didn't pause to assess the situation.

  And that's when Kimmer discovered he had his own gun.

  When, to her astonishment, he blew right into the stand-off, loosing a series of wild shots. She cringed, drawing into herself; Rio crouched beside her.

  But she never took her eyes off their enemies. Nor did Paula Romajn look away from Kimmer. This is between the two of us, clear on that face with its mean smile even as Jurdan and her thugboys exchanged fire.

  Romajn hid behind one man; the other gave a sudden wet grunt and staggered, falling against the arcing suspension lines before slumping down.

  And Jurdan sprawled forward, blood flowing freely over the glass bricks. But Kimmer didn't dare look away from Romajn—and watching that mean face told her what she needed to know.

  Romajn thought Jurdan was dead.

  So did the people screaming in the background.

  "And here we are," Romajn said, raising her voice over the rising breeze, over the spectator fuss. "You do make my life more interesting than strictly necessary, Kimmer Reed."

  "Could say the same about you," Kimmer said, not bothering with smart ass mode. Chimera hunting. "I could even say that we wouldn't be here, making your life interesting, if you hadn't made it happen."

  "It seems I underestimated you." Romajn could afford to feel complacent, mostly shielded by a thugboy who visibly grew more uneasy by the moment. Antsy, unhappy with the yada yada yada, ready to shoot and run. "But I heard the explosion, didn't you? Even if Gandiaga survives, his political career won't. Not once it's clear the Basque have aligned against him."

  "The Basajaun speak for no one but themselves." Kimmer held her aim steady—and knew, even if Romajn did not, that she could make this shot if she had to. "And if Andiago lives, it's because the most respected euskaldun in Bilbao came to warn him. Did warn him. Or did you miss that little detail when you turned tail at the sight of us?"

  "Us," Romajn mocked her. "Didn't you learn your lesson? Us makes you weak, not strong."

  "Yawn."

  But Romajn's eyes held a peculiar light, shifting toward Rio; a thrill of dread shook Kimmer. She didn't look away from Romajn—not quite—but put Rio in her peripheral vision.

  Not all of that spreading blood was Jurdan's.

  She kept her voice low and even. "Rio?"

  "I'm here," he said. "Damned ricochet, no worry. But Kimmer—"

  "I hear you," she said. And she did. She'd trusted him to tell her when he'd reached his limit, and he had.

  "Back you up from here."

  "That's good enough."

  "I doubt it," Romajn said, as if it had been her conversation from the start. "Because if you don't drop that gun, I'm not planning to shoot you, and neither is Ramont." This seemed to come as a surprise to the thugboy, who put on his wary
listening ears. "We're going to shoot your darling partner. Oh, but wait—you already did that, didn't you?"

  Kimmer couldn't keep the surprise from her face. "You? You broke Rio's cover on the last op?"

  "Indeed I did," Romajn murmured, full of smug. "Laying the groundwork for just this. Of course, if you hadn't survived, that would have been fine, too."

  Kimmer spat out a succinct sizzle of a suggestion. And then tried to squash the spark of fear in her chest when Rio shifted awkwardly against her.

  "Very nice," Romajn said. "He already doesn't look so good, but—" oh, the satisfaction in her voice “-he's going to look much, much worse."

  Rio was, in fact, leaning into her—sinking, the blood loss a last straw for a body pushed to the edge. But it didn't keep him from muttering, "Taunting. That is such a bad idea."

  And it didn't keep Kimmer from giving Romajn a feral kind of grin. "Unless I what? Let you go? Drop the gun and trust you to walk away like you did last time?"

  "You're the one who reads people so well. You tell me what I'll do."

  Didn't matter, really. "Too bad," Kimmer said softly, "you can't tell what I'm thinking."

  It was a blow with impact. Romajn couldn't, and she knew it. "Thirty seconds," she snapped. "Thirty seconds to drop that gun. You can't get us both before we kill him—and he's of no use to you now. So drop it, and we walk away."

  Back you up from here, Rio had said. Romajn counted him out of the game and he must look it, half slumped against her, half against the handrail wire behind them. But he'd said otherwise...

  And yes, she trusted him.

  Romajn had that look again. The one that said she'd won, that Kimmer's hesitation had told her the wrong thing.

  Because her partnership with Rio didn't make her weaker at all. Didn't make her easy to manipulate.

  "Five..." said Romajn. "Four...three..."

  Kimmer gave her that wolfish smile, freezing the count briefly at three. Romajn took breath to start again.

  Kimmer moved.

  Strong enough to believe in Rio.