Beyond the Rules (8 page)

What he could do was see that she’d been looking at the memory book his mother had made. He doubted Kimmer
could recognize the touches that spoke of Sobo—the white space every bit as important as the photos, the photos never crowded on the page, the captions placed just so—but to Rio they were every bit as important as the memories the photos invoked.

He didn’t have to guess what she’d been doing.

Trying to understand.

Just as he was trying to understand how she could so thoroughly cut the ties to her own family, never knowing whether her brothers had grown out of their cruelties, whether her father still lived, whether any of them ever regretted contributing to a life that had driven Kimmer away so young. Thinking of Hank, Rio made a face. The man had been frightened. Awkward. Out of his league and knowing it…and then embarrassed at the extent of his salvation at Kimmer’s hands.

But he had a wife. He had children. Who knew how many other nieces or nephews Kimmer had by now? She hadn’t asked Hank and he hadn’t volunteered. Mostly he’d hidden out in front of the television, although he’d learned very quickly that casual demands for service or food had done little good. Kimmer had made the food easily available and left it at that.

Rio had his own nightmares—betrayal, the death of friends, the agonizing injury that had ended his career and almost his life, the long recovery—but he wouldn’t want to be in Kimmer’s place.

A sudden shift of light foretold sunset. Rio moved to the other side of the bed. Pulling off the thick cable sweater made some noise. He removed his watch and belt and let that make noise, too. Kimmer stirred by then, and he said softly, “It’s me.” She smiled and would have turned to him, still half-asleep in that relaxed way that let him know she understood
perfectly well who it was, but he leaned over the bed and put a hand on her shoulder, and she settled. He ran that hand from shoulder down the curve of her back and into the dip of her waist, and let it come to rest on—yes, on that sweet little ass. Always good for a moment of appreciation. His body sighed happily, in complete agreement.

Then he lifted the end of the cotton throw and slid in underneath, spooning up against Kimmer. She wasn’t slow to realize he came mostly dressed, still in a T-shirt over the loose-legged jeans he preferred. And it must have suited her on this particular night, for instead of turning over to undress him, she inched back against him, lifting her arm just enough so he could slide his hand in over her ribs, letting it come to rest quite comfortably over her just-right breast. The rest of him responded immediately but not with any intense urgency…just savoring the sweetness of lying there with as much of Kimmer as possible tucked up against as much of him as possible. Her head and its cinnamon-scented curls tucked in under his chin, but only after he’d kissed it. Thoughtfully. Very much aware that they’d had few of these quiet moments—that Kimmer allowed very few of them.

Perpetual motion Kimmer, always keeping herself busy. Not, he thought, because she was so driven by her past. Aside from the days since Hank’s arrival, he’d seen little sign that it actively bothered her anymore. She’d come to some sort of peace with who she was on that very assignment on which she’d met him, enough peace to let someone in her life for the first time.

Someone.
Him
.

Now all they had to do was make it work.

We’ll figure it out
.

We have to.

Kimmer faced Governor Day stiff with bruises. The whole bouncing off a car trick hadn’t been her best thought-out ploy ever, but it had worked—and those on the governor’s team now had a clear photo of the man involved, even if he hadn’t yet been identified. Any minute now, the governor would arrive. The Hunter Agency would save the day and return to being nothing more than a benign local presence. Kimmer could go back to sorting out her life—to building something new for herself.

Today she wore professional bland. Black tailored blazer, black slacks, black dress shoes comfortable enough for running. Her silk V-neck shirt came in deep forest-green, and no one had to know that she’d painted her toenails in something closer to lime—or that they matched her underwear. Her scent of the day had almost been mentholated muscle rub, but she’d opted for a more subtle ginger destiny powder. Unlike the others working security here, Kimmer had a tiny walkie-talkie in her pocket but no coil of wire up to her ear. Nothing nearly so obvious. She was Hunter’s secret weapon, and the coil of wire was really obvious.

She’d left Rio preparing for a real estate run, drive-bys of those properties that had intrigued him from the listings he’d been gathering. Her house had never been meant for two. Not when they consisted of one woman fiercely protective of her turf and a man who had longer legs and a larger personal presence than most.

But she had mixed feelings about the results of his search. She loved her little house, the remodeled interior built just to her tastes. She loved drowsing in the same bed and sitting in his lap to do his crosswords, even if she rarely sat still long enough to make it through a whole puzzle. She wasn’t sure she wanted to give up any of it.

Moving easily through the edges of the crowd which now waited with growing impatience, Kimmer spotted the man who didn’t want to be there but who’d been towed by his significant other, the woman who had a crush on the governor, and the older woman who waited, intense and ready to deride everything the man had to say. Kimmer slipped a sinus-tingling mint into her mouth and checked her watch. Any minute now.

And then she looked up and met the eyes of the man for whom she’d been watching. Not a face she knew, not features she knew. But a man waiting for the right moment, poised for action and impatient in spite of his apparent outward repose. She saw his eyes—muddy brown even from fifteen feet away—widen slightly.

Knows I’ve pegged him as trouble
….

Just what kind of trouble she didn’t know or care—she couldn’t let the governor walk into it. She pulled her tiny radio from her pocket and put it to her mouth. “Chimera here. Abort, abort. Hostile spotted.” But as she held the device to her ear, the crowd noise swelled and a spatter of applause built to as much enthusiasm as a small crowd in a small park in a small town could generate. She didn’t think the governor had actually appeared—no, a quick glance showed her he’d merely been spotted on the far side of the bandstand—and though he’d stopped and bent his silvered head to listen to the brief words of his escort, the audience still anticipated his imminent arrival. The escort gestured out toward the crowd and the governor gave a sharp shake of his head.

“Chimera, report!” the radio crackled, barely intelligible over the crowd noise no matter how closely she held it.

The man hadn’t moved. The crowd surged briefly around him; he held his ground. Ugly brown suit, blue tie that didn’t
match. Muddy brown eyes that did. Hand dipping inside his coat in a move Kimmer knew too well—a move she couldn’t make sense of. Why give himself away? If he knew he’d been spotted, he might well have tried to quietly walk away before she could reach him. If he didn’t know, why expose himself before the governor was anywhere near the range of a handgun?

Her own hand twitched for her waist, where a streamlined belt holster held the equally streamlined SIG Sauer she carried in dress mode. But the crowd, spontaneously renewing its applause, changed her mind. She slipped her hand into the wide flat pocket of her blazer and retrieved the war club from where it subtly ruined the lines of the tailoring.

Brown Suit had to know she was carrying. Had to. What the hell was he up to? He still stared her way and Kimmer’s expectations warred with her observations until she finally gave up and followed her knack.

He wasn’t here for the governor.

He was here for
her.

Rio lay on the floor, back against the braided rug and legs propped up on the big recliner, pencil stub between his teeth. OldCat purred on his chest, quite successfully giving the impression that Rio was actually in OldCat’s way and that the purring was a complete coincidence.

Working on the crossword puzzle that had recently ended up wrinkled between the two of them pretty much seemed a lost cause. He rubbed a finger on that spot between OldCat’s eyes where the short, stiff hair met from all directions and contemplated the real estate properties he’d seen that morning. Contemplated the chances that Kimmer would want to
leave her home to make a new one with him. Contemplated the fact that he even doubted.

He hadn’t doubted when he’d packed up to move down here. He knew they had much to learn, much to build. But until now he hadn’t truly absorbed Kimmer’s bitterness about her family. And while he accepted that as well as he could, he couldn’t accept the thought of watching her apply those same standards to his own family.

OldCat squeezed his eyes closed, pretended not to notice Rio’s perfectly placed scritching. Purred. Purred so loudly that Rio almost missed the slight click of the doorknob.

Not Kimmer.
Kimmer wouldn’t be back for hours. Kimmer wouldn’t open the door slowly, carefully, uncertain if it would squeak and betray her.

Rio dumped OldCat. The creature gave a scolding meow, smacked him with blunt end of the stumpy leg, and lurched away with his tail held high. By then Rio had rolled to his feet, bare soles silent on the hardwood floor. He stayed low, crouch-walking to the old-timey glass-paned door that separated this reading room from the entry way when it was closed. As he hesitated there, the intruder walked right into the entry and stopped to take stock without even realizing Rio crouched a mere arms-length away, half-hidden behind the reading room entrance.

And Rio came nose to nose with the man’s stun gun.

Aw, not again.

He’d had his fill of stun guns down in Mill Springs not so very long ago. This one filled the man’s hand, held with easy familiarity and an obvious willingness to use the thing, but it wasn’t nearly as big as the one Rio had encountered in Mill Springs so up close and personal. Its presence likely meant the man wasn’t here to harm—and in fact didn’t want to harm—but that he had some other mission.

Still. No, thank you.

Rio removed the pencil stub from his teeth, stuck it between his fingers point out, and gave the back of the man’s hand a quick pop, lightning-fast, full of focused impact.

The man made a noise somewhere between a howl and a snarl. Though the stun gun went flying, the man turned his reaction into a perfect pivot, bringing his knee up into Rio’s face. Rio staggered backward, landed on his ass and scrambled awkwardly around to find his hands and knees, ready to launch himself forward—

And faced the man from the photograph Kimmer had taken the day before, an image she had left in hardcopy on the kitchen table this morning.

Here we go again.

M
e.

He’s after
me.

Kimmer had barely slipped her hand through the club’s thong when Brown Suit’s expression changed—and not for the better. The
backup has arrived
expression, never a good thing. A child came capering out of the crowd between Kimmer and Brown Suit, a donkey-imprinted balloon in tow. Kimmer shifted gears and tried to peel off to the side, knowing there was someone behind her somewhere—

Too late. Dammit
. She could see it in Brown Suit’s face, knew an instant before the hands descended upon her from behind that someone had reached her—and knew from the very breadth of those hands that it was someone big. He clamped his hands on to her arms just above the elbow, pinning them to her sides and neatly evading the blind kick she lashed at him, and then as she hissed frustration between her
teeth, he yanked her arms back, sliding his grip down to her wrists.

So he can pin them together with one hammy hand. So he has one hand free to do…whatever.

I don’t think so
.

Then think fast, Kimmer. Think very fast.
Brown Suit headed their way, smug and needing to be hit, his quick glances taking in everything about the situation—her helplessness, the rising disturbance of the crowd as they realized the governor had stopped on the verge of making an appearance, the staticky blast from Kimmer’s pocket as her radio demanded attention.
Report, Chimera
. Yeah, right. “Pay attention, you idiots!” she snapped at the blameless radio. “Try
looking
this way!”

Even if they did, they’d never make it here in time. And the crowd, though alarmed and making noises of protest, still kept its collective distance.

Up to me.

Same old, same old.

Hammy Hands held her wrists, not her hands. Kimmer flipped the war club around on the thong so the handle—the narrow, delightfully solid hardwood handle—aimed outward.

Then she rammed herself backward.

And she aimed low.

Hammy Hands dropped with a gut-wrenching groan—and he took Kimmer down with him. But now she had the room to kick at him, twisting in his grip to land several swift blows in succession. “You’re supposed—”
kick
“—to let—”
kick
“—
GO
!”

And finally he did, and she bounced to her feet and found herself face-to-face with Brown Suit.

Face-to-face and something quite abruptly poking in her
belly. Inwardly she snapped off a searing curse; outwardly she smiled sweetly. “I don’t suppose you’re glad to see me.”

His face took on a tight amusement. “I suppose I am. So glad, in fact, that I’d like to prolong our conversation.”

Kimmer didn’t even have to glance around to see that the crowd had withdrawn, giving them wide berth but still not certain what was going on.
That’s okay. Me neither
. Or to know that sooner or later, one of those who had drawn in to protect the governor would be here by her side.

Or to know that she couldn’t chance the possibility that her resistance would result in the injury or death of someone in this crowd, some of whom seemed about to interfere. They couldn’t see the gun, held so tightly between Kimmer and Brown Suit. “A chat,” she said. “How lovely. And it looks like we have so very much to talk about.”

His hand closed over her arm. He’d chosen the one with the club still hanging discreetly by its thong, hobbling her without even knowing it.
Figures
. Didn’t mean she couldn’t still manage an offhand draw of the SIG, as awkward as it would be.

It wasn’t as if she hadn’t practiced.

But not here. She let herself be steered away from the crowd, hoping that the first security personnel on the scene would be Hunter agents, that they would know to approach with discretion when they saw her leaving without resistance. Leaving, in fact, like two friends walking away from a no-show governor in the park.

“You’re not here for our friendly politician,” she said. “This isn’t Plan B, using me to walk away. This is Plan A, isn’t it? Although I doubt your friend expected to get left behind.”
Then again, I doubt he expected me to take him down.

“He can take care of himself,” Brown Suit said, but when
Kimmer tried to glance back to see, he jammed the gun hard into her belly.

“Sheesh,” she said. “One belly button is plenty.”

Brown Suit shook his head in her peripheral vision. “I heard you were a smart-ass.”

“Did you?” Kimmer felt unexpectedly pleased as they passed through the open iron gates. Headed for a car somewhere, and then headed for…it didn’t matter. She knew she didn’t want to go there. He hadn’t searched her yet, but there was no way he’d shove her into the car until he’d handled that detail, and she had too many backup systems to lose. “That’s funny, you know. No one’s ever said anything to me about you.”

“Nice try, but I’m not answering questions today.” He steered her down the Decatur Street sidewalk, away from the park. Pretty, charming downtown Watkins Glen, seen at gunpoint. It gave her an entirely new perspective. Beside her, Brown Suit snorted, amused by his own thoughts. “Next you’ll try to convince me to let you go because you don’t know anything. Well, guess what. Your brother has been known to squeal like the proverbial pig. He thinks he’s saved his hide, but he’s really only taken you down with him. He’ll know that before this is over. He’s not nearly as smart as he thinks he is.”

“Tell me something I don’t know,” Kimmer muttered, furiously yanking her suppositions about the situation to another, totally unexpected direction. This wasn’t about her work with Hunter. This wasn’t about the governor.

Hank. It was somehow still about Hank.

Dammit.

Owen was going to spit.

She wiggled the fingers of her hand, finding them tingly
and clumsy from his tight grip. They’d have to do. She could still feel the club, and Brown Suit—one hand busy with his gun and the other clamped around her wrists—couldn’t. That was all that mattered. “About Hank—”

“We’ll have this conversation later,” he said shortly, yanking her to a stop, not beside the sedate sedan she’d expected, but an old Escort that must have come from the nearest Rent-a-Wreck. He shoved her back against the car, and kept the stubby gun barrel jammed into her stomach—good old S&W .38, she carried one herself sometimes—as he fished around in his pocket.

Oh, good. Handcuffs
. He was going to be so sorry, oh yes…Kimmer smiled blandly at him, thinking it was too bad he didn’t notice. Then he might have been prepared. He might have at least been more wary, although considering what she’d done to Hammy Hands she figured he’d had his warning.

He held out the cuffs, giving a jerk of his chin toward her hands. “Put ’em on.”

Kimmer took the cuffs, but only long enough to drop them. She made a noise of dismay as they clattered to the asphalt by the curb and immediately knelt to get them, her hand already shoving her blazer aside to reach for the SIG.

He must have been wary after all. He didn’t even hesitate before lashing his foot up in a kick that was meant for her face but landed on her shoulder as she desperately twisted aside, cursing herself for underestimating him.

But he’d thrown himself off balance and had no follow-through. When Kimmer slammed back against the car she bounced right back at him, swung the club at the side of his weight-bearing leg, and rolled forward on momentum. She scrambled out of his way as the joint went crack and he
screamed and fell, all pretty much at the same time. She dropped the club and snatched up her gun, and just that quickly their positions were reversed. “You better hope my collarbone’s not broken,” she snarled at him.

She didn’t think he heard her. Which was fair enough, because she suddenly didn’t hear him, either. She suddenly realized that if they’d sent two men to find her here at the park, they might well have sent someone else to her house.

And Rio had no warning at all.

The man had trailed Kimmer yesterday, come looking for her today.
Three strikes, you’re out.
And Rio didn’t particularly care that his math didn’t add up. He launched at the man’s legs, happy enough to take advantage of the height and breadth he had on the guy. Pigeon Man. It was a solid hit and they both went flying, skidding down the hardwood floor of the hall and taking a small rug with them. For a few murky moments the struggle deteriorated into high school antics, each of them trying for the upper hand without actually finding any opportunities. Rio heard a hiss and spit, made no sense of it, and ignored it. Then his weight won out and he got enough control to sit briefly on Pigeon Man’s chest, snatch his very nice suit jacket at the lapels, and put him through a few lift-and-bash head-slammers. Pigeon Man strained to reach something—Rio didn’t care what it was, only that if Pigeon Man wanted it, Rio didn’t want him to get it. He jerked them back down the hall again, using Pigeon Man as a sled. Then he rested two curled fingers against the man’s throat, knuckles strategically placed against cartilage.

Rio leaned forward, all his weight on those knuckles. Although the man had a hand free—the other being neatly tucked under Rio’s knee—he stiffened, and didn’t follow through on his evident intention to batter at Rio’s head.

“What are you doing here? What do you want from Kimmer?”

“Camera,” the man managed, his eyes bulging just a little.

“Ah.” Rio nodded, finally identifying the location of the low, constant growl in the background as just inside the kitchen. “It’s broken. And you’re too late. Your photo is pretty much in the hands of every cop, agent, bodyguard, National Guardsman and Boy Scout in this part of the state. Probably the Girl Scouts, too.”

Annoyance shot through those murky brown eyes, and Rio rolled his knuckles slightly. “Take it easy there, fella. Because guess what, it can’t do you any harm now. I’ve already
got
you.” And as soon as he called the cops, Rio would just as quickly lose him. Pigeon Man would disappear into the system to be questioned by the authorities—and not by one ex-CIA agent who hadn’t even yet committed himself to working part-time with the Hunter agency. Sooo…

Let’s not call the cops. Not just yet.

“You wouldn’t want the camera if you hadn’t been up to no good in the first place. So tell me what’s so fascinating about Lafayette Park that you found the need to case it so thoroughly, and that you had to come after an innocent—” Okay, that was stretching it. The man would know as much after his alleyway encounter: car vs. woman and woman wins “—after Kimmer.”
And how did you know where she lives?

He realized that part almost too late.
Getting slow, Rio
. He let it show on his face before he could stop it.
Getting stupid, Rio
—

The man bucked, straining to crawl out from beneath Rio, his free hand reaching and grasping for anything to latch on to and pull; his fingers scrabbled at the end corner of the hallway, clawing into the kitchen to the tune of a rising growl.

None of that
. Time to secure the bastard and
then
talk. Rio lifted the man, ready to give him a good swift couple of thumps against the hard floor—enough to buy him the time to fling open the junk drawer in the kitchen and snatch up the cable ties.

But with a final surge of motion, a grunt of effort, and an amazingly animalistic snarl, Pigeon Man lurched forward just enough to snatch up what he’d been reaching for.

Rio, ready to disarm him and expecting the wayward stun gun, stopped short at the sight of a furious scruff-gripped OldCat.

He realized his mistake in that instant. The hesitation. The transference of initiative.

“Now we’ll talk,” the man said, his voice still croaky from the knuckling he’d received. “You dumb bastard. What did you hope to accomplish? Showing off for your bitch of a girlfriend? We owed her before and now we’ve got plenty of reason to see that she pays. Now get the fuck off me or this mangy cat goes facefirst into this wall.”

Rio should have said something smart, like
he’s had a long life
or
he’s still got three lives to go
or
he’s not even my cat,
but instead he froze, a moment of startled reaction while he calculated ways to keep OldCat safe or at least free from immediate demise.

Pigeon Man snatched the initiative and flung OldCat not into the wall but at Rio’s face.

OldCat shrieked a feline curse and landed with claws set to shred—but immediately leaped away, tail double its normal size and sticking straight up in the air as he yowled his fury. And when Rio looked down at Pigeon Man, ready to let the man know he’d done nothing but really make Rio mad, he suddenly recalled Pigeon Man’s frantic movement be
neath him, and just as suddenly realized what it had to mean, giving himself just enough warning to try to throw himself away and out of range but not enough warning to actually do it.

The wayward stun gun came into action, stabbing at his leg and then a second jolt directly on the tender skin of his side, exposed where his shirt had ridden up. His body jerked into an involuntary cry; his vision turned gray and sparkly and his ears roared. He fell to the floor feeble and twitching, his face mashed uncomfortably against the hardwood and his muscles feeling like so much overcooked noodle.

Stun gun
. Dammit. Again.

Pigeon Man left him that way, disentangling himself to head straight for the kitchen to shuffle around the few items sitting out on the counter, and then to the tiny dining area to clear the messy table in one sweep, scattering the contents so coins and former pocket contents came rolling to a stop by Rio’s nose. The man made a cursory search through it all and demanded, “Where is it?”

Rio tried a few words. They didn’t work. Just as well; they hadn’t been words the man would like. Carefully, slowly, parts of him still quivering from the electrical assault, he stated the obvious. “’Sbroke!”

The man kicked him—more like an afterthought than a deliberate, targeted blow, and Rio was glad he didn’t hear anything crack. “Moron. I’m not talking about the camera. I mean the recording.”