Exception to the Rule Page 17

  She nodded in the direction from which she’d come, ready to approach the front of the building. Rio indicated the back window, intending to do the same; she scowled. She was right enough at that; he couldn’t see into the dark room well enough to know if someone stood out of sight, perfectly able to spot his approach. He used a finger to indicate his planned path—back to nine o’clock, up to the corner of the building and along the back to the window.

  She shook her head, an emphatic gesture, and mouthed, “Wait!”

  Wait for what? For Carolyne’s first screams of pain and terror?

  But then he realized she hadn’t said no; she’d said to wait. She wanted to check out the situation through that front window first. As unwelcome as he found the delay, he couldn’t fault it. He gave the slightest of nods and let his finger retrace the path in the air—this time stopping at the nine-o’clock imaginary edge of the woods. He’d wait there.

  She nodded. But her expression remained wary, and he knew she had his words in mind: if he saw the perfect opportunity, he’d go for it.

  And he nodded back, but this time he meant “Don’t forget it.”

  It was as much as she could have hoped for, Kimmer supposed. He’d agreed to wait. And while she understood the allure of the window, with this side of the building in shadow he’d be perfectly visible and far too exposed on approach. If a goonboy stood behind that window instead of Carolyne…

  It was her job to find out.

  She crept up to the front corner of the building, trading caution for speed as she hit the sparse grass of the clearing, and then coming up to the fake cedar shingles just beside the window. Listening.

  Silence was good. But it didn’t mean there wasn’t a goonboy standing right there, looking out as Kimmer prepared to look in. So she hesitated there, taking her time—but not too much of it. She didn’t want the sun to rise far from its current direct and blinding angle.

  And then, finally, she looked. Always ready to duck down—or even to duck down and roll beneath the building—she peered into the window, one eye only.

  She saw no one.

  They couldn’t have left, surely. Not in that brief time in which Rio had returned to her tent, not right after the goonboys had let Carolyne take a break while they settled down to rest. In slow motion, Kimmer exposed herself enough to examine the interior with both eyes. Binocular vision, a handy thing indeed. Shadows and shapes resolved, showing her more clearly the empty desk chair, the long bulk of a man sleeping across the doorway of the little bedroom, the line of a feminine body on the bed—Caro, on her side, and moving restlessly even as Kimmer watched. A second sweep showed Kimmer the recliner to her right and in the corner, close enough to the window wall that she could barely see it at all—but a pair of clunky men’s combat boots dented the extended footrest.

  Goonboy three made his appearance, still zipping his pants as he appeared from the vicinity of the bathroom. Classy. He went into the kitchen and reappeared in the process of putting on his coat.

  Dammit. Stay inside!

  Kimmer had her hidey-hole planned; she’d use it. But she hesitated until the last possible moment, just long enough to see Carolyne to sit up and ease off the bed, glancing back at her captors as she headed for the window, head bowed in thought.

  The window.

  If Rio saw her there…

  He wouldn’t wait. He’d go to her. At the least he’d expose himself so she would know she wasn’t alone. And he had no idea that he wouldn’t be alone, not for long—

  But Kimmer’s time was up. Even as she hesitated between ducking down and sprinting for the corner to warn off Rio, the goonboy jerked at the damaged door, fighting to open it.

  Rio, don’t!

  But he would. Kimmer might not be able to read him, but she was definitely getting to know him.

  She couldn’t remember feeling more helpless as she dropped to the ground, rolling under the house and into the crawl space. An old spiderweb full of bug husks caught over the side of her face; her ankle fetched up against she knew not what. A rock, a long dead woodchuck…

  Please, no timber rattlers. Or at the least, let them be well into hibernation, slow and cold and possibly not even noticing one petite undercover operative scrambling around.

  Dress shoes clomped down the steps right before her nose; at least one of these men hadn’t come prepared for this woodsy duty. Kimmer squinted out of the darkness to follow their progress, noting the fairly long stride as the goonboy walked along the front edge of the building and turned the corner. Great. He was going to make a circuit, and Rio—if he hadn’t already been spotted—had only one more corner of safety.

  And there, arriving at the back of the house and heading silently for the bedroom window, was a pair of familiar black high-top sneakers. Damn! Kimmer scrabbled through the musty accumulation of detritus in the shallow crawl space, the damp dirt pressing up from below and the building joists scraping her back from above, and finally her gloved fingers closed around a rock. She made a crabbish sideways throw and came up short; before the thing had even rolled to a stop just this side of the crawlspace, she’d found another and flung it, too, her gaze flipping between the city goonboy shoes and Rio’s personable sneakers as the distance between them closed. With the goonboy nearly to the corner and not making nearly as much noise as she wished he was, her third rock caught Rio at the ankle. He jumped back, whirled—

  He was too late. The goonboy shoes stopped short just around the corner and then braced; Rio shifted to sprint away as the goonboy shouted and his gun discharged, breaking the silence with terrifying violence.

  Kimmer winced, squeezing her eyes closed against the inevitable, suddenly unable to breathe against a stunning sense of loss. She waited for the sound of Rio’s body hitting the ground.

  Instead she heard Carolyne’s scream from inside the house above her, the sound of the living-room recliner coming to an abrupt upright position, the thump of combat boots hitting the floor and racing out the front door.

  “I’ve got her!” Only one man remaining inside, his triumphant declaration halting Kimmer’s impulse to squeeze out from under the house and dash inside to snatch up Carolyne. And then, still from inside but directed out to Rio, “Drop that knife or I’ll shoot her.”

  “No,” Rio said, sounding agonized. Emotionally agonized, but not pained. Kimmer’s eyes flew open; she found herself able to breathe again, realizing he hadn’t been badly hurt, maybe not even hit at all. She barely heard him say “You need her.”

  An outside voice chimed in, complete with faint South African accent. Mr. City Shoes. “We can shoot her without killing her, yes? More to the point, we can shoot you without killing her. Though I understand you’re the sadly heroic sort, so let us settle on the fact that we can also simply shoot you both.”

  There’d be no playing games with this man. Kimmer would take him out of the picture at the first opportunity.

  Combat boots arrived at the back of the house, tread heavy. City Shoes said, “You have handcuffs, yes?”

  “Got ’em,” said Combat Boots. Regional help to judge by those two words—gawt ’em.

  City Shoes moved closer to Rio. Just from the set of his feet she could see that he was ready to make a break, just waiting for the moment—but the slight shift of his weight told her he’d glanced back at the window, hesitating—and the goonboy inside, making his point, did something that caused Carolyne to give a faint, short shriek.

  Rio’s knife landed on the ground, a heavy thunk of sound that carried an amazing finality.

  Kimmer rested her forehead on her wrist, the musty ground brushing her nose, and listened to the clicking of handcuffs ratcheting tight.

  It was up to her now.

  If only you’d waited…if only you’d let me finish scoping out the situation…

  And yet she couldn’t blame him. Not with the opportunity so clear. Not with the way he felt about his cousin. And he’d warned her he’d do it—he’d even held hi
mself back until Carolyne went to the window.

  Suddenly Kimmer found herself thinking that she should have been faster, that she should have been able to warn him. If she’d hit him with that first rock, if she’d been fast enough to scoot around the corner of the house when City Shoes first reached for his coat…

  But she hadn’t been, and Rio had been caught out in the open, and now Kimmer had to deal with things as they were.

  She was good at that.

  She looked up again, her head bumping wood. There went the shoes—all three pairs. The knife was gone from the ground, and they marched Rio around the side of the house to the front, where City Shoes gave a peremptory command to the man still inside the house. Soon enough steps clomped against the wood above Kimmer as the final goonboy joined his friends.

  All three of them in one spot.

  As quickly and quietly as she could, Kimmer squiggled around in the tight spot, crawling on her elbows until she was right beneath the stairs, carefully avoiding the slant of sunshine reaching nearly a foot under the crawl space. For the first time she could see them all. Combat Boots—otherwise dressed in outdoorsy khakis and a forest-green chamois shirt—held the gun on Rio, whose tightly cuffed hands rode high and awkward behind his back. The third goonboy conferred closely with City Shoes, a scar-faced individual with a perpetual involuntary sneer. She contorted herself to reach for the Ruger at her thigh, a sure enough shot at this distance—all three of them, one-two-three—and she could release Rio, gather Carolyne up and head straight for the Hunter safehouse.

  She’d barely gotten her hand wrapped around the Ruger grip, her thumb hunting the release strap, when Rio snatched at desperate opportunity. She sucked in a breath of surprise, marveling at his bad timing. Not yet able to draw her gun, too twisted in this tight little house-cave to move quickly whether it was to shoot down the goonboys or to come bursting out into the open and join the fray, Kimmer once again found herself watching, barely able to believe it as Rio twisted around, kicking the legs out from beneath Combat Boots. He pivoted into a high kick with his hands still cuffed behind him, an amazing display of balance and control that sent City Shoes staggering back. Rio went down, then, and an instant later Kimmer saw he hadn’t fallen—he’d merely been somersaulting through the cuffs.

  But the third goonboy wasn’t as unarmed as he’d seemed; he yanked a huge stun gun from his shirttail-covered back pocket and darted forward just as Rio rolled back to his feet, clearly headed for escape, a move of which Kimmer heartily approved. “Go,” she muttered at him. “Go, go, go.”

  As a prayer of sorts, it failed utterly. Combat Boots hit Rio from one side; Goonboy Three hit him from another, arm cocking to jab the stun gun into play. Rio cried out, a harsh, involuntary noise wrenched loose by thousands of volts of electricity, and then the goonboys stepped back as if choreographed, leaving Rio to thump heavily to the ground. Only ten feet away, he sprawled awkwardly, looking straight at Kimmer but without the wherewithal to see her; his eyes held a dazed, lost expression as his body trembled and jerked uncontrollably.

  Kimmer knew for herself the agony of that energy jolt. To judge by that Stun Monster, it’d be another fifteen minutes before Rio’s muscles recovered from the massive energy dump and his nervous system from the disruption. And in the meantime there he was, almost within reach, those rich brown eyes unfocused, reflecting his struggle to reorient himself. Kimmer squelched a distracting wince of empathy—and had a stronger, more surprising surge of protective anger. She controlled it.

  But only until Combat Boots hauled off and gave Rio a solid kick in the ribs, revenge for those moments he’d been overpowered by a prisoner in cuffs. Then Kimmer let the anger flow. Then she pinned the goonboy with her mental laser sights and marked him for no mercy, and she didn’t bother to think about why the moment hit her so deeply.

  Combat Boots drew back for another kick, but City Shoes stepped up. “Restrain yourself. We are not here to play.” And then, as a big hand dipped down to recover the gun lying in the sparse grass, City Shoes spoke even more sharply. “One gunshot was enough. There is no hunting here. Someone might check if you continue to make such noise. Besides, we have a use for him. This is the cousin, yes? We’ve already seen the girl is in a fragile state of mind. She needs convincing, but I don’t believe she can withstand physical encouragement.”

  Combat Boots gave instant protest. “She’ll babble like a baby!”

  “That,” said City Shoes with precise contempt, “is exactly the point. The information she must convey is complex and lengthy. Babble will not do at all.”

  The third goonboy prodded Rio with his foot. “Let’s get him inside, then.” He looked at the damaged front door and for a heart-quickening moment, Kimmer thought he looked straight through the steps at her. But Carolyne must have been standing there—horrified, no doubt—for he said, “Your cousin is in for a rough time unless you start talking to us.”

  And Carolyne, her voice broken and ragged, whispered, “I can’t.”

  No, she damn well couldn’t. Rio would know that. And he’d know, too, that Kimmer would have to take steps to contain the situation if Carolyne broke before Kimmer could somehow arrange to save the day.

  Kimmer fought a sudden surge of resentment—at Hunter for putting her in this position. At Rio, for making her care. And at herself, for being unable to simply do this job and walk away.

  Chapter 12

  Two of the men grabbed Rio by the back of his vest and dragged him inside, careless of the way he banged against the stairs. The door scraped against painted wood flooring as they attempted to close it; Kimmer imagined that the several-inch gap still remained.

  She made herself wait before she dragged herself out from under the building, listening to the sounds from within the house—Carolyne quietly crying, the thumps and bumps of whatever they were doing with Rio, the sound of the toilet flushing, startlingly loud with the plumbing just overhead. Then she crept along the base of the structure and back to her post at the corner of the window—as long as she stayed at the very edge, it was the safest place until the glass came under shadow.

  By the time she’d reached it, she’d also formulated a plan—no more futzing around, no more playing it safe. She’d take the goonboys out through the window with the Ruger—now in her hand—and she’d storm right in to drag Carolyne out. With luck Rio would be more or less on his own power by then.

  And then she got her first look inside. So much for bold, decisive Kimmer Reed.

  For the third goonboy, looking bored and capable, stood so close to Carolyne that Kimmer had no intention of risking a shot—and he looked as if he was there to stay, crowded back against the desk on the far side of the room. Not an impossible shot—but she’d have to expose herself to take it, and by the time she’d nailed him, the others would have created their own havoc. Or if she stayed hidden to deal with the two who were closer and easier, by the time Kimmer reached Carolyne’s human shadow, he’d have had plenty of opportunity to use her as a shield if he was so inclined. Kimmer gave him a frowning inspection, taking in his assertive but relaxed stance, fleshy but strong build, and his perpetually scornful expression under dark hair slicked back to make his harsh features even stronger. He’d kept his cool when Rio had exploded under their noses; he’d been the one to step in with the stun gun.

  She decided to call him Slick. She’d take no chances with him.

  City Shoes bothered her, too. Given his hard, chilly demeanor, she now suspected his single gunshot had missed Rio on purpose, that he’d reacted so quickly he’d already decided to use Carolyne’s cousin against her by the time he pulled the trigger. His horrific scar lent him a sinister air, but even without it he’d have been imposing enough, a lean-to-emaciated figure in a dark, sleek turtleneck and perfectly fitted slacks.

  She’d take no chances with City Shoes, either.

  Combat Boots, on the other hand, wasn’t in their league. Local help, clearly enamored of any opportunity
to use his brawn, but not quick enough in reaction or experienced enough. If Rio had been up against three of Combat Boots, he and Kimmer and Carolyne would be headed for the safehouse near Buffalo right now.

  Instead he lay where he’d been dropped on the dark braided rug, a big body in a small floor space. Combat Boots listened to City Shoes’ quiet but unquestionable directive, looked at Rio, shrugged and bent to pull off Rio’s vest. With the door jammed open and a heating system meant only to handle the cool nights of early spring and late summer, they all wore layers; Carolyne appeared to be bulked up by not one but two sweatshirts.

  City Shoes had a purpose, then. It had nothing to do with removing outdoor clothing in a warm room.

  Combat Boots rolled Rio over to free the vest. It seemed to Kimmer that Rio’s eyes had grown clearer, his twitching now a reflection of his deliberate efforts to move. She wished she had some way to tell him she was still here—not even hidden under the building where she could only chuck rocks at ankles, but here.

  I will, she promised herself. And as soon as she could, she would.

  The vest underwent multiple inspections, but relinquished only a tiny pen and a folded page from a crossword puzzle book. Then off came Rio’s gloves and his sneakers and his old fatigue sweater—all searched—and then, finally, Kimmer began to understand. The search was a convenience, an incidental. The point was to leave Rio feeling vulnerable and defenseless. The point was to horrify Carolyne.

  In that, the ploy was already working. Carolyne winced as they yanked the sweater over Rio’s head; she made an aborted attempt to reach out for him as Boots roughly untangled Rio’s arms from the heavyweight silk thermal beneath. Rio didn’t resist, but this time Kimmer was certain he’d softened the impact as Boots carelessly dropped his head to the floor.

  I’m here, she thought at him. Although maybe it was just as well he didn’t know, not when it meant watching him be stripped—for there went his khakis, leaving him only a pair of dark blue, butt-hugging briefs. Boots withdrew a small Swiss army knife from the front pocket of the jeans, but found them otherwise bereft of the pocket things men usually carried. No change to jingle, no bulky wad of a wallet, no scribbled phone numbers on scraps of paper. He tossed aside the pants and the knife—too insignificant for his concern, it seemed, although Kimmer knew a dozen ways to make him regret that assumption—and then looked at City Shoes in question.