Hidden Steel (25 page)

“I don’t follow you.” And she didn’t. She was too focused on the here and now. San Jose. Today. Stopping this. She thought she could cause a pretty big ruckus at CapAd.Com. She thought she might just march on down to the Irhaddan embassy and make a public demand to speak to Naia. She wasn’t sure either of those things was the least bit wise, but it was all overridden by that overwhelming need to—

Fix it. Stop it. Make it better.

“So if you wanted to hide some nice WMDs, where would you do it? In the place where you have to dodge inspections and constant spy eyes, or in a place no one worries about?”

“I can’t believe Mejjati would—” Mickey stopped herself. So she had an opinion about that, did she?

Steve noted it, glancing sharply at her, but let it pass. “What if the president doesn’t know?” He lowered his voice, going from casual conversation fodder to something more pointed. “What if you really are with Foreign Services, and what if you’ve talked a young woman with unique access into keeping her eyes open for you because the CIA is beginning to suspect what the president doesn’t know?”

Mickey felt an odd rush of relief. “Then I wouldn’t have talked her into spying on her own father. In a way … she would be working
for
him. Protecting him.”

Steve shrugged, offering enough reservation so Mickey knew he didn’t buy any hint of altruism on the CIA’s part. “Look,” he said. “We’ve got a lot of information. We know who you are. I know you couldn’t trust those two at the underpass, but they didn’t shoot us, right? Kinda backs up their story. Don’t you think we should somehow call—-”

“No,” Mickey said, more sharply than she’d meant to. “They’d lock us away in isolated rooms until they could be sure we were playing things straight. They’d do what they think is best for the States, not for Naia. We don’t go to the authorities—
any
authorities—until Naia is safe.”

Steve gave her an even look. “I don’t know if that’s truly in her best interest,” he said. “I can’t argue with you … they’ll snatch us up and throw us under bright lamps until they’re happy they’ve gotten all the answers. But if Naia still has information, surely they’d—”

“No,” Mickey said, simply enough. “Agency turf wars, bad communications, international pressure … those things will all come before Naia. Especially if they think they can get their intel another way, now that they’re alert for it.”

He absently touched his shirt, there in the spot where it must have felt damp against his skin; the dark stain almost showed through. “I guess …” he said, his thoughts taking him inward, “I guess even if they responded, they wouldn’t do it in time.” And then he indicated the monitor again. She leaned over his shoulder and tapped the shift key to disengage the screensaver and read the email on display there.

Dear A:

Thank you for your interest. I am indisposed but well. I still love working on my pottery and will come as soon as I have the opportunity. I am pleased that my piece is being fired tonight.

Naia

And Mickey felt an instant jolt of fear. “They’ve got to be monitoring her email. She’s got to know—”

“She does,” he said. “Look at what she’s written. She’s trying to make them think she’s putting A. off. And I think she’ll try to meet you tonight. Meet
us
.”

She frowned at him, wanted to tell him there’d be no
us
about it, not if they were getting into the thick of it. But rather than get off track just then, she said, “It can’t work. They’ve got to realize—”

“It
might
,” he said. “Look—what is it they want to know? What Naia’s told you. They aren’t sure of her one way or another. They need irrefutable proof before they act. They may not even believe it themselves. She’s an isolated young woman from a culture that keeps its women behind closed doors. What if they don’t suspect her of active involvement—what if they think it’s all your doing, that you’ve siphoned information from her? They won’t expect active spy games from her.”

The frown deepened into a scowl. “That’s an awful lot of
iffing
. With too much riding on it.”

“And nothing to lose from being at that warehouse this evening. Because you know what? I looked at that firing schedule yesterday. Her stuff’s not on it.”

“And her piece … isn’t ready.” Mickey pressed the heels of her hands against her eyes, a wave of self-recrimination battering up against her. “I’m such an idiot. I should be the one figuring out these details.”

“You’ve got a lot on your mind,” Steve said. And then, when she lifted her hands to give him a silent
oh, please
, he added, all innocence, “Or a lot
off
your mind, whichever way you want to look at it. The point is … I think she’ll be there tonight. So no, you can’t borrow the bike. I think you should be there tonight too.”

“And if she doesn’t show?”
If she’s dead, if she can’t get away, if that’s not what she meant in the first place—

“Then tomorrow, you can borrow the bike.”

* * * * *

“It’s a Glock 36,” Mickey said, holding the gun on display in one hand. It sat there comfortably. Too comfortably. And she knew …

She knew far too much about it.

“The magazine holds six rounds; there’s one in the chamber. Only thing you have to do to fire it is pull the trigger—it’s got a heavy pull, though. It’ll take you by surprise the first couple of times.”

“I hope it always takes me by surprise,” Steve muttered. He sat beside her on her air mattress, both of them cross-legged. The spoils from Mickey’s shopping excursions were spread out before them—ropes and carabineers and harnesses, a new knife or two, a handful of broad-head hunting arrows. He was to stay out of sight, she’d told him—he was her secret weapon—and thanks to the silence of the bow, he could do some damage before they located him. But once that happened, he’d need to know how to use the gun.

“This is the magazine catch, in case you need to reload. We’ve got a couple of extras now. This model sometimes doesn’t quite let go of the magazine, so don’t expect it to come shooting out like in the movies.”

“Right,” he said, and his voice still very much indicated his disbelief that he was even having this conversation. But when she checked his expression, she found his eyes deep and dark and loaded with determination. She reminded herself …this was a man who taught self-defense for a living. Who knew his body; knew his capabilities. Who could pose for a sculptor any day, beautifully formed and proportioned and muscled.

It was his heart she worried about.

She quit biting her lip and cleared her throat. “Here’s the thing—it’s a lightweight gun, and it’s shooting .45 ammo. That means lots of recoil. Don’t go for the
blamblamblam
style of shooting—your gun’s just going to kick higher and higher. Aim a little lower than you think you should.” She chewed on her lower lip a moment, wondering if she’d told him enough—wondering if she’d remembered everything.

Didn’t really matter. She’d told him what she could. “Here,” she said. “This one’s yours.”

He took it. He turned it over in his hands and said, “You know I’m not going to hit anything, no matter how much advice you give me.”

Probably not. And probably just as well that way. She said, “It’ll be covering fire.” And then she said, “You’re sure—”

He held up one hand. “Mickey. Do you really think I’m going to just walk away?”

She opened her mouth for a flippant response, and decided he deserved better. Looked at him, then—looked closely. Late afternoon light barely lit the third floor of the warehouse, hindered by the dirt-filmed windows, but it was enough to see that his dark brows and impossible lashes framed eyes that couldn’t have been more sincere. Totally aware of what he’d done, of how his life was changing with each passing moment. He couldn’t go back to the gym right now even if he wanted to … but she didn’t think he’d go even if he could.

He met her scrutiny unfazed. “It’s not just about you anymore, Mickey. And even if it was—if it always had been—this is one I want to see to the end. This is one where the people I care about—where the
person
I care about—is going to
win
, dammit.”

She wasn’t so sure the odds supported such determination. But she understood. He’d lost too much to look at it any other way. Anthony and now maybe Mosquito, the satisfying world he’d created for himself … and quite possibly everything he’d ever thought he was. Or hoped he’d be.

All because she’d lost herself more thoroughly than he’d ever imagined before she’d stumbled into his gym.

So maybe she owed him the chance to help make this a win.

Without planning it, she said, “Every morning I wake up not knowing. Have you ever done that? You wake up and you have no idea where you are, what day it is, how you got there … and then you grasp at glimmers of remembering, until suddenly there you are in your own home, in your own bed, and it’s Tuesday, and you’ve got coffee on a timer in your own kitchen and things you plan to do that day.” She added a box of ammo to the semi-automatic she’d just given him, as matter-of-factly as though they did this every day. “But that never happens to me. I never wake up all the way. I fake it through each day, wondering when I’ll know how I got here in the first place.”

“Antiques,” Steve said, and winced, looking as though he hadn’t truly intended to say anything at all. But he’d said it with such certainty—

“You
found
me?” And then, “You found me and you didn’t
tell
me?”

“You said—”

She’d said she didn’t want to know. That it would muddle her thinking, confusing two different issues. That if it didn’t trigger the right memories, it would only get in the way of thinking through the situation—of figuring out how to find Naia and keep her safe. So she shook her head, sharply. “I know. I said I didn’t—” But she couldn’t finish the thought, too overrun by new ones. “You know more than my name? You know who I am? What I do? At least, what the world thinks …” She stopped again, trying to order her thoughts. Fat chance of that. “Antiques?”

He nodded, watching her with wary caution. She couldn’t blame him … she’d already shown that mixing past and present could trigger brittle reactions. He added, “High end antiques, from what I can tell. Exclusive. Commissions. Finder’s fees and treasure hunts.”

She’d been right. The table, the vase, the candlesticks—even the cat. She’d been right. She’d found that little piece of herself, by herself.

“Hey,
hey
,” Steve said. “You’re not—you
are
—”

Crying. She was crying. “Happy!” she choked, and offered him a watery smile. And she meant it. As much as the emotion had ambushed her, she meant it. Because maybe one of these days …

She’d wake up not knowing, and she’d grasp at glimmers of remembering … and she’d find them.

* * * * *

Steve must have understood, for he put his arm around her shoulders and drew her in, and there in the midst of weapons and gear and hopes and escape plans, they sat together in silence. They listened to the noises below—the scraping of chairs and increased conversation and laughter, drifting up the stairwell to tell them the late afternoon class had ended. Shifting them closer to the evening, when they hoped for Naia to appear. They waited for the noise of the class exodus to fade away, and then in tacit accord, shifted away from one another.

The air felt cool on Mickey’s side and shoulder where she’d been so comfortable against him; reality felt cold against her bones. She said, “Let’s talk about rappelling.”

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

Chapter 19

Naia thought she might be ill. She sat at her desk, dressed as though she’d actually gone to classes, the room tidy and clean around her, ostensibly typing notes for her art history architectural comparisons paper. And quite, quite sure she was going to be sick.
Hasbun Allah wa ni’am al-wakil.
Words of solace, and she clung to them.

It’s going to happen
, Anna had told her when she asked about being in a tight situation.
But you have the power to turn it into nothing. To keep it unrealized.

Out in the small living room, the television muttered, set to the sports station Fadil Hisami liked to watch. Badra worked her embroidery, patiently fulfilling her duties as she thought Naia’s father would desire.

Except Naia’s father would never imprison her like this. He might well choose to confine her to the apartment—for her own safety, to prevent misunderstandings, even in censure. But not without speaking to her about it. Not without making sure she understood why.

No, this wasn’t coming from her father at all. It wasn’t something he’d want, no matter what Fadil Hisami said. And that meant he probably knew nothing of this situation.

Fadil still limped. Once she’d seen blood staining his trousers. It gave her a grim satisfaction she hadn’t known she could feel at someone else’s misfortune. But now … now it meant he wouldn’t be as fast as normal. It meant she might be faster.

And it meant she had reason to be faster.

Her stomach turned.

Fear is good; we should listen to what it tells us, and then use it—but not be used
by
it. So put that part of yourself away. Close it into a little bubble of elsewhere
.

Naia imagined a bubble of elsewhere. She imagined her fear floating off in that bubble. She pictured it clearly, floating off into the dark recesses of her inner self. She returned to her work and hit
print
, and as soon as the page was done, fed it back for the second side. When it was done she folded it into a tiny rectangle, and while she folded it, she electronically shredded the file. No getting that one back.

Hisami’s cell phone burbled; Naia started. Fear flooded her—animal fear, heart-pounding, gut-churning—

For the care with which she was being treated would last only so long as it was expedient. And once she made this move, she would no longer be expedient at all. She would kick the situation into a crisis for those behind it.