Terms of Surrender (47 page)

She saw it before it happened. Whether it was Josh's vision of her in a two-piece or her eating ice cream that was the kid's undoing, she couldn’t say, but when he reached behind him for the handle of his cart, he missed and overturned several cups. Coffee and tea went flying.

Nova didn't think, just rushed forward to help him. She bent to retrieve cups and sop up the spill, and banged her forehead into his. "Yowch!"

"Sorry!" He rubbed his head, glanced around him at the floor. "Oh, man, what a mess!"

Rubbing her head, she put her free hand on Josh's shoulder to steady him. "Josh, take a few deep breaths and settle down. We'll clean it up together."

"But the carpet…"

"Josh."

He took a couple of deep breaths and closed his eyes. "Right. Calm."

"Good." And if she were lucky, he’d stay that way until he got out of her office. Nova was ready to escape to an early lunch. She needed a break now more than ever, if not to clear her aching head, then to start making sense of her earlier vision and re-energize her search.

* * * *

Ransom could barely hear the dare over his pounding heart, the prospect of doing something inherently antisocial, not to mention illegal, pumping him full of adrenaline.

He was really going to do it this time. Had to, no way not to and still save face. He thought the snatch part should be easy, the running part even easier. He was one of the fastest kids in his ninth grade fitness class; the track coach wanted him to try out for the team.

"You up for it, Ran? Do this and you're officially in," Eddie said.

He liked the sounds of that. He wanted to be in.

Eddie was one of the cool kids, part of the "in" crew at school. Ran still couldn’t believe they’d been willing to take him, the new and really young kid from the suburbs, under their wing. They weren't a gang—Uncle Zane would never have gone for that—but the kids in the clique were all at least two or three years older than he was, not much better in his uncle's book.

Not that Uncle Zane was happy about any of the kids he hung out with anyway. He was never too happy about much of anything that Ran did. Like now. This stunt would severely piss the guy off, which was probably part of the reason he was doing it. He kinda liked the idea of pissing off his uncle, except for the wrath-of-Zane part. He didn't know any kid who wanted to stand around and listen to an hour-long lecture about his choice of friends, or his taste in gear, or the messiness of his room, or how irresponsible he was, going through a generous allowance every week like water.

But all that stuff was small potatoes compared to some of the other stuff he’d been doing lately, to what they wanted him to do now. He had to do it though, no two ways. A dare was a dare, and he’d chickened out too many times before. Pretty soon, his friends would be thinking he was soft and wouldn't let him hang around with them anymore. Ransom couldn't have that.

His reputation was on the line.

"He won't do it. He's gonna punk out, just like last time."

Darryl always had something negative to say. He didn't think Ransom was worth the time or energy to even hang around with.

"No, he won't," Eddie said.

Ransom stopped himself short of hugging homeboy, yo. Eddie was cool like that, always standing up for him. He wasn't such a bad guy, once you got past the hard rock, Mr. Cool exterior to know him. Out of all the crew—Darryl, Hector, and Jamie—Eddie was the one who could have been his friend in another place and time, the most like Kevin, his best friend since kindergarten. He didn't even want to think about Kevin how. After his mom died, Ran had had to leave him behind when he moved from Newburgh to the city to live with his uncle.

"'Sides, we got your back, Ran. No worries."

"Bet." Ran rubbed his hands together, searching the streets for a mark.

Broad daylight, lots of people out enjoying the warm weather. This wasn't going to be easy, but then that was the point.

He spotted her. Hot-looking shorty, all business in an above-the-knee charcoal skirt and matching jacket. Silky nude stockings encased shapely legs that curved up to round hips and a slim waist before finally exploding into nice, palm-size breasts.

Ran got hard; it had been happening a lot lately, and for no particular reason—but he didn't know if it was because the honey looked so hot or because of what he was planning to do to her.

He got to her eyes and tried not to look, but couldn't help himself. She had a pair of peepers that could make a grown man weep. Dark-brown, almond shaped, they looked like Japanese anime come to life. Honey was tight, had the whole Cablanasian thing going. And Ransom had always liked Tia Carrere.

Darryl elbowed him in the ribs. "Yo, I see you scoping the business suit. Go for it. That's a nice bag. Should be a good payoff."

Gucci, and it looked real too, no cheap knock-off. His mother had had one just like it, had saved up for several months, even on a private teacher's salary, to get it. She’d wanted to treat herself to quality one Christmas.

Yeah, the bag was nice, but Ran didn't care about that kind of payoff. That wasn't what he was doing this for.

He needed to do this before he thought too much more on it. He really shouldn't have looked into her eyes—the windows of the soul, his mother always used to tell him—because they showed him things, even at a brief glance, he was sure he didn't want to know.

"Get ready man, she's comin' closer," Darryl said. "We'll back you up."

Ransom drifted towards the honey on automatic pilot.

She had pep to her step, switching with a purpose as she talked into the mouthpiece of her headset. She slashed the air with her handheld, excitement and animation punctuating every gesture. Someone on the other end was getting an earful.

When she was a couple of yards away, Ran veered towards her, right hand out to swipe the bag, but she had the strap diagonally across her body—the dangerous, New York City way—

and it caught around her neck.

Her Palm Pilot hit the concrete as she snared his wrist. "Why you
little
…"

Ransom tried to yank away his arm and the cone she had in her other hand went flying as she struggled with him. Rainbow sprinkles and vanilla ice cream splattered, showering them both as they scuffled.

Ransom heard his friends whooping behind him, cheering him on as he tried to jerk out of her grasp, and several onlookers gasped in horror.

Damn, she was strong and she wasn't giving up the bag. He jerked his arm again as hard as he could and his elbow struck her under the eye and caught in the wire of her headset. He pulled and the headset went flying off her head, crashing to the pavement like her handheld. His other hand was still wrapped tight around the purse strap.

"Just give up the bag, shorty!" His heart thundered in his ears. He hadn't realized it would be this hard. It always looked so smooth and easy in the movies.

Honey was mumbling and ranting about no-manners-having, baggy-clothes-wearing thugs violating people in broad daylight. Sheesh, she was lecturing him before his uncle Zane could even get to him.

Ran grabbed the strap with both hands. One mighty yank, and she ducked her head to slide out of it. He thought she was giving it up, but she caught him by an arm as he tried to make a run for it, did some funky martial arts spin on him. Before he knew it, she had his arm twisted behind his back and his palm bent towards his elbow and was steering him to the cement facedown.

A crowd of passers-by gathered around them. Ran could no longer hear his friends whooping over the cheers of support and triumphant applauding.

And that was when the cops showed up, two alighting from a squad car at the nearest curb.

"Need any help, ma'am?"

He could hear the laughter in one of the cops’ voices. He hadn't even noticed their approach, he’d been so intent on getting the hottie's bag. And obviously his friends
had
noticed, because they were all gone, scattered to the wind, nowhere to be found. They’d left him alone.

He should have been used to desertion by now.

"Thanks for meeting with me on such short notice, Mr. Youngblood."

"No problem." Zane stood and reached across his desk, shaking the young woman's outstretched hand. "I'll see you for next week's session?"

"Be there or be square."

Zane smiled as Manuela left, amazed by the child's resilience and sunny attitude. And despite being with child, she
was
just a child, a young girl who’d made some mistakes and had a lot of other baggage to deal with. Domestic violence, homelessness, and sexual abuse all ran rampant through her troubled history.

It had been a good session, productive, but Zane wasn't fooling himself. He still had a long way to go with Manuela. He felt positive about the outcome, however, knew deep down that he could help this girl. Maybe because she wanted so much to be helped. That was half the battle. It was a battle he wished he could wage at home half as successfully, but no matter what he said or did, it always seemed to be the wrong thing, always drove the wedge between Ransom and him deeper, pushing them apart rather than drawing them together.

He was a competent professional, clinically trained, experienced in substance and child abuse and other mental health issues, with all sorts of degrees and certificates under his belt to prove it. But when it came to dealing with his own flesh and blood, he was a complete novice.

Why did he find it so easy to deal with other people's children and not his own nephew?

He didn't believe for a minute it was because he had no emotional investment at stake.

Even after the years with Child and Adult Protective Services, when his recommendations routinely ripped a child from its mother's embrace or split up siblings, he still got choked up.

He’d been a social worker with the New York City public school system for a couple of years now and he hadn't left behind the emotional roller coaster, or the pain of that other life. He was still bombarded daily with children in trouble—teen pregnancies, misbehavior in class, truancy, and child and substance abuse.

It unnerved him to know that his own nephew fell right into some of the same categories as Manuela and so many of the other high-risk teens he dealt with every day, and he was finding it harder and harder to communicate with the kid. Shouting, of course, didn't work; it only made things worse. No matter the decibel level of his messages, everything he said seemed to go in one ear and out the other, so he tried to stay away from that route as much as possible. Time-out didn't work, and corporal punishment wasn't an option, not for Zane. He’d decided early on he’d never raise a hand to the boy—the kid had had enough of that from his father before Sage found the courage to give the no-good bastard the boot.

He’d tried everything to make the kid's adjustment a little smoother, everything short of conducting a séance and channeling Sage so that the boy could have one more moment with his dead mother. If he could have done that, though, he would have, and not just for Ransom's sake.

More than a year later, he still missed his sister; she’d been his other half, his better half.

She’d saved his life. He couldn't have paid her back if he’d tried, but the mess he was making with Ran's life was a piss-poor effort if he’d ever seen one.

Zane took a deep breath and collapsed into his swivel chair. He pressed a thumb and finger to his burning eyes, knowing they were bloodshot from another sleepless night spent worrying about his next move with Ran. It was as if he were in a chess match with a master against whom he had no hopes of winning.

A shiver went up his spine when he leaned back and the chair squeaked under his 190-pound frame. He jerked up as if he’d sat on a tack someone had placed in the seat.

Zane felt it right away—rainbow colors of emotion bursting bright behind his eyes—fear, frustration, indignation, and fight-or-flight adrenaline spiking through his veins. Ever since Ransom was born, he'd had this link to the kid, had known when he was hurt, sick, tired, or in trouble. He didn't know if this was because he and the boy's mother were twins, with all the intimate connections this entailed, or if it was because he had been Sage's coach and one of the first to hold Ran in the delivery room, forging his own bond with him. But he knew the connection existed.

Lately, however, it hadn't given him any insight into the teenager's troubled psyche.

And…it wasn't all Ran who Zane was feeling right now. There was another, her emotions red-hot and seething, merging with and overwhelming his nephew's until they were almost one.

What the hell was happening to him?

Zane leapt to his feet, breaking the connection. He staggered to his office's open window, leaned a forearm against the jamb and pulled in the warm Indian summer air.

He’d never been sucked into a link that strongly before. It was as if he was in Ransom's skin—feeling the boy's confusion and tension, grappling with a woman over something—not just an observer feeling some of his nephew's emotions.

And what was the boy doing outside the school at this time of day unless he was cutting classes…again?

Damn it!

Zane turned back to his office as the phone rang and reached for it with a heavy heart.

After the recent spate of prank calls he’d been receiving at the school and at home—phantoms from his past position with CAPS resurfacing to haunt him—Zane didn't have a positive feeling about what or who was on the other end.

* * * *

Blue-
interrogation-room scary. Time-bitten wood furniture abounded—the table he sat at, the chairs surrounding it—all complemented by a soldierly row of scratched, dented, and mismatched metal filing cabinets.

The place could have been mistaken for a large storage room but for the five-by-five cell that dominated a corner of the decrepit wood floor.

Ran swallowed hard as he glanced at the steel monstrosity then looked away.