Hidden Steel Page 3

  For the moment.

  Here we go. …

  ~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

  Chapter 3

  Naia Mejjati stopped in the act of placing demure diamond studs in her ears, swamped in a wave of homesickness. It stopped her breath short.

  Not because of the depth of her feelings. No, because she’d had them at all.

  She quite deliberately slipped the back over her earring before thinking or feeling anything else. Then she gave herself a critical eye in the mirror. Foolish girl, she told her reflection—classically Irhaddani, those features. Olive skin, big dark eyes, generous lips and a long nose, delicately shaped. In her own country, she was a beauty. In the United States, she was yet another ethnic set of features not quite conforming to the standards of beauty set by Hollywood and advertising.

  At least in this country, other people could actually see those features. They could see the sparkle of her earrings, the expression of a mouth lightly glossed with color. They could see by her clothes that she was a conservative young woman, but one who understood quality. The composed, appropriate daughter of President Sayid Mejjati.

  None of those things were true in her homeland, where she went veiled outside the presidential household, and where her own people knew only that she existed. The Irhaddan princess in a tower … but it was no fairy tale. It was any woman’s life in Irhaddan.

  True, she hadn’t initially been excited about the prospect of traveling overseas to attend Stanford—her father’s grand gesture to prove that Irhaddan was indeed modernizing its attitudes toward women. Not after her initial schooling was entirely handled by tutors in an extravagant indulgence … a gift from her father to her mother. Not when she was used to the relative anonymity of the veil and chador. Here in the States, anyone could see her—everyone could see her.

  But once she’d gotten used to it …

  She dreaded her graduation, and the inevitable call back to Irhaddan. She’d come here as a symbol, and she’d learned to embrace a different kind of life. She’d even learned to see the corrupt nature of her father’s regime—not her father himself, but his advisors and cabinet members. Her father might be old-fashioned and inflexible, but he honestly strove to lead his people through a tumultuous time in a tumultuous region. Others … had their own agendas.

  And it was for the sake of her father that she’d allowed herself to be drawn into Anna’s world of espionage. She’d quickly understood the value of her contributions—how easy it was for her, a practically invisible member of the presidential family, to pass along details of secure building structures, of overheard conversations. Things that would help the States to keep on top of the corruption her father refused to see.

  Even if Irhaddan intelligence suspected they had a leak, they’d never look to Naia. Not proper, demure Naia, loyal and obedient to her father. They simply neglected to understand that she could distinguish between her father’s efforts and their own.

  And still, it had taken all her nerve to leave the recent notes at her first dead drop exchange. They weren’t even terribly significant notes, not for this practice run. The real intelligence still burned in her memory, acquired during her most recent visit and festering there, waiting for an outlet.

  She could only hope she had the nerve to pass it along. Even now, another wave of homesickness washed over her, and she recognized it for what it truly was.

  Fear.

  * * * * *

  Red blooming Christmas cactus, a silver tabby cat in a bay window, a Bristol Blue Nailsea vase on a serpentine mahogany chest of drawers with a dressing slide above graduated drawers and fluted, canted corners—

  Mickey’s eyes flew open to the view of yellowing acoustic foam ceiling panels. Bristol Blue Nailsea vase? What the—?

  Me. Something about me.

  Not a very useful something, but useful nonetheless.

  “Feeling better?”

  She didn’t startle, because some part of her had known he was there all along. She merely turned her head on a somewhat lumpy pillow, identifying her bed as a narrow cot and the smell in the air an unexpected combination of stringent sweat and old gym mats. She found him sitting in a folded chair beside an old metal desk, ankle propped on one knee, T-shirt snug across his chest. Day-old stubble framed striking lips, the set of which suggested that his lower jaw didn’t quite fit neatly inside the upper. Curly black hair gone beyond the need for a haircut topped off deep, expressive black eyes. Greek god.

  Except this wasn’t heaven or Olympus. Just a gym she’d stumbled into. A tiny office in that gym, complete with the old desk and its computer monitor perched at one corner, the kickboxing awards and photographs, and a corner coat rack holding colorful satin workout gear and a brown belt tangled in lightweight boxing gloves.

  He didn’t seem bothered by her failure to answer; he just nodded at the desk, where a paper plate held a sandwich and an apple accompanied by a tumbler. “Think food might help?”

  “God, yes,” she blurted.

  He smiled—but if his expression held understanding and compassion, there was something reserved there, too. “Can you sit up, or is it lunch in bed?”

  “I can sit,” she assured him. She could even stand to get there, and though she still felt weak and wobbly, the haze had lifted. The drugs, out of her system at last. She applied herself to the turkey and Swiss on whole wheat, drinking the accompanying milk with enough gusto to leave a mustache.

  “Looks like it’s been a while,” he observed. He seemed relaxed enough, but she got the impression he was ready for …

  Something.

  “I wouldn’t know,” she said, but looked with regret at the last bite of sandwich. Her unthinking response didn’t seem to surprise him any more than the other oddities that had come along with her—oversized scrubs, oversized shoes, the blood splatter from the erstwhile doctor’s battered nose. His stomach growled, and she looked at him in sudden realization. “I just ate your lunch.”

  “There’s more where that came from.”

  She wasn’t so sure. Nothing about this place gave her the impression of goods to spare.

  “You missed the street class,” he said. “But there’s another one in an hour, if you want to sit in on it and get an idea of how we work around here. It’s my tough love class, but the principles are the same—self-defense for the streets.”

  He thought she’d come for a class?

  She vaguely remembered the room full of people she’d seen upon arrival here, all awkwardly assuming the same balanced pose. Street defense classes for street people? Okay, it made a certain amount of sense.

  “It’s free,” he said, misinterpreting her hesitation. “As long as you don’t have an address, that is.”

  “No,” she murmured. “No address.” And her thoughts moved more swiftly then, almost without bothering to consult her. Perfect cover, this—street person, new to the streets. Needing help. Blending in with the others. Let him think she’d come for his class. It’d give her time.

  Give her the chance to figure out what was really going on. Who she was.

  Who wanted to get their hands on her.

  * * * * *

  Only after she’d wolfed down Steve’s lunch did she offer her name. “Mickey,” she told him, halfway through the apple. “My name is Mickey. Mickey Finn.”

  For the first time, she startled him. “You’re kidding,” he said, and instantly wished he could take the words back. Those with reality issues had enough of people disbelieving them. Patronizing them. It didn’t matter whether what they saw or heard was real to him—it was real to them.

  But she didn’t take it amiss. “Not kidding,” she told him. “It’s the only name I know.”

  “Come on out to the gym,” he said. “Grab some soap from the freebies barrel—there’s a shower in the locker room. I ought to have some clothes that will fit better than those, too.” He always had such things on hand—donations or culled from the thrift store. And he couldn’t help but eye the
blood splattered on her oversized scrubs.

  “You’re just dying to ask, aren’t you?” She said it with a smile at the very corners of her mouth, nibbling the apple right down to the seeds. She looked better with the food hitting her system; she seemed clearer.

  It happened that way all the time. Moments of clarity, and then back into their own little worlds… “I’m worried,” he said, having long ago learned that simple truthfulness was best. “If you’ve been off your meds long, there’s a chance you could have done something you didn’t mean to do.” And then he said what he always said. “If you need anything, I can recommend a good clinic.”

  Those bright, strong eyes shuttered, then cleared with sudden understanding. “Oh,” she said. “I’m fine, really. I got these—” but she stopped, assessing him with quick skill that somehow seemed totally out of place, her gaze flicking from his casual gym wear to his oh-so-Greek features, and then around the office. Whatever she’d been about to say, she didn’t. She shook her head, and explained simply, “The clothes came this way. They’re scrubs; they were used. Doesn’t seem like a big mystery to me.” She plucked at the scrub shirt. “I couldn’t be more grateful for a shower, though.”

  “With the offshore flow driving the temps up, you’re not alone.” He shifted to get up, to show her the way to the showers, but something on her face stopped him. A softness … no, more than that. She saw him as a person, not a vague figurehead. She responded to him as a person. He couldn’t stop his mouth from saying, “What?”

  “Just … thank you.” She tossed the apple core toward the wastebasket, got it in one. “A shower, and then I need to—” But apparently she wasn’t going to say that out loud. She finished, “Looks like I stumbled into the right place.”

  “I hope so,” he said, not expecting the fervency of it—or the sudden doubt that he could do right by this woman … that she wasn’t his average needy visitor. He wondered, with more than the usual curiosity, what those unspoken words had been.

  But she just grinned at him, unfolding from the bed with the grace of a petite cat. Also not expected, given that she was nearly as tall as his five-nine, but there all the same.

  He tabled his curiosity and led her to the freebies barrel and then along the back hallway—let’s face it, a crummy back hallway no matter how he threw disinfectant around—and to the showers. He showed her the facilities, and headed back out to the gym. The kids would be trickling in soon, drawn to this safe place. Here, they could shoot a few hoops without being hassled or getting caught up in someone else’s conflict. San Jose wasn’t big on drive-by shootings, but in this area … the kids didn’t take anything for granted. They noticed everything that happened, they kept an eye on the intrusions from other, even less savory neighborhoods, and since they’d been coming here, they’d learned to share what they saw. To be strong together.

  Satisfaction. Not a feeling that could be faked, or artificially induced. Hard work, bearing fruit. Steve listened to them, quickly deducing the buzz of the day: several upscale cars had been cruising the streets, their occupants staring into dark corners and focusing on the features of every young Caucasian woman they passed. Looking for someone … not finding them. Not cops, the kids deduced. Someone more nefarious.

  Curiosity and coincidence collided. Except this is life, Spaneas, not a James Bond movie.

  Mickey Finn appeared just as class was about to start, straight hair drying into a sophisticated, face-framing cut, shorts and borrowed tank top revealing much in the way of wiry muscle. She might be hungry, but it hadn’t been so long since she’d been in much better circumstances—since she’d been someone who took good care of herself. He watched long enough to see her settle cross-legged against the padded back wall, then turned his attention to class. All basic stuff, this class—about balance, about always being prepared—and a whole lot about how running away is always the best option. They practiced that, too—making opportunities to run, being alert enough to run before anything ever really happened. With some, the lesson was a lost cause—but others had become more thoughtful over time.

  Near the end of the hour, several kids trickled away; sparring partners shifted around. Inevitably, Clinton—thirteen, gawky, too much in the way of teeth for the size of his mouth and simply born to be the Kid Who Gets Picked On—stood alone.

  Not for long. Mickey had been so quiet that Steve forgot she was there—at least, until she stood and lined herself up with Clinton, glancing at Steve for permission. “Can I play?”

  “You feeling well enough?”

  “Fine,” she said, though she lifted one shoulder in acknowledgment of the not-so-distant past and the faint it had contained. “Just for a few moments, okay? As long as my partner here takes it easy.”

  Class was almost over anyway. Steve looked at Clinton, assessing whether the boy found this flattering or embarrassing. With thirteen year-olds who spent a lot of time looking down at their amazingly big feet, it was sometimes hard to tell, but he thought the faintly visible flush on Clinton’s dark skin was pleasure and not agonizing embarrassment.

  Well, hell, he’d take Mickey Finn as a sparring partner any day. Legs more than long enough to reach the ground, plenty of shape lurking beneath that second-hand tank top. Just proved Clinton was no dummy. So he nodded, and he demonstrated the move he wanted the class to practice—a simple escape from a threatening frontal grab. “Remember,” he told them. “Assertiveness counts; quickness counts. And size isn’t everything. I have to look up to half of you, but I can take down any one of you.” He gave a few of them a meaningful eye. “And have.”

  That got the ducked heads and rueful grins he’d been expecting, but he’d said the words with affection and the kids knew to take them the same way. Three years here and he knew them all. And so he knew that when Malik—one of the lifters, with good muscle and size for his fifteen years—headed for Clinton, his carefully neutral expression meant trouble.

  “Ow!” A girl’s voice slid straight up to ultrasonic upper registers in both annoyance and pain. Only Lucia had that particular skill. “You’re not supposed to be hitting!”

  “Be ready,” her older sister told her righteously, parroting Steve’s frequent words.

  “Hermanas,” Steve said, and would have left them to work it out if he hadn’t seen the honest tears brimming in Lucia’s eyes—and the red mark just below one of those eyes.

  “She did that thing you showed us last time,” Lucia said. “That thumb thing.”

  “Sarita,” Steve groaned, and went to check the damage—hoping for the best from Malik.

  But the rest of the class had sensed there was nothing of the best in Malik this day—no one was practicing. They’d dropped their ready stances and turned to the back corner of the gym. Even Lucia grew distracted as Steve checked her eye, transferring her attention outward. “Dammit,” Steve muttered, savoring the impulse to toss Malik out for a week. He turned to see the last thing he’d expected.

  Mickey Finn was the one who faced Malik. Clinton stood uncertainly to the side, torn between the visible impulse to offer Mickey his manly protection and the obvious wisdom of staying as inconspicuous as possible. Steve checked his own impulse to rush in; Malik was obsessed with proving his own virile young manliness, but his goal would be to show up Clinton, not to hurt Mickey. And Mickey herself didn’t look the least worried. Huh.

  “Of course she’s getting away,” Malik said, lacing his words with scorn. “The way you holding her? You gotta get all up in her grill, a’ight?”

  Clinton, wisely, said nothing. For one thing, his mother had been an English teacher and he couldn’t match Malik’s street-smart talk on his best day. For another, Malik didn’t leave him the opportunity. He stepped forward to grab Mickey’s arm, setting himself against her inevitable resistance—the instinctive shove and ineffective wiggling of any untrained victim.

  Except Mickey didn’t shove. While the other kids gathered around Steve, reacting with various disapproving n
oises, Mickey set her own feet in a perfectly balanced stance—and she pulled. Malik staggered forward in astonishment, and Mickey was the one who stepped into the movement, driving through with a fisted blow that came from the center of her body. Precise, driven, full of all the power left in that exhausted body—

  By the time Steve realized she’d aimed that blow at the kid’s throat—a killing blow—it was too late even to cry out a warning.

  The sound of that impact generated a tangible knot of dread. Steve had known it would come one day, that this intersection of haven and violence, teens and street people, would produce injury. But he hadn’t expected this clean efficiency … he hadn’t expected it would come from a woman who’d seemed quite nearly sane.

  And then he realized that Malik was still standing. Coughing, choking, his eyes wide with astonishment and his hands gone to his throat … but still standing. And that Mickey had returned to a poised ready stance so balanced it could bring tears to a trainer’s eyes, her blow pulled with the precision of a surgeon—but with enough power remaining to give the young man a wake-up call.

  Steve didn’t for a moment think it was accidental.

  And then the authority flowed out of Mickey’s body and she staggered slightly, rising from the ready stance to look down at her hands with no less astonishment than Malik. The kid backed away from her with a wary eye, rubbing his throat. The others could have jeered at him then, but that wasn’t the way of Steve’s classes. The gym wasn’t a dojo; wasn’t structured over centuries of tradition and procedure. But Steve did demand respect—for himself and for the other participants. So while part of him watched Mickey waver, the rest of him caught Malik’s attention. “You know the rules,” he said. “You just messed with Clinton and Mickey both. Another time, I’d put you on notice. This time … I think you’ve taken enough of a hit.”