Authors: Ken Goddard
"Cash, if you don't mind." Lightstone withdrew the nylon pouch from behind his back and counted out twenty-five one-hundred-dollar bills. "I'm not much for credit cards or checking accounts," he explained as he pushed the pile across the counter. "Lot easier to keep track of your money when you can actually see and feel it."
"A man after my own heart." The owner quickly recounted the notes, his sharp eyes automatically noting the worn condition of the bills and the widely varying serial numbers. "Tell you what," he looked even more cheerful once he dropped the folded bills into the safe slot under the cash register, "why don't you pick out your jacket, gloves, and helmet while I work out a receipt, and we'll get you and that Honda on your way."
At nearly eight o'clock that evening, the woman was clearing the last of the tables when she heard a motorcycle rumble into the parking lot.
She glanced up through the screen door and vaguely noticed the dark, leather-jacketed figure stepping onto the porch with his helmet in hand.
"Don't turn everything off yet, Danny. Looks like we've got one more customer," she called out to the cook. She continued wiping the last table with her back to the door while the motorcycle rider entered the dining area and pulled out a chair.
"Welcome to the Dogsfire Inn," she greeted him without looking up. "Be with you in just a second."
"No hurry," the rider replied.
The sound of his voice caused her to freeze. Then Karla turned slowly and stared at him for a good ten seconds.
"Never mind, Danny," she called out toward the kitchen. "Go ahead and shut down." Then she walked slowly toward Henry Lightstone.
"Does that mean dinner's out of the question?" Lightstone asked.
"I thought. . ." She stopped and shook her head. "I thought we decided we all needed to cool off for a while. You, me, Sasha, your macho playmates."
"I don't know about anyone else, but I'm so cooled off right now, what I really need is to thaw out." Lightstone gestured toward the helmet, leather jacket, and gloves resting on the nearby chair. "And those yahoos weren't my playmates. I never saw either one of them before today."
"Do you do that a lot?"
"What?"
"Make such violent first impressions on people?" Her gold-flecked green eyes locked onto his.
The covert agent met her gaze squarely. "I was raised in a fairly strait-laced household. My mom insisted I say 'yes, ma'am' and 'no, ma'am,' and be polite to my elders, you know, help ladies cross the street whether they really need help or not."
He deliberately emphasized the word "ladies" just to see how she'd react. When he saw her hand ball into a fist, then almost immediately relax, he figured he had his answer.
"You ever call me 'ma'am' again, or try to help me cross a street, you're going to be picking up your teeth," Karla warned. "But as long as we're on the topic of your mother's influence, did she also teach you to break people's wrists when you get into conflicts?" She looked at him suspiciously.
"That was my dad's influence," he admitted, trying not to notice the way her hips flared out from her trim waist.
Uh-oh, watch yourself. You don't know who she is, or how she's related to the guy with the funny eyes . . . or why this is the drop point,
he reminded himself.
"Dad believed in being polite, too, up to a point." Lightstone spoke cheerfully, hoping to diffuse her suspicions as well as his own, increasingly physical, thoughts.
"And then what?" She continued looking more defiant than amused.
"You stand your ground," Henry replied, making it quite clear he didn't intend to budge an inch in that particular situation either, in spite of how much his plan depended on her cooperation.
"I see."
Karla stared down at her interlaced fingers for a few moments. "You know, back in junior high my girlfriends and I used to get a kick out of watching the younger boys — probably kids just like you — in the playground standing up to the older boys — probably kids just like those two this morning."
"Let me guess. The younger ones usually got their butts stomped?"
Karla nodded her head solemnly, "just about every time."
"Did you or your girlfriends ever notice that after one of the younger boys finally managed to win one — or at least keep standing until one of the teachers finally got there and broke it up — the older kids didn't pick on him very much anymore?"
"As I recall, we classified you XY-types into four basic groups even back then: the perpetual bullies, a pretty disgusting lot at best; the perpetual victims, who weren't much better; the ones smart enough to avoid the fights — we figured they'd be the ones who ended up rich and famous; and then" — she gave him a barely perceptible smile — "those few 'white knights' who — once they finally learned how to stay upright for the entire thirty-second fight without most of their blood running out their noses — started sticking up for their friends or the perpetual victims. But sometimes they just went for the bullies, period."
That's right, lady, you always confront the bastards right away, get right in their faces, because that's the only way you'll ever keep them off your back,
Lightstone thought to himself.
So who the hell are you?
She stopped and stared at Lightstone with those lovely gold-flecked green eyes until he felt compelled to say something.
"And the white knights kept on getting their butts stomped on a fairly frequent basis, since they usually fought out of their weight class?" Lightstone guessed.
"That's right." She continued staring at him, but he refused to look away.
"Ah," he said instead.
"You know what we used to call them?" she pressed, clearly determined to make her point.
"Not white knights, I bet." He tried another half-smile, but Karla was obviously in no mood to be placated.
She shook her head firmly. "That just would have encouraged them . . . and probably gotten several of them half-killed," she added thoughtfully. "We called them the idiots."
Henry Lightstone nodded his head sympathetically.
"Why do I get the feeling you and your girlfriends cared just a little more about those poor 'idiots' than you want to admit, in spite of your better judgment?" he teased her.
"Probably because I had a couple of older brothers who had the white-knight act down cold, and a younger brother who thought they were heroes — and damned near did get himself killed because he tried to be just like them," she retorted hotly.
"I take it your brothers came to his rescue?" Lightstone asked, more than aware that something was going on between him and the woman, but not at all sure if it would give him the opening he so desperately needed.
Careful,
he reminded himself.
Like the old fart said, nothing is really as it seems.
"No, my brothers didn't come to his rescue," she informed him crisply. "I did."
"Ah."
Lightstone tried to shake the feeling that he was trapped in a very small room with a very edgy cat.
"If you don't mind my asking," he finally asked, hoping to soothe her and keep her talking because he definitely needed to use her telephone within the next few hours, "just what did they call a young girl with a white-knight complex in those days?"
"Nothing polite."
"I can imagine."
"No, I don't think you can." She outlined the edge of the place mat with a slender finger. "You're assuming I fought like a boy. Fists, knees, brute force, that sort of thing."
"Didn't you?" Henry Lightstone's eyebrows came up inquisitively.
"Of course not." The gold-flecked green eyes grew distant for a moment. "Fighting like that is a good way to get yourself hurt. I found it much more efficient — and effective — simply to scare the little bastards half to death."
Henry Lightstone smiled, and felt somewhat gratified to notice at least some of the tension leave her very tight and totally feminine body.
Whoever you are, you're one hell of an interesting lady,
he thought, more aware of her increasingly physical effect on him than ever.
"I'm thinking you were probably a little young for the direct approach — you know, razor blade against the throat, that sort of thing." He tapped his fingers lightly on the table as he considered the new data, and the way her thick hair nestled in the curve of her neck. "I bet you used fear of the unknown."
"Something wrong with that?" She challenged him levelly.
"Not at all," he hastened to assure her. "A very effective way to deal with unpleasant characters, especially if you happen to be a witch — and equipped with your very own black cat," he added thoughtfully.
"Exactly." Her eyes momentarily looked far away again. "Even then."
She paused. "You know something about that, don't you?" Her question sounded more like an accusation.
"What, witchcraft?" He flashed her another friendly smile, well aware that what little tension had left her body had returned.
Who are you? Come on, lady, open up, give me a hint.
"You do that a lot, don't you?" Her gold-flecked greenish eyes impaled him with a merciless glare, and he had to fight the sensation that he dangled helplessly.
"Do what?"
"Evade serious questions."
Henry Lightstone watched his fingers lightly tapping against the rough table as though they belonged to someone else.
"In my experience, the only effective way to deal with fear of the unknown is to seek it out and confront it," he volunteered in an effort to dissipate his own increasing tension as well as hers. "If you don't, it can work its way in around the edges of your mind and become over-whelming if you're not careful."
"You worry about that sort of thing a lot in your line of work?" She continued to pinion him in place with her enticing eyes.
Oh, and by the way, would you happen to be a cop?
Lightstone's covert agent instincts heard instead.
His pulse quickened.
"If you call trying to get by on a day-to-day basis a line of work, sure." He searched the sensuous young woman's face for whatever clues her expression might offer. "Like I said, I'm between jobs. But I don't think I'd like to have to worry about that sort of thing on a professional basis," he added casually. "Sounds like a good way to have a real short life."
"I’m sure it is."
Henry Lightstone couldn't even begin to interpret the edge to the woman's voice.
Why do you want to know if I'm a cop? And more to the point, why the hell would you possibly care?
They both remained silent for a good thirty seconds.
"So it turns out we have something in common after all." The corners of her lips turned up in an ironic smile.
Lightstone cocked his head curiously, wondering where this highly unpredictable woman's thoughts were taking her now.
"Fear of the unknown," she elaborated. "I'm forced to create it, and you feel equally compelled to confront it. You see the problem?"
"Sounds like one of those classic 'short-life' situations, if you ask me. Sort of like the one the male black widow faces when his mate starts taking an unhealthy interest in his whereabouts?" Lightstone suggested.
Karla gave him a penetrating look.
"Although, come to think of it, that's probably not a real good analogy," he hurriedly corrected himself, thinking,
What the hell did I say that for? Christ sake, be careful. You don't know who she is or how she's connected to those damned devices under your truck . . . that were put there for the specific purpose of blowing you into small pieces. Pay attention!
"No, not a good analogy at all."
Her smile shifted slightly, but to Lightstone's amazement and discomfort, it was still there . . . and he could feel his heart starting to beat faster.
Don't look into those goddamned eyes! Stay focused on the job,
he warned himself, but then her eyes locked on his, and he felt himself being drawn into their depths.
Another period of contemplative silence that Lightstone felt powerless to break enveloped them.
"So" — she stood up and glided toward him — "setting aside the self- serving viewpoints of those black widow spiders, male or female, where does that leave us?"
"Well, actually, I was going to suggest dinner." Lightstone hesitated. "But all things considered, I'm not sure . . ."
The lovely gold-flecked green eyes so completely engulfed him, he forgot what he wanted to say.
"I agree," she replied, undoing the clasp on the strap of her overalls. "That's not a good idea at all."
Larry Paxton stared pensively at his watch.
"Okay," he addressed his crew, "that ought to do it."
After glowering fiercely at the Bravo Team leader, Dwight Stoner opened the chest freezer, reached in, lifted a one-by-two-by-four-foot crate out of the bottom, pivoted around, and thrust the crate deep into a plastic wading pool full of ice.
Then, as the Bravo Team leader stood over the pool with the pump 12-gauge and Thomas Woeshack stood ready with the fire extinguisher, Stoner and Takahara quickly backed all of the screws out of the top of the crate using the two battery-powered multispeed drills.
"Okay, you two ready?" Paxton asked.
"I am." Mike Takahara rested his hands on the crate top and looked at his huge partner.
Stoner nodded grimly.
"All right, one . . . two . . . three . . . now!"
At Larry Paxton's command, Takahara pulled the lid off the crate and lunged out of the away so Stoner could flip the heavy crate upside down on the ice.
All four agents stared wordlessly at the overturned crate, which initially moved a little, but eventually grew still.
Larry Paxton glanced down at his watch again. "Okay, thirty more seconds, just to make sure." The team leader counted down the time, then nodded to Stoner and stood ready with the shotgun.
The huge agent looked up to confirm that Mike Takahara had the snake hook ready. Then, in one quick motion, he leaned forward, grabbed the crate, lifted it up, and leaped back. "Shit!"
KA-BLAM!
The edge of the crate caught Paxton's shoulder, causing him to stagger backward and accidentally trigger a round of bird shot off into the warehouse ceiling. The spreading pattern of small pellets narrowly missed one of the high-intensity ceiling lamps as they punched through the thin aluminum panels.