Sake Bomb (40 page)

The call disconnected, Kizzie rested her
forehead atop her folded arms on the desk. She’d have to get her
gear and figure out a way to Kadena, see if she could make that
Space A, but she needed a quick nap. Just five minutes to
regroup.

Her eyes closed, breathing slowed in spite
of the moans seeping through the walls.

Seven minutes later, her HushMail account
went from 0 to 1.

SAN

August 6
^th

Tokyo, Japan

T
he plane stood at
the ready just outside the private hangar at Haneda International.
Beside it, Xander absently checked his watch to break up the
thoughts he’d been mulling over. He’d be calm about this. Rational.
Even if he’d spent the last eight hours or so with his heart in his
throat and his stomach in a knot. He’d keep it together.

“Everything set?” he asked, hearing Phil
coming up beside him.

“Customs is handled; clearance for the
plane. Support on the ground. But we’ve got a small window. We need
to move.”

Xander crossed his arms over his chest and
waited. He was usually a patient man, but right now his nerves were
bad and the waiting could very well kill him.

“Four minutes and the hour’s up,” Phil said.
“Gotta assume she won’t show. In fact, twenty grand says she
doesn’t.”

Three more minutes ticked by.

“Large bills please,” Xander said as a taxi
pulled up to the hangar. Grumbling about how ‘this woman’s gonna
send me to the poor house,’ Phil spun and headed to the plane.

She came across the tarmac with a purpose,
wearing secret agent standard dress—dark jeans, a tank and a dark
jacket. His black ball cap was pulled low on her head, further
shading her eyes. He couldn’t read her, and he didn’t like it. When
she was close enough, Xander started to speak but Kizzie walked
right by. Frowning, he turned and watched her.

She goose-stepped over to Frederick’s office
and threw open the door, ducked inside. A handful of words were
exchanged and then Kizzie marched back out, tossing over her
shoulder, “You had
one
job
, Freddy! An easy five
grand for your crap art collection.”

She strode back to Xander. “Need my
gear.”

“So you’re not done throwing this tantrum?”
A knee-jerk response, out in the open in spite of all the Zen calm
he’d tried to muster before.

“Tantrum…” Kizzie repeated slowly, as though
tasting the word in her mouth and trying to process the flavor.
Sour. “My gear. Got a plane to catch, chief.”

“And you’re running.”

“Yes…Late.”

“No,” Xander said. “From me.”

Her head shifted back and forth. “I don’t
run.”

“You’re doing it now.”

“If that’s how you see it.” Kizzie bunched a
shoulder to her ear. “Or I realized I don’t need you.”

“And which Kizzie is this? The agent, or the
woman from the shower?”

“Same person. Off her rocker most days. That
was one of them. My gear.”

He chuckled mirthlessly. “Can’t be—the agent
knows the fastest way to Harvey isn’t on a commercial jet. The
woman thinks commercial is the farthest from me.” He stepped
closer; she balled her fists. “Get on the plane, or get put on the
plane. You do get a choice.”

“You should back up.”

“Or?” Xander frowned, and then a lethal grin
curved his mouth. “Want to hit me, Princess? Would it make you feel
better?” She didn’t respond and he tipped her chin up so he could
see her eyes. Two hard brown orbs glared back. “Go right ahead,
sweetheart. Swing. Won’t even move. Just know it’s gonna piss me
off, so you better be able to handle what you get back.”

Her gaze darted away, came back to him. She
raked her teeth over her bottom lip and infused pure sunshine into
her tone. “Oh
great
and
powerful
Oz, may I have my
gear now? Please?” Her lips spread into a wide, toothy smile.

“After you tell me what has you so scared
you keep running from me.”

“Maybe you missed the part where I kick ass
for a living, Duquesne. I don’t scare easy.” Her gaze and head
moved deliberately from his eyes down to his shoes and back up.
“And you ain’t big enough or bad enough to make me run, slick.”

“Ooooh, Kizzie,” Xander whispered, eyes
slipping closed. She was on really dangerous ground. He rubbed a
hand over his face and drew a deep breath. Then he shoved his hands
into his pockets to keep from pinning her willful ass down and
spanking her until she cried. His voice dropped an octave lower.
“Start at the beginning.”

“I don’t have time for— ”

“Make time,” he ordered. She pressed her
lids together, clearly struggling for calm. Xander didn’t want
calm. He wanted the truth. Calm, stoic, unruffled—those were
reserved for the agent. He wanted the woman, open and ready, who’d
come to him to give and get a comfort he’d stupidly pushed away.
“When are you gonna stop running?”

Brown eyes flashed open, a mighty storm
swirling in their depths. “I. Don’t. Run.”

“Yeah, you do,” Xander challenged. “You are
now. Helsinki—you ran from me; Oman—you ran from me. Hell, you
hopped out of the shower and bolted. It’s why you’re CIA—a handy
excuse for never having to deal with anything that tests you, makes
you vulnerable; never have to trust anybody. And it’s more than
just Agency training, baby girl, it’s in you bone deep. Just keep
running. Farther…faster. Moving targets are hardest to hit, so you
just keep moving and you won’t get hurt. Or is that the ‘smart
dolphin, don’t bleed’ bullshit you tried to feed me? Admit it,
you’re afraid of being hurt ‘cause you already have been. That’s
why you left the Point, isn’t it? You bled?”

“
Wow
….” She leveled a glare on him
that said she wouldn’t back down. “You sped straight past ‘about
to’, made a left at ‘fuck around’, and are cleared for landing at
‘piss me off!’ I. Want,” she said, enunciating each word slowly,
“My. Sh—”

“Who was it?”

Both fists clenched, she pressed them to her
crown and growled. “The hell are you talking about now?”

“The Point,” he demanded, ignoring her
flippant tone.

“
Nothing
happened at The Point.” She
rolled her eyes and blew out an exasperated breath. “I just
left—”

“What
really
happened at The Point,
Kizzie?” Her breathing kicked up a notch and he knew he’d got her
goat up. Good. Half a step closer and Xander threw his cards down
on the table. “Why’d you run? Who
was
big enough,
bad
enough?”

“If you don’t—”

“Who hurt you, Kizzie? Said you didn’t
matter? Was it Joe? He tell you he didn’t care about you? Who made
you a whore? Who touched you and you didn’t want them to?”

“Y—” Kizzie’s mouth stuck. A millisecond
later her eyes narrowed, then the light left them completely,
leaving in its place a dark void.

It took Xander a moment to fully register
the magnitude of what he’d unearthed.

Shit.

By themselves they meant nothing, but
side-by-side, it made sense:
“The Point left me”; “No emotion,
no feelings
.
Scratch the itch and be done”; “…whore…”; “I
don’t want you to care about me.”
No trust. The quick surges of
anger. The wall…always, always the wall.

A much younger, much less-adept Kizzie
Baldwin had been forced to do things she never wanted to. That’s
why she thought he’d take from her, because someone else already
had.

Kizzie breathed in an out through her mouth,
each circuit swaying her body. Xander’s gut clenched, there was an
ache between his lungs and his own breathing came much faster than
normal as he searched her face.

A hard swallow and he waited—for tears, an
explanation, snark. He’d take anything right now apart from the
bland, unemotional mask she’d slipped back on.

And he got it.

Head twisting side to side, Kizzie backed
away, an empty grin on her lips. She pivoted, asphalt grinding
underfoot. Long, confident strides carried her toward the taxi
still waiting there.

Running?

Not anymore. Not from him.

He jogged to catch up to her. “Kizzie,
stop.”

“Fuck you, X.”

He deserved that. “Baby—”

“Go away.” She turned and shoved him back a
few steps. “Leave me alone.”

Another connection flashed in his head:
Shark.

“That’s what that asshole Connolly has on
you? He’s using
that
against you?”

“Red!” Kizzie stopped backpedaling and came
at him, “Red red
red,
goddammit, red.”

Her fist slammed into his chest, and he
grunted but took it. If it helped her, helped
them
—whatever
“them” was—Xander would let her punch him silly. So what if Kizzie
had a jab bound to double him over if he took too many of them.
Christ
, the woman could put her shoulder into it.

She winced, but kept striking. No tears. No
explanation. No snark. Just a string of raw words that fell from
her mouth.

“…and
damn
you
. You don’t…”
Kizzie trailed off, breathing coming hard and fast, mimicking the
punches as she inched away from his advance. She swung again, shook
her head, making the too-large cap shift on her crown, the bill
angling away from her eyes. And what Xander saw in that moment
nearly undid him.

Beneath all the badass, Kizzie looked so
young and fragile. His heart squeezed.

She hit him again.

Her parents had been long dead, grandmother
too, by the time Kizzie made Cadet Second Class—Junior year, to
civilians—at The Point. Who was there when…
it
happened?
Xander swallowed the bile in his throat and forced himself to call
it what it was.

Who’d been there for Kizzie when she was
raped? How had she kept it together? The forced admission only
increased the questions. Questions Xander didn’t deserve answers to
but needed to know.

She hit him harder.

“Crawl, beg, obey… bow… could’a done that
easy…
” For all the anger Kizzie’s voice was low, not
emotional and high-pitched, strained through teeth clenched so
tight they might crack. Hearing it like this somehow made it
worse.

“I’da gave you that part of me,
Sir
,”—jab—“but not…” —right, left
—
“You don’t
get…
that
…asshole!
Not that
.” Left
…
Right….

The fury faded enough that he got his arms
around her, hauled her body against his, trapping her bent arms
against his chest. She stiffened in his tight hold, and the fight
seeping out of her was almost a tangible thing.

“I’m sorry, baby,” he kissed her temple,
rubbed his hand up and down her back, “So so sorry…”

Xander pulled away just enough to cover one
side of her face in soft kisses, apologizing again into her cheek.
His mouth ghosted over hers, and then he kissed her just as
tenderly. A few passes and Kizzie’s mouth went pliant beneath his,
following his lead, accepting the words he wanted to say but
couldn’t:
I’m sorry. For then, for now. For later… You’re
gonna
hate
me later…

Slow and hypnotic, he made a circuit of her
mouth, devouring every delicious whimper that slipped from her
throat. His hand tightened around her waist, the other tangled in
her hair, and he kissed her harder.

Kizzie tore her mouth from his, pushing him
back. They stood a foot apart, breathing hard and assessing each
other. A tremor worked its way through her body, and Xander wanted
to wrap her in his arms again and tell her everything would be all
right; that he’d
make
everything all right if she’d let
him.

But she would resent him for the lie.

Dragging her tongue over her teeth, Kizzie
stared at him, tired eyes glittering. Xander adjusted his hat on
her head, took a slow breath and licked his lips, tasting her
there; bit back what he wanted to say and steeled his voice for
what needed to be said.

“Get on the plane.” A rough whisper. “And
don’t piss me off again, Princess. Crystal?”

Stepping to him, she rammed her shoulder
into his chest to get him out of her way, but drew up short when he
didn’t budge.

He wasn’t going anywhere. Not ever
again.

He stared down at her; she dipped her chin.
A deep breath and she looked up into his face. Clear that message
had been received, Xander stepped aside.

* * * *

“
I
t
doesn’t hurt anymore, Kizzie…”

She sat at the table, curling and flexing
her hand, looking through the window across the aisle. Every blink
brought flashes of green and red and guilt—oh god, the guilt. But
between those was the endless dark of night. Her old friend. Her
confidant. Night held all of Kizzie’s secrets.

But now Xander knew the one that
mattered.

Kizzie the fraud.

The coward.

Her eyes closed. Why couldn’t he leave it
alone? Lord knew she had.

Detach. Compartmentalize. That’s what she
did. Her entire mind boxed up like an apartment she’d moved into
but never intended to
live
in.

Parent’s death in one box—medium
sized—granny’s death in another, both with the tape picked at but
never removed. Belém in a small container, the top newly restored.
Sophomore year at The Point in another, smaller than a ring box—no,
smaller, a custom-made half-inch by half-inch square she was sure
she’d misplaced along the way—the teeny tiny lid now askew from
Xander’s meddling. Junior year at The Point in the largest bin.
Steel enforced. Lid held fast by rivets. Re-enforced with welding
and a big, vicious pit bull with lots of sharp teeth sitting on top
of the damn thing. Kizzie caught a glimpse of Xander as he returned
to his seat, swallowed a sigh. Somehow, the contents of that box
had still managed to seep through…