all day. When you think it’s safe, hail a cab and take it to my apartment.” She gave her the address. As she was telling her cross streets, the door to the restroom banged open; Jazz stopped talking and began washing her hands, staring into the mirror.
“Jazz?” Lucia’s voice buzzed in her ear. “Someone with you?”
The woman who walked around the corner looked sleek and businesslike, wearing a tailored black jacket and black jeans, but there was something in her eyes, something.
“Is something wrong?” Lucia asked.
Jazz reached for a towel. As she bent over, the woman angled toward her, moving fast.
“Might be,” Jazz said, and ducked.
The punch—intended for the back of her neck—sailed past to crash into glass. Jazz spun, still crouching, and drove the heel of her hand into the woman’s solar plexus, sending her flying and gasping for air. She moved for the door—
And it opened to admit the two crew cuts from baggage claim.
“Hey!” Jazz said loudly. “This is the ladies’ room, guys—”
One of them grabbed for her arm. She danced backward, almost tripped over the woman, who was coming to her feet with a brutal look on her face, and retreated to the empty narrow area between the stalls and the wall. Not a lot to work with, but at least it was defensible, they could only come at her one at a time, and, Jesus, how had she gotten into this mess, anyway? She’d been minding her own business, dammit, drinking her whiskey and drowning her sorrows, and now she was about to get the crap beaten out of her in a bathroom for a woman she’d barely met and a check she hadn’t even cashed.
Lucia Garza said in her ear, “I’m coming. Don’t do anything brave.”
“Don’t worry,” Jazz said out loud, and ducked a punch. “Brave is definitely not my style.”
The bathroom was just too narrow for a decent fight, but at least it meant they couldn’t use their numbers effectively, either. She backed up into the narrow aisle in front of the stalls until her back was against cold tile and snap-kicked toward the face of the man coming at her. It was a feint. When he flinched, she hooked her foot behind the bend of his left knee and pulled. His head hit the wall with a thick sound, and he went to one knee.
She put him down with a fist to the temple.
She looked up to see a blur coming at her and instinctively put up a parrying arm. The kick caught her on the forearm, and damn, it hurt; she gritted her teeth against the urge to yelp, wrapped her arm around the foot that had just come at her and yanked. Hard.
Girlfriend in the pantsuit slipped and nearly went down, caught herself and shifted her weight forward, slamming Jazz back against the wall, then breaking free with a twist of her hip.
Nobody had a gun, knife, or even a taser. That was good, Jazz thought. Any kind of weapon would have ended this quick and ugly. At least this way, she’d have a much slower defeat. Time for lots of things to happen, including miracles.
The second man shoved the woman out of the way and lunged to fasten his hands around Jazz’s throat. He ran into her fist with his Adam’s apple instead and fell back, gagging.
As if they’d gotten some secret signal, all three of her attackers suddenly stopped, backed off—even the one still shaking off her whack to his temple—and just looked at her.
It was weird.
No, it was creepy.
“Later,” the woman said, and moved to the door. The two men followed her. Single file, straight out into the airport.
Thirty seconds later, the door banged open, and Lucia Garza entered, looking ready for anything—hands up, weight balanced on the balls of her feet, which in those shoes was something of an accomplishment. She looked around in a lightning-fast analysis, then focused on Jazz and raised her eyebrows in an eloquent what the hell? motion.
“Party’s over,” Jazz said breathlessly. She was shaking, buzzing all over. Strangely ecstatic. She swiped the back of her hand across her mouth, looking for blood, and remembered that they hadn’t actually laid a hand on her. Well, girlfriend in the pantsuit had kicked like a mule…Jazz skinned up her shirtsleeve and looked at the impact mark. Yep, that was going to bruise like a son of a bitch.
“What the hell happened?” Lucia asked.
“You tell me, you’re the superspy. When people attack me, it’s usually during the commission of a felony, not just because I took the wrong sink in the ladies’ room.” Jazz pushed away from the support of the tile wall and walked to the mirror.
Her face was vivid and flushed, her eyes fever-bright. Even her hair looked better.
Damn, she enjoyed this stuff. That was probably sick.
“You,” Lucia said, as if she’d read her mind, “need a hobby. Something nonviolent. Maybe macramé.” She sounded amused, though. “Let’s get out of here.”
“Yeah,” Jazz agreed. “Probably a good idea.”
Walking with Lucia wasn’t like walking alone. For one thing, Jazz was used to blending in, slumping, avoiding people’s eyes. McCarthy had always laughed about it, called her a chameleon; he’d had the traditional cop presence and radiated an implicit threat even when sitting and reading the newspaper. But then, McCarthy hadn’t worked undercover. She had.
Lucia Garza’s aura was more like a runway model’s. She drew stares as she stalked through the baggage-claim area, lean and elegant in her designer clothes. Jazz still felt invisible, but not in a good way. Next to Lucia Garza, most women would fade into wallpaper.
“Which way?” Lucia asked, sliding on sunglasses as they exited the building. Jazz nodded toward the distant parking lot. She wished she’d thought to pack some shades, but then, hers would have been clunky blue-blockers from a flea market. Lucia’s had the sleek, finished look of sculpture and probably cost more than a car. Not that she was comparing or anything.
Lucia’s bag went into the trunk, and Jazz scanned the area for signs of her restroom visitors. Nobody in sight. She had a prickling on the back of her neck, though, and wasn’t surprised when Lucia, opening the passenger side, said, “They’re watching us.”
“Where?” Jazz ducked inside. They slammed doors at the same moment. Lucia jerked her chin a bare quarter inch in the direction of a white panel van sitting on the garage roof about five hundred yards away. As Jazz looked at it, it silently backed out of sight. “Son of a bitch. Okay, I give up. What the hell is going on?”
“I don’t know.”
“Well, you know more than I do!”
Lucia brushed long, dark hair back with a distracted air, and frowned. “I picked up a tail at the hotel in Dallas,” she said. “Nothing obvious, but it was there. Professionals, like the guys in the airport just now. I don’t know who they’re working for. Although I have no idea why professionals would try to take you out in such a risky public setting.”
“Maybe it isn’t about me at all. Maybe it was related to your case. Whatever it is you’re working.” She didn’t ask, but she left the door open in case Lucia wanted to share.
She should have known better. “No. It’s not germane,” Lucia said. “That was all done when these people showed up. And they arrived within an hour of the letter arriving at my hotel. Those things have to be connected, especially if they’re here, following you, as well.”
Jazz started the car and backed out of the parking space.
“Where are we going?” Lucia asked.
“I don’t know about you,” Jazz replied, “but I’m already tired of being the one who doesn’t know anything. I intend to change that.”
She drove downtown, to the business district, then