Blindside (5 page)

“Show him what you learned, kid. Make me look good.”

The grin on Lana’s face cuffed Mac right in the gut, a deep, hot kiss of longing.

“Take off your shoes, ace, and let’s see what you got.”

And when she flipped the guy onto the mat and hooted with victory laughter, something inside Mac’s chest swelled to the point of bursting at that low, smoky, thrilling sound
.

He shook three years away to focus on the search results, dozens of articles mentioning Rossini. Even with the search narrowed to San Mike Post, the first few pages of results mentioned the accident, her brother’s death, the implications of Nick concealing evidence inside that meth lab.

 
“Sure, it may work in motion.” Nick got up from the mat with easy enough grace. “but what if you’re grabbed?”

In a swift move, he spun Lana around by the wrist, his forearm on her throat, another around her waist while she struggled to get out. His voice changed, a rough bark. “Will it work now?”

Mac was halfway across the room when Wojo clapped a giant hand over his shoulder. “Take a chill pill, son. That asshole’s Lana’s brother. She better kick his ass, too, or I won’t hear the end of it till I die.”

To his shock, Lana turned her head slightly and winked at him, that strawberry mouth parting in a smile. The urge to taste nearly sent Mac to his knees.

“You keep threatening to leave,” Nick said, his voice straining from effort of keeping Lana still. “But I still haven’t gotten your spot in city parking.”

“Keep putting in for it. Not like that, you’ll just wear yourself out.” With a swipe of his hand, Wojo motioned for them to stop. “Aikido doesn’t work when someone’s got you. There’s no movement or direction anymore, it’s all about strength. You can’t match his, so you’ve got to be smarter.” He turned and gave Mac a small bow—an invitation to become his partner. “Grab me.”

“Yeah, right.” Nick snorted from behind them both. “You’re what, nine and a half feet tall?”

A part of Mac wanted to show that Wojo’s height or strength wouldn’t make a difference. Under that liquid amber gaze, he felt as if he was seventeen again, needing to show off, wanting her eyes to go wide in wonder.

He ached to taste those strawberry-colored lips.

“Anyone tell you you’re an ass? Come on, Lana, like this.” Wojo demonstrated by sticking his elbows out. “Like you’re twice as big, with air. Not up, out,” he corrected, and adjusted Lana’s elbows. “Good. Now step forward and let him roll.”

She made an effort to follow instructions, skin gleaming with perspiration, her body strong and slim.

“Weak,” her brother said and rolled into a clumsy fall.

“Maybe I don’t want you to hit your head. Not that it would matter, seeing how thick your skull is.” She extended her arm and her brother grabbed it and, after a short tug of war, pulled himself up.

“You sign a waiver?” Wojo crossed his arms. “Mac? Try it.”

No room to protest, no graceful way to back out. He had no choice but to put his arms around Lana’s shoulders and fit her back against his chest. Bright curls bounced and teased inches from his lips.

“Pop up. Elbows out. Like this.” She broke his hold and sent him flying. And because he felt like showing off, Mac thundered to the mat and slapped his arm and both feet on the rubber surface, drawing another smile from those luscious pink lips.

Her brother, the cop, loomed over him with an assessing smile. “Now, if you want to be a bitch, dig your toes in his throat.”

She blew a wayward curl out of her eyes and balanced over him, one foot hovering above his chest.

“And it’s supposed to work how?”

“Step and dig till he’s choking.”

Lana threw her brother a quick look and got an innocent shrug in the process.

He had to get away from her before Nick’s cop eyes figured out what hid under the belt and uniform.

“Point your toes,” Wojo said. “Yep, like that. Good.”

Mac choked and forced his shields to remain flat.

“Won’t work with shoes.

“You’d be surprised.” He couldn’t resist clasping her palm when she extended her hand, her skin soft and warm against his, the simple touch an intimate caress.

“Another man would’ve taken her down. Showed off some skill.” Shrewd eyes, a show of teeth of a big brother letting Mac know Lana wasn’t to be messed with.

Big bro had nothing to worry about. “Guess I’m not another man.”

He broke away from memories to study the search results lining the screen.
San Mike PD hires another Rossini. Lana Rossini, newest officer, third generation cop
. None of the headlines gave him what he looked for.

No proof, Mac reminded himself but couldn’t lie about his own reaction. The curves under his hands were definitely female. He hadn’t felt her skin through leather, couldn’t get her scent. Didn’t see her face through the tinted shield of her helmet—a way to conceal identity or to protect her sight?

Opening another window, he scanned for articles about the Night Rook, comparing dates, trying to find the earliest mentions. The entries from the Post started almost a year after he left San Mike, with mentions of a costumed vigilante beating up dealers and flushing away drugs.

His cell rang, and there was no point stalling the one question he still hadn’t asked.

“I hear the Rook kicked your ass,” came the voice, cheerful despite the hour.

“You’re still listening to rumors?”

“I still can operate a scanner.” Sarcasm with just a hint of bitterness—a permanent tone for the survivor of a bullet at point blank. The papers hailed him as a miracle. Nobody mentioned the time Cass threw himself out of his wheelchair over the Gold Gargoyle Bridge.

“I need a favor. Not exactly ethical.”

“Almost Ethical, my middle name these days.” He used to be a cop. San Mike detective. These days he filched data to pay for surgeries the city could no longer compensate him for.

Nobody was a real hero.

Mac glanced up through the window at his father’s “office.” “Still five hundred an hour, or did you raise your rate?”

“Depends on what you need it for.”

No questions, no disclaimers. Just like the time Cass took him out of San Mike, the passenger seat of his motorcycle for once carrying something other than a wheelchair.

Two hours later, Mac’s phone rang. “Wasn’t much of a challenge.”

Mateo Rossini’s personnel file appeared as if by magic on his screen. Health records, family. Records of applications for adoption. “What do you I owe you?”

“Anyone else, two hours, and one solid
K
.” A rat-tat-tat of keys. “We’ll consider it a favor.”

“I’ll transfer money to your bank.”

“Another man would be happy with a freebie.”

Mac pictured him, the wheelchair, the huge frame of a former boxer trapped in his own useless lower limbs. “Guess I’m not another man.”

***

What do you mean you let him go?

Williams’s disgusted voice echoed in Mac’s mind as he walked in the crisp San Michael evening, his pocket burning with the Rook’s bloodstained cape.

Yesterday, he hadn’t had the time to savor the city. Tonight, he simply walked, stalling for time. San Michael smelled the same—the muddy streets, the snap of coming rain. Gargoyles and saints gleamed silver in the mist as they watched over traffic-ridden freeways.

I didn’t have the means to stop him
.

It hadn’t really been a lie. Mac hadn’t mentioned that the Night Rook went low on power. Nor did he mention pouring through Lana’s medical records.

Still circumstantial, but how long he could keep desperately lying?

He’d all but swallowed his tongue seeing her at that club, her fragile skin pale gold against leather, her neck a sweet and slender column, corkscrew curls piled high. She was both waif and dominatrix, and his body tensed and hardened once again picturing those sweet curves on the prowl.

The tension amplified in front of a neon sign spelling out
Rising Sun
in Kanji. The monitors inside the dojo showcased kids wrapped in colored belts rolling on the blue sea of the mat. Techniques he’d taught when he was Mac Gamble, keeping his job and secret life apart. Techniques he hadn’t used since he blew his identity, because neither Aikido nor Judo were made for showcased combat. He got paid very well to get beaten up, and Lana didn’t need to know her disability fund hadn’t been covered by the city.

Inside, the dojo remained the same as well. Blue rubber mats covered the floor, mirrors lined the walls, and students sported white uniforms and belts of every color. Katanas, polished to a gleam, their razor edges glistening, watched over the class as half a dozen adults took polite turns rolling backward.

Relief washed over him at not finding signs of Lana.

“Attention.” His former best friend and mentor barked the words in Japanese as he uncoiled from his kneeling
seiza
to his full height of six foot eight. “Bow to black belt instructor.”

The students turned their heads to study him before slapping their palms over their hips and bowing, casting curious glances from under their eyelashes. Mac could all but hear them wondering why he came back.

Wojo walked up to him and held out a hand that could crush melons. “Been a long time, Mac.”

Mac
. Not Narc, not asshole. No questions why he left, or why he dragged his ass back to San Michael.

“It’s good to see you.” He took the offered hand and let himself be drawn into a hard hug.

“Want to teach class?”

Welcome, here’s your life back
.

“Thanks, but I’d be a distraction.” He pushed away the yearning for his old life. “You got a minute?”

“Sure.” Wojo crossed his arms, a mirror of Mac’s defensive stance.

“Teaching full time now?”

“Early retirement.” A bad-tempered, one-shoulder shrug.

“Bet you’re still keeping an ear to the ground.”

“You’re after this new….” Wojo snapped those giant fingers. “Rook, right? A new hero they say is in town?”

“He’s no hero. And retired or not, you’re still a cop.” The students switched to basic wrist techniques, similar to what the Night Rook used last night keep Mendoza off his feet. “Hear anything I should know about?”

“Small steps, Ryan. Bend your knees and don’t drag. Better.” Wojo nodded at a slim, dark-haired green belt. Lana wore the same color belt as when he last saw her on the mat. “You’ve got plenty of friends for cop gossip. Unless you think you’re closing on your man?”

No suspicion in that voice; he held that easy relaxed stance no one else could ever see as defensive.

“You’re too tall. And you wouldn’t need superpowers to send me on my ass.”

Wojo’s quick grin lit up his weathered features. “I heard he gave you a whooping.”

“Good news does get around.”

“Sorry.” Wojo continued to watch the class, both of them standing in this tense yet companionable silence.

The words came out before Mac could push them back. “You knew what I was, didn’t you? Before it all went down at the harbor?”

“Had an inkling, not that it was my business. Figured if you wanted to talk, you knew where I was. Bend your knees, Paul, it’ll help your balance.” Wojo’s gaze didn’t leave the mat. “I hear rumors. The news shows blurry camera vids and speculation instead of facts. Dealers getting pushed around. Nobody’s talking. Some say the Night Rook’s taking a percentage. Some say he makes them stay away from schools and kids.”

Mac thought about that last part, seeing a twisted way of being a hero, somebody who mattered in this world. Damned if he didn’t understand the lure, the potent draw of helping innocents while hidden under the safety of a mask.

Wojo sat down, wincing when both of his knees cracked. “Some say he’s the real deal. A real hero.”

“Heroes don’t use their strength to hurt.”

“You’re sure about that?”

“You aren’t?”

“Could do worse than keeping drugs from kids. Easier than our little pep talks here at the dojo.” The rueful voice sliced past Mac’s ribs.

“You used to see the world in black and white.”

“Back then, I was a cop.” A wealth of longing in that statement. “I know it isn’t right. In my head, I know it. Maybe there’s a reason I’m not on the job anymore.”

“I’m so fucking sorry.”
Sorry I got you into this
.

A shrug of those linebacker shoulders. “It’s not your problem, son.”

“You said yourself he’s pushing dealers around. How long before he kills someone?”

“Cops kill on duty. We both know it.”

“Good cops regret the loss of life.” Mac used the same words Wojo spat out the night he shot a two-hundred pound junkie jonesing for a fight.

“Haven’t thought of it much.” Words pushed through a clenched jaw, gray eyes still on the mat. They shared another long moment of silence.

“Lana still comes around?” Hands in his pockets, real casual. The wadded-up silk cape burned Mac’s palms.

“Probably still upstairs. She….” He paused then gave a short shrug before he stepped onto the mat to correct a bad posture. “She got her black belt now. Can’t say she had an easy time after the surgeries, but she pushed through. Figured you knew.”

Another nail into his coffin. “I’m glad she’s doing good.”

Those cop eyes narrowed. “Hang around. You want to teach, there’s uniforms upstairs in the back.”

“I’ll think about it.” And Mac had no other excuses but to climb up to the lockers on the second floor. Lana’s scent wrapped around his neck, a silken noose tightening with arousal, and doubt. Same fragrance that blasted him last night when he brought the Rook’s cape to his nose and smelled a hint strawberries under the bloody copper.