Hidden Steel Read Online Free Page A

the door—which was blocked ajar, and couldn’t have been the sound source she hunted—a plain, unassuming sign declared Steve’s Gym.
    A gym. Relief tugged at her; she frowned when she realized it, and realized she couldn’t say why. A gym. Safety. Refuge. Strength.
    In the end she quit trying to understand the why. What did it matter? Where else did she have to go? And if nothing else, a gym always had a drinking fountain.
    Indoors. Out of the sun. Out of sight.
    Mickey extricated her fingers from the chain link fence and aimed her big clunky sneakers across the street.

    * * * * *

    “Big isn’t always better.” Steve Spaneas held his arms wide with the declaration, a Hey, look at me—What could be better than this? gesture that always made the students of this class laugh. Some of them even pointed. “ Prepared is better. Smart is better. You stick with me, and we’ll make those nights on the street feel a little safer.”
    And at this they always nodded. Fear crept in around their eyes—weary eyes, wary eyes, and often just a little bit unfocused eyes.
    They weren’t on drugs. The problem for this bunch was that they couldn’t or wouldn’t take the drugs they should. Local street folks, dressed in old and scavenged clothing, always needing haircuts and shaves and a good solid application of toothpaste and deodorant. During this class, the old gym … well, it smelled like a gym, all right.
    But it didn’t mean they weren’t people. That they didn’t deserve to feel safe in the little niche of this world they called their own. The self-defense skills he taught them were basic, but the very fact that he held these free classes let the local toughs know they’d find no easy prey in this section of town.
    A tribute to his brother, who might not have died so young if someone had done the same for him.
    His other classes were more typical. Young men and woman, drawn to the discipline and fellowship his classes offered—non-denominational, he thought of them, and culled from all fighting disciplines to cater to a street-fighting method. Low-cost memberships that also drew them to the free weights, and friendly competitions that gave them the motivation to follow-through. Kickboxing for those who wanted to get serious.
    It didn’t add up to a lot. But it was steady, and it was enough to cover his gym and the apartment above it in this low-rent district. And the neighbors liked having him here. Casseroles and brownies and tomatoes grown in pots outside back doors … there was always some kind of offering on the store front counter just inside the doorway, just beside the open-topped barrel where he kept the donated hotel soaps, toothpastes, feminine supplies and disposable razors.
    A doorway he’d propped open for this tangibly odorous class, in spite of a day hot enough to keep the cranky old air conditioners working hard. Unusual for the San Jose climate, but it always happened a couple times a year.
    He didn’t need the class reaction—ten of them today, all frequent flyers—to let him know someone had come to that open door, and hesitated there. He didn’t read anything into their suspicion, either—many of them survived on suspicion. But he wasn’t expecting what waited for him when he turned around.
    Bright scrubs, splattered with … yes, blood. Bright eyes to match. Utter exhaustion on that face, and a personable haircut that didn’t match the filth factor dulling the honey-brown color. Too thin on a slender frame—and too exhausted to stay upright for long. An old, old story … she’d walked out of a clinic somewhere, wasn’t on her meds, had forgotten to eat … and someone else on the street had sent her in Steve’s direction with the misguided notion he could do more than hand out soap and teach free self-defense. But … surely her feet weren’t really that big?
    “I just—” she said, and her voice was hoarse and weary, barely reaching him. “I need—”
    And then her eyes