Karma (Balancing the Scales Book 1) Read online

  Contents

  Copyright

  Chapter One

  Chapter Two

  Chapter Three

  Chapter Four

  Chapter Five

  Chapter Six

  Chapter Seven

  Chapter Eight

  Chapter Nine

  Chapter Ten

  Chapter Eleven

  Chapter Twelve

  Chapter Thirteen

  Chapter Fourteen

  Chapter Fifteen

  Chapter Sixteen

  Chapter Seventeen

  Chapter Eighteen

  Chapter Nineteen

  Chapter Twenty

  Chapter Twenty-One

  Chapter Twenty-Two

  Chapter Twenty-Three

  Chapter Twenty-Four

  Chapter Twenty-Five

  Chapter Twenty-Six

  Chapter Twenty-Seven

  Chapter Twenty-Eight

  Chapter Twenty-Nine

  Chapter Thirty

  Chapter Thirty-One

  Chapter Thirty-Two

  Chapter Thirty-Three

  Chapter Thirty-Four

  Chapter Thirty-Five

  Chapter Thirty-Six

  Chapter Thirty-Seven

  Chapter Thirty-Eight

  Chapter Thirty-Nine

  Afterword

  Titles by RJ Blain

  Karma

  Balancing the Scales, Book One

  by R.J. Blain

  Karma Johnson has spent her entire adult life working to become a member of FBI's Child Abduction Rapid Deployment team. She's earned her transfer to CARD, but when she's caught up in the kidnapping of an infant from a festival, she learns what it's like to be the victim. Pretending she's a teen keeps her alive while trying to get herself and the baby to safety.

  But the kidnapping only scratches at the surface of a far more nefarious scheme, one that will test Karma's skills, her patience, her sanity, and her beliefs.

  All rights reserved. This book or any portion thereof may not be reproduced or used in any manner whatsoever without the express written permission of the publisher or author excluding the use of brief quotations in a book review.

  © 2016 Pen & Page Publishing

  For more information or to contact the author, please visit rjblain.com.

  Cover design by Holly Heisey (hollyheisey.com)

  Chapter One

  I kept a death grip on my purse and my duffel bag so the movers wouldn’t run off with them when they did their last sweep of what used to be my home. It hadn’t taken them long to remove what little I owned; it was noon and the maids had already arrived to make the place shine.

  The only thing left to do was hand over the keys to the new owners, who were ten seconds from finding out I preferred talking to people I didn’t like with my feet and hands rather than my mouth. Words, like secrets, were best kept close to the heart, especially when it came to business.

  Unable to delay the inevitable, I hoisted my bag onto my shoulder, spun on a heel, and left home. The young couple waited at the bottom of the stairs, looking up at me as I eased my way down the rickety metal grate staircase. I hated the way I could see the ground ten feet below, and I hated the way the damned thing swayed just enough to make me think it was going to collapse.

  If the young couple wanted the death trap, they were welcome to it, and I’d gladly take the fifty grand in profits my obsessive restorations had earned me despite having only lived there for four years.

  As long as I lived, I would never again own a home with a rickety metal staircase.

  “Miss Johnson.” Mrs. Avery, the proud wife of Mr. Avery the Third, pulled her hair up into a tight bun. “I hope we didn’t interrupt anything.”

  “Just supervising the maid service, Mrs. Avery. They should be finished within the hour if you’re ready to move in.” I faked a smile.

  After wrinkling her nose and giving a dainty little sniffle, Mrs. Avery replied, “It’ll do. Thank you kindly for bringing them in.”

  Why did the buyer for my house have to be such a snoot? It’s not like the couple was buying a mansion on the outskirts of the city. Baltimore had a lot of beautiful homes, especially tucked in the more picturesque parts of the city, but mine wasn’t one of them. The townhouse was a little too close to the rougher parts of the city for my comfort.

  Given a week, the riffraff would figure out there wasn’t someone associated with the FBI living on the street. I had no idea what would happen without the FBI-marked cars prowling around the neighborhood, but it wasn’t my problem.

  I was moving on to different waters, finally advancing my career after five tough years combatting violent crimes in Baltimore.

  “It’s only polite.” I located my keys, unclipping my personal keys to my home and offered them to the woman. “That’s the last set. You have the rest from the closing. Little key is for the storage in the back, big one is for the primary front door, and the one with the red wrap is for the wall safe. Yellow is for the back door.”

  Mr. Avery the Third grabbed the keys from me. “Thanks, darlin’. Give your parents our regards. Seems right rotten for a little thing like you to have to deal with all the paperwork of sellin’ a property.”

  At five one, I was little. To make matters worse, despite being twenty-nine, I looked more like I was sixteen, which was great for working with kids but not so good for getting their parents to take me seriously.

  I made up for my weaknesses in other ways, including my ability to keep my cool despite wanting to drop kick the smug man in front of me. An assault charge would ruin my career, my life, and everything I had worked hard to build.

  Sometimes life wasn’t fair.

  Smiling hurt, and so did saying, “Sure thing.”

  They weren’t worth getting angry over. I flicked them a two finger salute, resisted the urge to flick a rude gesture at the pair, and headed for my car. Behind me, Mrs. Avery cleared her throat, a delicate sound. I came to a stop, sighed, and turned. “Something you need, ma’am?”

  “You need to either cut that or dye it again.”

  Choices, choices: job and career or the assault charge that went with the satisfaction of smacking the woman to the concrete.

  I lifted my hand to my hair, spun a lock around my finger, and kept on smiling. It wasn’t my fault the ends faded to snow white after a while, ensuring my black hair was often tipped with white.

  “Right. Have yourselves a nice day. Watch those steps.” I stepped off the curb, circled my car, and unlocked it before sliding behind the wheel. I shifted into gear and pulled out of my spot so neither one of them could stop me from making my escape.

  I needed to relax before my kickboxing match, else I’d run the risk of killing someone in the ring. While I competed in all three kickboxing divisions, full-contact was more my speed, and after the past few weeks, I needed to blow off some steam.

  The Federal Hill Jazz and Blues festival would do. Good music was medicine for the soul, and the festival never disappointed.

  With the day so nice and the festival so popular, I had to park over a mile away. With my trunk loaded, I didn’t have enough space for my bag or purse. I sighed and hefted them over my shoulder. They’d annoy me, but I wouldn’t care so much once I found a place to sit down, relax, and listen to the tunes.

  I wasn’t about to leave my things on the back seat to entice thieves.

  For mid-June, the weather was hotter than I liked, and I had broken a sweat by the time I made it to the fringe of the festival. I smiled at the sound of music in the air accompanied by the hum of laughter and conversation. It was as though a switch went off, and my agitation with the Averys vanished in a puff of smoke. />
  It wasn’t rock and roll, but the music soothed my soul.

  To complete my relaxation assignment, I needed a funnel cake and a snow cone, stat. I was convinced half of Baltimore showed up for the funnel cakes and stayed because of the snow cones, and I was as much a sucker for them as everyone else in the snaking line. I claimed a spot behind a black woman with a herd of six children, the youngest a baby in her arms, the eldest a disinterested teen determined to pretend she wasn’t with the rest of them.

  The girl caught a glimpse of my bag, and her dark eyes focused on the kickboxing patches I had sloppily sewn to it. “Nice.”

  “Thanks.” I shifted the bag on my shoulder.

  “Been kickboxing long?”

  “A few years,” I evaded. I’d been doing it since I was six. My adoptive parents had been determined to find an outlet for my incessant energy. I didn’t like Pop’s karate and I really didn’t like Ma’s yoga. Kickboxing had given me an outlet in a form I enjoyed, which was enough to make everyone happy, me included. “You?”

  “Last year.”

  I grinned at meeting another sister of the ring. “Like it?”

  “It’s fun.”

  As soon as the two words left the teen’s mouth, her mother turned and noticed me and my bag. A brilliant smile illuminated her face. “You’re into sports, missy?”

  “Sure. I’m competing tonight.”

  The teen’s eyes widened. “You compete?”

  Nothing trapped me in a conversation faster than an enthusiastic teen with a mother desperate for her kid to be interested in something—anything. Two different pairs of hopeful eyes watched me for two totally different reasons.

  The mother’s brows were also furrowed, probably from worry. Moms always worried when their little girls took an interest in something like kickboxing.

  It was a rule.

  “Full-contact, Super Flyweight,” I reported. “Barely. I was Flyweight last year, but I put on some more muscle.”

  “Organized?” the girl blurted, her eyes fixed on my patches. I turned my body so she could get a better look at my bag.

  “I’m pretty casual, but there’s a WAKO event tonight. I qualified, so I’m going to step in the ring and see how it goes.”

  “No shit!”

  “No shit,” I agreed, grinning at her. “Name’s Karma, but call me Kit Kat. You?”

  “Kit Kat? That’s badass.”

  “Thanks. It’s what I go by in the ring. Most of the other competitors don’t know my real name. The jokes. Ye God, the jokes.”

  The girl laughed. “Right. I’m Chloe.”

  “Nice to meet you, Chloe. Have you settled into a division yet?”

  Chloe shook her head. “Too new, but I spar with the lightweights.”

  “We might be tiny, but we’re fierce,” I warned her, winking.

  “But isn’t it dangerous?” Chloe’s mother asked, her tone worried.

  “Not really. Bruises heal, and it’s pretty uncommon to sustain a bad injury when learning. Instructors are pretty careful. The risk does tend to go up during serious competitions, though.” I flashed the woman a grin. “We don’t want to hurt each other during a spar.”

  “Still seems dangerous.”

  I dumped my bag on the ground, set my purse between my feet, and unzipped the duffle, pulling out my gloves. “We wear protective gear. Put one on, ma’am.”

  Taking the baby out of her mother’s arms, Chloe watched me, her eyes bugging out as though I were the Messiah returned to Earth. Chloe’s mom took one of my gloves, sliding her hand into it. I helped her velcro it into place.

  I held my hand to her, palm up. “Go ahead. Punch my hand with that glove on.”

  “Really?”

  “Yeah. Punch me.” The woman hit like a kitten, and it took all of my willpower not to burst out laughing. “As hard as you can.”

  “You sure about that, sweetie?”

  “Yep.”

  Underneath the kitten was a lion, and she hit my palm hard enough I slid back a step. Laughing, I shook out my hand. “Hurt you any?”

  “No.”

  “In beginner sparring, we start out nice and gentle. Lots of padding, lots of protection. Once she’s more experienced, she’ll be able to protect herself on the streets, too. Kickboxing is good for that. It’s a martial art, after all. Maybe not your traditional style, but that’s okay.” I helped the woman out of my glove and stuffed it back in my bag. “Every little bit helps a young woman nowadays.”

  “You think so?”

  “Know so.”

  “Huh.” Chloe’s mother crossed her arms over her chest and looked down her nose at me. “How long to be useful?”

  If Chloe didn’t start breathing soon, she’d probably faint. I understood protective parents; my job was to help worried parents find their missing children. What I didn’t understand was when parents resisted giving their kids a way to protect themselves.

  “Pretty quick. If she’s fit, she’ll start kicking and punches fast. Every move can be used against an opponent. She’ll learn to take hits. Defend herself.” I shrugged. “It’s helped me. When you’re small like me, you need all the help you can get. Won’t help against a gun, but close up? It’ll make a huge difference.”

  “Huh.”

  The younger children milling around the woman’s feet chose that moment to burst into activity, squealing at each other and running in tight circles, bouncing against the others in line.

  Festivals were never boring. I grinned.

  With a low cry, Chloe’s mom dove into the fray while Chloe stared with wide eyes. “Shit.” The girl looked like she wanted to help, but her hands were filled with her infant sibling.

  “I can hold the baby if you’d like,” I offered.

  A second later, I had both arms full of squirming baby, who stared up at me with huge brown eyes, cooing and stretching up her little arms. A girl, if the pink onesie she wore was any indication. Chloe followed her mother, grabbing hold of a toddler and yanking him to her side.

  As always, when trouble showed up, so did an audience.

  The kid Chloe wrangled struggled and opened his mouth, probably to shriek like a banshee. I winced in anticipation, but Chloe clapped her hand over half his face before he made a sound, hissing something that put the fear of a trip straight to hell into him.

  Containing her brother with one hand, Chloe made a grab for the next one, a little older and a lot slyer than his sibling. He dodged, sticking out his tongue and blowing raspberries.

  All in all, holding the quiet baby was the better end of the child wrangling deal. I shifted the girl in my arms, and she cooed at me again.

  “Who is a cute baby?” I murmured, adjusting my hold on her so I could wiggle my fingers for her to play with. She reached for me, her pudgy fingers closing around one of mine. “Yes, you are.”

  As fast as the chaos had begun, Chloe and her mother reined it in. Both heaved sighs of relief, and Chloe’s mother turned to me. “Always surprisin’ how much trouble six kids and one funnel cake stand can be.”

  I nodded my agreement. Ma and Pop had always had their hands full with a house full of fosters; I’d been an infant when they had taken me in. I’d been the lucky one, the one they had actually adopted instead of being a part of the constant stream of kids seeking a forever home.

  “You’ve been around babies before.” Chloe’s mother grinned at me. “She’s fussy, my Annabelle, but she’s taken a right likin’ to ya.”

  “I like kids.” I grinned down at Annabelle. “She’s really cute.”

  Babies always seemed to come in two types; adorable or horrific. Annabelle scored full points in the precious angel department with her big eyes, her smooth, rounded cheeks, and her friendly smile.

  “You here on your own?”

  I nodded. “Figured I’d enjoy the music before the competition tonight.”

  “Will the competition be violent?”

  Lying didn’t help anyone, and it wasn’t a
secret kickboxing could get rough. I shrugged. “It’s a martial art. They’re always a bit violent. Full contact is rough, but they’re also running light contact stuff tonight, too. I can probably swing some tickets for you and your kids if you want in.”

  “Chloe? You want to go?”

  Chloe’s eyes widened so much I worried they’d pop right out of her head. “You mean it?”

  “Sure, baby. We don’t got nothin’ goin’ on tonight. Where’s the competition?”

  I told her where the sports center was located, gave her details on when the matches would start, and how she could get tickets.

  To my surprise, Chloe’s mother pulled out a cell from her pocket. It took me several moments to realize she was buying tickets online. “I’ll print ‘em when I get home.”

  “Nice. Don’t know how late you’re staying, but if I’m able to get away from the match, I’ll try to find you and say hello.” I meant it, too.

  A little kindness went a long way, and Chloe seemed like the sort of girl who needed a subtle nudge in the right direction to stay out of trouble. At least with kickboxing, if she got into trouble, she’d be able to defend herself. The thought of any one of the family becoming a victim made me shiver.

  “We’d like that. I’ll probably leave the littles with their pa; only sport he likes is football.”

  In Baltimore, there were two types of sports enthusiasts: baseball and football. Anything else was on the fringe. That would be a battle Chloe would have to fight on her own. I chuckled. “Well, if Chloe decides to pursue kickboxing, if she ever decides to hit the field, she’ll be a force to be reckoned with. Kickboxing chicks are tough.”

  “Your pa would like that.”

  The line shuffled forward, and I gave my purse a shove in the right direction so I wouldn’t disturb Annabelle. Chloe grabbed my bag and carried it to the next stop. I smiled my thanks. “The gear’s not too bad, either. Compared to other sports, that is.”

  “The class has loaner equipment I use,” Chloe admitted.

  “I got a spare set of gloves you can have. I think they’ll fit.” The spares were brand new, but I could replace them easily enough. I nudged my bag with my toe. “Hope you don’t mind red. I’ve got extra wraps you’re welcome to, too.”