Page 73

“Easy,” Luke murmurs as we open the doors. “Hands where he can see them.”

I do as he says, suddenly very aware that I’m unarmed.

“Luke.” The big man walks down the steps and puts out his hand, looking around warily. “It’s just you two, then?”

“Like I said.” Luke gives him a quizzical look. “You seem even more jumpy than usual, mate.”

Turbo scans the yard. “Yeah. Had a bit going on lately.” He has rings on every finger and ink on all visible skin, including all over his face. He must weigh at least three hundred pounds, much of which is on display over his jeans and heavy black belt. He wears no shirt, just a black leather waistcoat open over his burly torso. His black beard hangs down to his chest, and his hair is a wild mass halfway down his back.

Let’s just say I doubt most people would wait to see his gun before they started running.

Luke gestures at me. “This is Dimitry.”

I put my hand out, and Turbo’s smile disappears. His handshake is like a metal clamp, and he glares fiercely at me while he does it. I take Luke’s advice and don’t say a word.

When he’s done showing me who’s boss, Turbo looks at Luke and tilts his head toward the house. “Come out the back. I’ve got beers on ice.”

Luke holds up a carton. “Brought reinforcements.”

Turbo smiles for the first time since our arrival. “That’s my boy.”

A low fire is burning in a cut-off iron barrel out the back, and three camp chairs are set up next to an icebox. Turbo takes out three cans of beer, pushes them into foam holders, and throws one each to Luke and me before pulling back the tab on his own.

“Cheers.” He downs half the can in one long swallow, then gives a rich belch. He sits back in the straining camp chair andstarts rolling a joint. “So,” he says, eyeing Luke. “Spit it out, then. What kind of trouble you in?”

“No trouble.” Luke’s large figure dwarfs the small camp chair, but where Turbo is meaty, Luke’s bulk is every inch hard muscle. He might look like a surfer in his downtime, but I pity any shark who decides he’s fair game.

“A friend of mine could be in trouble,” Luke says. “I was hoping you might know something about it.”

“This friend.” Turbo lights his enormous joint and takes a deep pull on it. “He in the game or a civilian?”

“He is a she.” Luke shakes his head when Turbo offers him the joint. “Her name is Abby Chalmers, although she’s also used the name Abby Connelly. The short answer is that she’s a civilian—these days. She wasn’t always.”

Turbo takes another drag, beady eyes moving between Luke and me.

“And you’re here because this Abby chick has gone AWOL?”

“Pretty much.” Luke nods.

Turbo swallows the remainder of his can in a series of long gulps, crushes it, and pulls out a fresh one.

“This chick. She’s his woman?” He nods in my direction while addressing Luke.

“Yup.”

Turbo’s eyes cut to me, then away. “Then, mate, I’d recommend you find yourself a new one.” Avoiding my eyes, he drinks down most of the can in long gulps.

It takes all my self-restraint not to upturn the fat fuck’s chair.

It’s only Luke’s warning stare, and his words to me in the car, that stop me.

Think of Abby. That’s all that matters. You can kill this prick later.

Turbo eyes me warily. “Got a bit of fight in him, your boyhere, Luke. Army mate, you reckon?” His eyes settle on the rose-and-barbed-wire tattoo snaking up my arm. “That doesn’t look like army ink to me.”

I force myself to remain silent.

“We’ve fought together.” Luke’s tone is still calm, but there’s a hard look in his eye that makes the fat man’s grin fade. “And Dimitry is a mate, Turbo. A good one.”