Page 51 of Lash

"You are lucky," she tells me, touching the side of my head near the top of my ear. "Very, very lucky. A hair's breadth more and it would have gone through your brain. "

I pull her into my arms, kissing her forehead. "I am well, Tatiana. Are you hurt?" I touch a few red dots on her face. "You are scratched."

"The glass," she says.

I nod, twirling a finger at her. "Turn your head upside down and shake."

She swiftly unbraids her hair and flips upside down, shaking her head; when she’s done and flips back upright, there's a sprinkling of glass shards on the ground at her feet.

"Do not touch your head until you have washed your hair," I say. "There will still be some tiny pieces against your scalp."

"Here," Scarlett says. "Let me re-braid it for you." She makes quick work of a tight braid, and Tatiana thanks her, gingerly smoothing her hand over her scalp, wincing and yanking her hand away.

Solomon drags the corpse off the shoulder and into the vineyards that line the highway for mile after mile, rifling through the dead man's pockets. He comes up with the key fob for the BMW and another handgun with a pair of spare magazines.

Blood paints the outside of the car, long sprays of it in overlapping Rorschach patterns, but the vehicle is otherwise undamaged.

"Not much we can do about the blood," Solomon says. "But at least this thing won’t die on us halfway up the fucking Alps."

Lorenzo shakes his head with a disgusted sigh. “Let’s see you find a better vehicle at six o'clock in the morning in a city you do not live in for only a few thousand euros."

Solomon just laughs. "Buddy, I'm not shitting on you. I couldn't have done better. I just donotwant to push a thirty-five-year-old car across the goddamn Alps."

Lorenzo mutters something under his breath in what I assume is Portuguese, and Solomon responds in the same language.

"I forgot you speak Portuguese," Lorenzo says, finally laughing.

Solomon claps Lorenzo on the shoulder. "Ren, buddy, we're in a high-stress situation. Tempers flare, we both know that. It's all good. Let's get this shitshow on the road so we can find Lash's contact and get our asses across the pond."

Lorenzo nods, rubbing his face. "You must forgive my temper. I am not a patient man under the best of circumstances, but right now I am exhausted, wounded, and most of all worried about Sophia. I am not myself."

"Like I said, it's all good. Nothing to forgive." Solomon climbs behind the wheel. "I'll drive. You can navigate."

Scarlett slides into the seat behind Solomon, Tatiana takes the middle again, and I’m on the right side. This car is brand new, a top-end 8-series with luxurious leather seats and every amenity.

"I see how it is," Lorenzo jokes. "I drive the shit box, and you drive the Bimmer."

"Yup," Sol says, putting it in gear and nailing the accelerator; the powerful motor sends us rocketing forward, fishtailing wildly before he gets it under control. "Jesus.Thisis what I'm talking about. Ride to Germany in style, motherfuckers."

Scarlett reaches forward and touches Solomon's shoulder. "Are you good to drive?"

He glances back briefly. "I'm good. Why?"

She shrugs, sitting back. "I mean, it's been a bit of a whirlwind. What was it, just a few days ago you were a prisoner in the fucking jungle? And we've been on the run ever since."

Tatiana looks from Solomon to Scarlett with interest. "The jungle?"

And such is how we pass the time on our drive—Solomon and Scarlett relating their wild, hair-raising adventure in the jungles of South America, with occasional input from Lorenzo.

Solomon drives for three hours, and we stop for fuel and food, at which point Scarlett takes the wheel for another stretch. We make another stop to stretch our legs, and then I take the last stretch of driving into Germany; my contact is at the Ramstein Air Force Base.

It's the middle of the night by the time we get to Ramstein; I know my contact lives on base, but whether or not I'm able to get in touch with him is another story.

We approach the gate and are stopped at the guardhouse by an eager young American private. We have no active military ID, no paperwork, and no official business, so getting in to see my contact is going to require some finagling.

I've always been able to find him because I was either stationed there myself or was active military with high enough clearance that I could just drive onto any base in Germany.

It's a different story, these days.