Page 100 of Saxon

My watchdogs are on the stoop, and my car is in one piece. I jog back to the steps where I left my bag of goodies, grab it, toss it in the back seat, and find what I'm looking for—a roll of cash.

I toss it to them, and the nearest kid catches it, strips off the rubber band, and flips through it, counting it…he stops halfway through, staring at me.

"Five grand," I say. Dig another roll out of the bag and toss it to the other kid. "Same for you."

They just stare.

"You look like James Bond," the nearest kid says. "Only American."

I grin. "Well, wish me luck, because I’m about to go pull off some real James Bond shit. Keep an eye on my lady's spot, yeah? We'll be back for her shit, at some point."

"Good luck, dawg."

"For real for real. Good luck, man. Thanks."

I give them a two-finger salute and climb behind the wheel.

Look at Terra. "Ready to go, hot stuff?"

She grins at me. "Let’s go do some James Bond shit."

Fish Out Of Water

Terra

Shit.

Fuck, shit, fuck, and fuck me.

Fuck me sideways.

My palms sweat. I can't breathe.

"I can't do this," I whisper.

Saxon takes my hand. The interior of the Range Rover is cool and dark. The white LED headlights illuminate a pair of valets waiting to take the car. Beyond them, a cobblestone drive arcs around a replica of the Trevi fountain in Rome—a fact provided to me by Saxon. I wouldn't have known what it was, other than an absurdly ostentatious display of wealth. And it's just the tip of the dick, so to speak.

Lining the circle drive are cars. Lots of very expensive cars. Bentleys, Rolls-Royces, Lamborghinis, Ferraris, Aston Martins, Bugattis, Range Rovers, and cars I've never seen before, which means they're probably even rarer than the others. Fortunately, our Rover doesn't stand out…other than the bullet hole pockmarks, that is.

Men in tuxedos wander in pairs, wielding fully automatic machine guns. They cross back and forth in front of the gate almost half a mile back—the gate is either solid gold or gold-plated…and judging by what I've seen thus far, I'm gonna go with solid gold. Pairs of armed guards roam the acres of manicured lawn, and these guards assigned to lawn detail each keep terrifying-looking dogs barely restrained on leashes. I count twenty pairs just from where I'm sitting.

The house itself is a castle. No, really, it's a castle. Built from blocks of stone which must weigh several tons each, complete with crenellations, towers, walkways, and arrow-slits. There's a fucking moat—the circle drive and fountain are on this side of the moat, which is ten feet wide and a six-foot drop from ground to water. The bridge over the moat is a high arch made of more ancient-looking stone. More guards stand in pairs on both sides of the bridge—meaning, two guards left of the opening and two on the right on this side, and two more on each side on the other end.

Spotlights bathe the castle in eldritch light, the occasional bat fluttering through the swath of illumination.

We're stopped behind a line-up of cars waiting to be parked, each of which disgorges a glamorous couple.