Page 55 of Saxon

His hand steals up under my skirt and palms a cheek. "Very much so."

I drop my head and let out a breath—his hand feels like heaven on my skin. "Don't start what we can't finish, Saxon."

He pets my ass, one side and the other. "Not startin' anything, babe. Just…appreciating."

I huff a laugh and return my attention to procuring a weapon. There are so many guns, so many clips in here. Two, no, three of the machine guns with folding shoulder things, four handguns, and clips or magazines or whatever galore. Two big folding knives. A big red nylon zipper bag with a white cross on it—first aid.

I lift the first aid kit. “Why’d you let me cut up your shirt when we had this?”

A shrug. “Forgot it was there.

"Ready for war, huh?" I ask, rummaging through the bag some more.

"Absolutely." He brakes to a stop. "Grab a gun and buckle up. Doesn't matter which one."

I pick a pistol at random—they all look the same to me. It's heavy. I remember Ricardo's lessons and keep my finger along the outside of the trigger guard, and the barrel pointed away from both myself and Saxon. Check the safety—there isn't one. Okay. Cool.

One of the customizations I make to almost all my clothes is enlarging the pockets because pockets in women’s clothing are usually so small as to be useless—I've done it to this jacket, so it's now big enough to hide the pistol.

Saxon glances at me, nodding in approval. "Nice. Can't even see the outline." He accelerates when the light turns green. "My rules for you carrying that are pretty simple. Finger off the trigger unless you plan to shoot. Never point at me or you or anyone you don't intend to shoot."

"Ricardo drilled that into me before he let me even hold a gun."

"Good. Don't forget it." He holds my gaze for a brief but intense moment. "Most important rule is this: if you know you gotta shoot, then don't fuckin' hesitate. But be absolutely sure you have to, because you can't take that shit back. And if you have to, shoot to kill. Aiming to miss will work every time. Meaning, you aren't skilled enough to try and wing someone, okay?"

"How do I know if I have to?" I ask.

"If it's you or them. Or them or me. Trust your gut. You've been through enough shit to know when you likely don't have much choice but to do what you gotta do."

I nod. "I've been in plenty of fights. When I was young and dumb and angry, I'd thrown down at the drop of a hat, and as they say about the Irish, I'd drop the hat myself. So yeah, I've got a feel for people and fucked up situations."

"Just don't shoot Luka, okay? He's our ticket to being able to unfuck this whole situation." He wiggles his hand at me. "Gun me, please."

I hand him a pistol, and he checks it as he pulls up at a stop sign. We're in an average, nondescript neighborhood. Two- and three-bedroom ranches with concrete porches and old iron railings and postage stamp yards. Cracked driveways lead to detached garages with the occasional chain link fence and gate. Big maples and oaks line the narrow street. Every few dozen feet, a streetlamp casts an amber pool of light.

About a hundred yards down, a big, enclosed car hauler is parked on the street in front of one of the homes, emergency flashers blinking steadily. The rear gate is open to create a ramp, and bright white LEDs inside the hauler illuminate a long, low-slung sports car. Red, vintage, with a long, curving hood.

I lean forward. "Fuck, that's sexy."

"1968 Ferrari Daytona. That particular one is ultra rare. It's an all-original survivor with less than a hundred miles on it. It's not a joke or an exaggeration to say my father loved that car more than me or my brothers. I can't tell you how fucking happy it makes me to get rid of the goddamn thing." He lets out a long sigh. "But yeah, it's a sweet fuckin' car."

There's a cough and a rumble as the engine starts, audible even through the ultra-quiet, sound-proofed Range Rover cabin. The brake lights bathe the road red, and then the backup lights kick on, and the vintage sports car—a collector's item worth more than most of the houses on the street combined—inches backward.

The door of the house in front of which the car hauler is parked flies open, banging against the siding with a loud slam. A freakishly tall man with hair so blond it’s nearly white charges down the three steps, a fucking massive shotgun leading the way. He circles the hood of the car and aims at the driver, mouth moving—shouting.

The driver exits the car carefully, hands up; he gestures at his pocket, tilting his hip toward the gunman. Luka, the gunman, I'm assuming, hesitates, and then slings the huge shotgun over one shoulder and plucks a slip of paper from the driver’s indicated pocket.

He reads it swiftly and then looks directly at us. Saxon flashes his brights three times, twice, and then once, and then turns the lights off.

Luka jerks his chin up in our direction, says something to the driver, who makes quick work of handing the paperwork to Luka, closing the trailer, and hauling ass away.

Luka jogs to the front door of his house, closes it, and jogs back to the car. Tosses his shotgun into the passenger seat, and then sits behind the wheel. His body language shifts visibly—I know a man who's turned on when I see one, and this man is creaming his shorts. He caresses the steering wheel and then unfolds and caresses the Ferrari's admittedly sexy curves in a circuit around the car.

Back behind the wheel, he closes the door, and then with a smoking squeal of tires, he's gone. Saxon follows, and suddenly we're in another car chase, skidding around corners, blowing through red lights, juking around slower-moving cars.

"Why are we chasing him?" I ask, gripping the oh-shit bar for dear life.

"Just how the crazy fuck drives. Told you, he's weird as hell."