Page 56 of Saxon

"What did the note say?"

"Told him the car is from me, as payment for services he's about to render."

"A one-of-a-kind Ferrari seems overpayment for removing a tracker."

"Specialized equipment and skills come expensive. Keeping his mouth shut and not giving me away to the Cabal is even more so. Planting the tracker to throw them off the scent and buy us time? Sounds like a good fuckin' deal to me." He pauses to brake and haul around a hard left. “Plus, I get to give away the car just to spite my father’s ghost.”

I shrug. "Well, when you put it like that, I can't argue."

The bowels-loosening race continues through side streets, on and off freeways, circling back and random turns…we're making sure we're not followed, I realize. Eventually, Luka leads us toward the river and into an industrial area—shipyards and mazes of containers and huge cranes…it's the setting for an action movie.

We pull to a stop outside a warehouse—again, the action movie motif continues, complete with broken windows and graffiti and gargantuan rusted doors. Only, one of the doors slides open silently and smoothly, seemingly of its own accord. Some sort of remote system, presumably. Luka leads the way in, and once we're both inside, the door closes behind us, leaving us in darkness. But only for a moment.

There's a grinding noise, and then a sense of movement—lights slide into view…from beneath us. We're going…down? The floor is sinking, I realize. Down, down, down, fifteen or twenty feet, bare bulbs inside glass-and-metal cages sliding upward every few feet.

The motion stops and the Ferrari rumbles forward, brakes, and stops. Saxon does the same. I look around—concrete walls and ceiling, more bare bulbs in cages. Pillars here and there holding up the ceiling. Wires run this way and that, up the walls and across the floor and around pillars, leading to a supervillain-worthy bank of monitors showing the building we're in from a dozen angles, as well as the interior in greenish night vision colors. I see us, the cars we're in. The grinding resumes, and the floor rises out of sight.

"This is some serious James Bond shit, dude."

Saxon laughs. "Yeah, Luka takes himself very seriously. Just…whatever you do, do not bring up Russia, or Ukraine, or any of that shit. He'll blow his lid. He's Ukrainian and it's a very touchy subject for him."

"Noted."

He glances at me, eyes slipping to my prominent cleavage. "He'll hit on you. And I'm just gonna warn you now, I'm gonna get all…" he sticks out his jaw and makes gorilla sounds. "Only way to get him to leave you alone is gonna be a dick-measuring contest." He meets my eyes. "It's all an act, okay? Posturing. Just try to go along with it, yeah?"

I grin at him. "I got it. I know the type all too well." I wink. "Don't worry about me, baby. I know the game."

"Except in this game, if he smells a rat, he'll shoot you and me both. Or, try to, at least. And I don't want to have to hurt him, and not just because I need him."

I nod, grip his hand, and squeeze. "Told you, Saxy-baby. I got you." My Southie chick is rising.

It's not a persona or a fake front, it's just…it's complicated. As a Southie street kid, I had to adopt a tough, take no shit, kick-ass-and-chew-bubblegum-and-I'm-all-out-of-gum attitude. It was real. But it was armor, like the goth thing. It was and is me. But I've become more. I can tone down the accent, and the attitude. Be a less aggro, in-your-face version of myself.

Right now, I need the nail-chewing bitch.

"Just so you know, Saxon…You can measure dicks all you want, but you're gonna have to let me handle him hitting on me my way. I'm no one's submissive arm candy."

Saxon ejects the clip, looks at it, taps it home, and racks the slide—a bullet flies out and he catches it, grinning at me as he pockets it. "Thank fuck. Those types make my skin crawl."

Luka has unfolded from behind the wheel—Saxon shuts his engine off and prepares to open the door. "Here we go. Show time."

Luka is at least six-seven, rail thin, with the aforementioned white-blond hair and sharp, narrow, hard features, and pale blue eyes. He's wearing baggy cargo shorts that hang to his shins, a tight black wifebeater, and high-top Air Jordans with calf-height athletic socks straight out of the 80s, complete with red-and-blue stripes at the top. He has a huge gold revolver stuffed in the back of his shorts, and the shotgun in one hand. A cigarette dangles from his mouth, unlit—he digs in a pocket and produces a Zippo. He snaps the lid open one-handed and rolls the wheel with a thumb in a single motion, inhaling deeply.

What a caricature, Jesus.

"Hello? Central casting? We’ve got your guy." I mutter this right as Saxon opens his door, and he has to cough to stifle a laugh.

I get out and shut the door, keeping my hands in my jacket pockets, one hand on the pistol handle, finger along the guard, thumb on the hammer.

The room is industrial-air-conditioner cold. My nipples turn to glass cutters instantly, and whaddya know, Luka's eyes go right to them.

Luka swaggers toward me, cigarette smoldering into his eyes, a lecherous gleam directed at me. "You bring me 1968 Daytona and a fine piece of ass," he says in a voice like a rockhopper full of marbles, complete with a caricature-worthy accent. "You are needing something very expensive."

I let him get close, towering over me, eyes firmly attached to my tits. I glare up at him, unflinching.

Unbeknownst to Saxon, I also swiped a knife. It's a sweet one, with four inches of black razor-sharp steel that flicks open at the touch of a thumb. I flick it open and lay it along his thigh, over his femoral.

"He needs you," I say, holding his gaze. "I don't. Back the fuck up before you lose your cock, asshole."