Page 58 of Saxon

"This place is shielded, asshole. I know you better than that."

"You think they do not know who is in Jersey? Of course me. How long?"

"Usually within an hour."

"Then we waste time." He swipes a hand at Saxon. "You know where it is?"

"If I did, I'd have cut it out already."

Luka juts his chin at my handiwork. "Looks like you already tried."

"Nah, that was a near miss from a bullet."

Luka goes to a long, waist-high workbench along the back wall, which is littered with electronic components of all sorts, half-finished computers, gadgets and gizmos aplenty, whoozits and whatsits galore.

God, I'm funny.

He rummages around, grabs a small electric screwdriver, and pieces things together. He spends about ten minutes doing this, and comes back with…well, I have no fucking clue. A Star Trek Tricorder, maybe. He gestures impatiently for Saxon to stand up, which is annoying because I'm in the process of taping an actual bandage to him. The gizmo he jury-rigged squeaks and squawks like a metal detector as he waves it at Saxon.

He frowns as he scans Saxon's head, neck, shoulders, arms, and midsection—whatever tone he's listening for, he's not hearing. So, he crouches and scans Saxon's crotch—nothing. Thighs—nada.

Then, scanning around his buttocks—the gadget howls a high-pitched screech.

"Bingo. Found you, little fucker." Luka tosses the detector ray thing aside and jerks his chin at me. "You, big sysky lady. You cut it out from him."

"Okay, first, I'm gonna assume that word you keep using means tits or boobs, yeah? How about we don't refer to me by my body parts?"

Luka grins. "Is your…breast…feature."

I snicker, despite myself. "Ha-fucking-ha, dick."

"See? You do same."

"No, I'm calling you a dick. Like a dickhead. An asshole." I tilt my head, thinking. "Well, you may have a point. Regardless, my name is Terra."

"Terra the Terrible." He flicks a finger at me, at Saxon. "Use knife, cut tracker from his ass."

Saxon groans. "My ass? Really?"

"Is good place. You don't feel it. All fat and muscle, no lump like neck or hair. If you feel anything, you think maybe is just ass pimple."

"I don't have ass pimples," he grouses.

I grin at him, brandishing the knife. "I'll be the judge of that, hot stuff. Come on, now, off with 'em. Don’t be shy. I've seen it all already."

"Can you at least disinfect the knife? I got it off the Cabal assholes. Who knows what the fuck they've used it for." He crosses to the low black leather couch and lays on his stomach, working his suit pants down past his butt.

And lordy above, what a butt. If Luka wasn't in the room, I'd worship it. It's perfectly shaped, hard and round with those delicious indentations on the sides when he tenses.

Luka takes the knife from me, grabs a bottle of vodka from the fridge, douses the knife blade over the sink, and then sets it on fire—the blade burns blue, and then winks out as the liquid burns off. He hands the knife back to me, grabs a black sharpie from the workbench, and crosses to where Saxon is lying. Scans his ass again, pinpointing, and then, carefully avoiding making any contact with Saxon's bare cheek, draws a circle about the size of a quarter.

"There. Should be not very deep."

I have the first aid kit with me, and I use an antiseptic wipe to clean the area. "You don't have a razorblade and local anesthetic, do you?"

"Razorblade, no. Local anesthetic?" He hands the vodka bottle to Saxon. "Is work for thousands of years."

"I dunno about thousands of years," Saxon says, taking a long pull. "But it'll do." He hands the bottle back and rests his cheek on his hands. "Just do it, Terra. I've been through far worse."