8. Luka

Luka

Terra

H e chews on the inside of his cheek. "Ever use one?"

"A few times. Ricardo let me plink cans occasionally."

"With what?"

"Like what kind of gun?" I shrug. "He had a bunch. He gave me a little one, it was silver and I could hold it one-handed, although he never let me shoot it that way. Two hands, always."

"Probably a Walther PPK," he muses. "Well, all I've got are nines, and none are that small. But if you've shot before, then sure." He jerks his head at the rear bench. "Bag on the floor behind your seat."

I twist and reach blindly behind my seat—the bag my hand finds is heavy. I drag it awkwardly to the center between the seats, struggling to open it while still buckled.

"Fuck this," I grouse, and unbuckle.

I twist onto my knees on the seat and lean over the console—presenting my ass to Saxon in the process. I feel his gaze.

"Enjoying the view?" I say over my shoulder, wiggling my ass side to side.

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."

"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."

He takes a step backward, grinning at me. "Fine piece of ass with attitude as big as her sysky ."

"Saxon," I call, without taking my eyes off of Luka, "can you get to business and get this overgrown creep outta my face before I carve his fuckin' face right the fuck off?"

Saxon slides between us, effortlessly guiding Luka away from me. "Luka, my friend. I brought you a 1968 Ferrari Daytona. The girl is mine. Fuck with her again, and I'll let her deal with you her way, yeah?"

Luka glances down at Saxon, eyes narrowing. "Is like that, hah?"

"She's a live one, buddy. You'd be lucky to get away with all your parts."

Luka shrugs. "I prefer my women a little more agreeable, maybe. You teach her manners, send her to me."

I lunge at him. "I'll teach you some fuckin' manners, motherfucker!"

Saxon catches me around the middle and swings me around. "Tone it down a touch, maybe?" He whispers in my ear.

"I'll tone you down, fuckface," I snarl at Saxon, not at all quietly.

The tall man's cocky, chauvinistic attitude has pissed me off, and the rage is not at all faked.

Luka just laughs. "You have tiger by the toe I think."

"Tail, dumbfuck," I mutter. "Tiger by the tail."

Instantly, a golden gun barrel is pressed against my forehead. "How many languages do you speak, bitch? If more than seven, how many I speak, you can call me dumbfuck. Otherwise, the manners I teach you will be a hole in your lovely fuckink skull."

I shrug as if I'm not about to piss my knickers. "Fair enough. My bad, dog."

"I am no dog. You are dog."

"It's a term. Like bro."

He nods. "Oh. Stupid American slang. I never understand it. I learn one word, then no one say it anymore, and I have to learn a new one."

Saxon shoots me a look, which I choose to read as "You're doing great, keep it up," but which I think he meant as "Seriously, bitch, bring it down a notch before he actually shoots you."

Luka waves with the barrel of the giant golden revolver at an area on the other side of the room—fifty or so feet away—which features a huge glass-front refrigerator, an L-shaped section of counters and cabinets, a stovetop, and a free-standing keg with a gun.

"Help yourself, lady."

I swagger over and browse the fridge—beer, beer, beer, vodka, vodka, vodka, iced coffee, Diet Coke. I snag a Coke and return to the business side of the room. Luka lights another cigarette from the first and gestures at Saxon with it.

"So. What is business?"

Saxon hesitates, as if considering how much to say. "I surfaced, and they found me."

"Of course. You fucked them. They get their hands on you, you will beg for death."

"Which I'd like to avoid." He glances at me. "Startin' to feel like maybe I got somethin' to live for, suddenly."

Luka follows his gaze, smirks. " Sysky like that?" He holds up his hands in a gesture of surrender, cigarette smoke curling and twisting. "Joke, just a joke." His expression sours into serious. "What does this have to do with me?"

"I think they have a tracker in me."

"You think?"

Saxon shrugs. "They know exactly where I am."

Luka curses in Ukrainian. "And you lead them to me?"

"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."

I kneel on the floor beside Saxon, steeling myself. Hurting someone trying to hurt me in a fight? Easy. Causing Saxon pain? Not so easy.

Gritting my teeth, I use my free hand to flatten and spread the area taut, trying like hell not to think about how firm and luscious the man's ass is. I'd take a bite out of it, in other circumstances.

Focus, Terra. Cut the thing open.

I draw the tip of the knife partway around the circumference of the Sharpie'd circle, creating a flap. Saxon doesn't so much as hiss or twitch.

"Tweezers or pliers or something?" I ask.

A few moments later, Luka hands me a pair of expensive, fancy-looking electronic-repair style tweezers, still hot from being torched.

Using the tip of the knife to hold the flap away, I dig into the open…meat, I suppose…with the tweezers. Saxon breathes out sharply through his nose at this, but that's it. After a bit of squeamish digging, the tweezers meet resistance—something hard.

"Got you, little fucker," I mutter.

"Hey, I say this first," Luka teases.

"Hush, you." I don't look at him, focusing on my work.

It takes some delicate tweezer work, but I eventually manage to pinch something hard and pull it free—and again, I'm trapped in a James Bond movie. The thing is exactly what it would be in a movie—a tiny cylinder a little bigger than a grain of rice, metal caps on either end with glass in the middle, and a microchip embedded in the glass.

"No shit," I breathe. "I legit thought he was making shit up."

"Is very high-end technology," Luka says, his voice oddly strained. "I should know. I make them."

"Why do you think I came to you?" Saxon growls, a note of tension in his voice the only indication that he feels anything.

"Because I am the best."

"Exactly. But mainly because I knew you likely were the creator." He glances over his shoulder. "Okay, tape me up, babe. We gotta go."

I let the flap close, dab away the blood with a bandage, and then use a butterfly to close it in two places, covering the area with another square of bandage.

Saxon rolls to his feet, wincing as he tugs his pants up. "Stings like a bitch."

"Well no shit, tough guy. I just cut a hole in your ass cheek." I pat the other side, the unhurt one. "Shame to scar such a fine piece of man-meat."

He winks at me. "You can kiss it all better later."

"Gladly," I murmur.

"Okay, okay. Show is over. No lovey business here. Go away." Luka regards the device on the table in front of him. "I will dispose of this."

"Can you make it go somewhere else?" Saxon asks. "Confuse them? Give us a head start?"

Luka's face lights up. "Timmy has been training for this for long time."

"Timmy?" I ask.

Saxon shrugs.

Luka vanishes into a back corner and comes back with a big white rat in his hands. It's the size of a small cat, with a skinny, wormlike, hairless tail and beady red eyes.

I fight the urge to scream and climb on the table. "That's Timmy?"

The rat scurries up Luka's arm, onto his shoulder, and noses his ear, then perches with its little hand-paw-things in front.

It's not cute.

It's just…not NOT cute.

For a rat.

"Is Timmy. Good friend of me. Very smart. I teach him to steal money from tourist and bring to me." He looks at Timmy. "Timmy, fetch money."

The rat speeds down his arm, down his leg, to the floor, and back into the shadowy corner, returning in a flash of white in seconds, a hundred-dollar bill in his jaws. Back up Luka's lanky frame to his shoulder, where he takes the bill in his paws and hands it to his owner.

"No shit," I breathe. "And he can get to New York from here?"

"Of course. Is many tunnels, and he is rat." He nuzzles Timmy, taking the money. "Thank you, friend. Is good job. You are very smart boy. I have a job for you, yes? You ready to work?"

Timmy squeaks, perched on his haunches, little hands—I swear to fuck—making a pawing-praying motion.

Luka crosses the room to his workbench, setting Timmy on it. The rat is wearing a collar, and he removes the collar, duct tapes the tracking device to it, and replaces the collar.

"Find money, Timmy. Find money. When you return, I give you much food. Maybe even I will find a lady rat for you, hah?"

"Oh Jesus," I whisper. "A lady rat?"

"Oh shush, you. He is like me—motivated by pretty ladies. I would give him a nice car, but sadly, he is no Ralph to ride a motorcycle. You know this book, yah? The mouse who rides a magic motorcycle?"

I shake my head. "Can't say I do."

"Favorite book when I am child. I train rats to be friends because I always want a friend like Ralph. Sadly, I never find magic motorcycle." Luka eyes me. "You are thinking, Luka, he does very little and receives much value. But I tell you a little story. Once, there is a ship. Big ship. It has cargo, which must go across the sea, very soon. Only, engine is not working. All the mechanics and engineers cannot fix. So, the owner hires the best expert, the one everyone says is best. The man wanders around, looking, poking, humming. He does nothing. Just look. And then, he stop looking. He get a little hammer, and he goes to a place on the engine, and—tink—he tap, just so. Like magic, is fix. Engine work. The owner, he ask what is charge. Man say ten thousand dollar. Owner says what? You tap with hammer. Why so much? You know what the man say? The hammer is twenty dollar. Knowing exactly where to hit? Nine thousand nine hundred and eighty dollar." He taps his temple with a finger. "I am this man. The parts, there? A few hundred dollars, at most. But knowing which parts to put together and how, so as to find this hidden tracking device? That is why you come to Luka."

"I understand," I say. "They won't hurt Timmy, will they?"

"Hah, no. They cannot catch Timmy. He is smartest rat I ever train. He will take them on wild gooses chase." He clucks his tongue, and Timmy hops onto his hand. "You want to pet him? He will not bite."

It goes against everything inside me, but I ain't no bitch. I extend my hand, and Timmy hops on, scurrying up my arm to my shoulder. I can't help a shudder and a scream, but then he nuzzles my ear with a gentle little squeak, and I look at him, and fuck…he is cute. His little hands? His little collar? He chitters at me and then looks at Luka.

"Okay, friend. Go. Find money. Find money. Good boy, find money." Luka clucks his tongue again, and Timmy flies off of me, jumps off the workbench, and vanishes into the shadows.

"Okay, well, we'd better go," Saxon says. "I want the biggest head start I can get. I need to find this Jarrod character."

Luka's head snaps around. "No, you do not. I know him. He is mean. Bad, bad, bad man."

Saxon suddenly exudes ice. "So am I, Luka. Or have you forgotten?"

"I do not forget, friend. But I also know Jarrod."

"Where do I find him?"

Luka looks sick to his stomach. "He finds you."

"Luka." It's a warning, in a voice colder than space.

"I hear things. I hear he is sometimes in Vermont. He works remotely, these days. High up. Cabal trusts him. He is who they brought in to fix things after you fucked them." Luka shakes his head. "My advice is leave him alone. He is a devil, Saxon. A devil, I tell you."

"Once upon a time, Luka, the Devil was afraid of me." Saxon grabs my hand and leads me to the car. "Time to go."

"I warn you. Do not say I didn't." He presses a button, and the ceiling lowers.

He accompanies us up, on foot. He stands at the driver's window, staring seriously at Saxon. "I'm sorry, friend."

Saxon goes still. "Sorry? For what?"

Luka sighs. "She came to me a long time ago. Made me offer I cannot refuse—freedom from Cabal if I bring you to her. She only wants to talk, I promise. Please, do not fight."

"Luka, what did you do?" Saxon jerks his gun out and presses it to Luka's forehead.

"Hello, Saxon." The voice is raspy, sexy, cultured, alluring.

"Camilla," Saxon whispers, sounding shocked.

Fuck.