"He called me and told me where you'd be—here, today. I dunno how he knows. I swear! He told me to be at this hotel, today, at this time."
"When’d you get the call?"
"An hour ago."
"And how'd you know I was up here?"
"I got a text."
"Phone."
He grimaces and groans as he fishes a cheap burner cell from his hip pocket. I bring up the most recent message. It came through less than five minutes ago: “PENTHOUSE. FOUR TARGETS. NO SURVIVORS. EXTRA 5K FOR PHOTOGRAPHIC PROOF OF SC DEAD.”
Nothing else. No clues as to how the fuck they know exactly where I am.
I pocket the phone and pace to the window, idly cocking the hammer of my pistol and un-cocking it, an old thinking habit of mine.
Tracker? It's the only thing I can think of. Mom's murder-suicide of Dad and herself was unexpected, to say the least, and Silas and Solomon and I took a private, unchartered jet courtesy of The Boss from Vegas to a local airfield a few miles from my family's property. We walked in from there, borrowed a car from Dad's collection, and drove to the funeral from there. Only Inez, The Boss, and the other Broken Arrows knew we'd be there, and there was no one in attendance at the funeral but my brothers and myself, the minister—hired that day by Inez through an intermediary and paid in cash—and the gravedigger.
After the service, Solomon drove off in Dad's car by himself for whereabouts unknown, Silas stayed at the graves alone to presumably piss on Dad's casket like he always claimed he would, and I took off on foot. I walked mile after mile, trying to sort out my feelings—sad about Mom, relieved or happy or some shit about Dad, and just generally conflicted.
At some point, my feet took me downtown, where I was unexpectedly accosted by a five-foot-three siren with a big juicy ass and big ol’ titties, scarlet hair, and a dump truck full of attitude.
Which brings me to now.
How the fuck does The Cabal know where I am? If they knew where I was this whole time, why wait until I was away from the club to make their move?
The only explanation is that they implanted a tracker in me at some point, unbeknownst to me, number one, and number two, they're scared of The Boss. There's no other reason that they've left me alone for this long. They don't dare make a move on the club, because someone in The Cabal knows who the Boss is and knows better than to make an enemy of him—which is more than any of us know about him, to be honest.
Solution? Remove and/or disable the tracker. Fortunately, I know just the guy. Problem is, he doesn't come cheap, and the cash I have on me won't come close to paying for the job.
So, then, how do I get enough currency and/or collateral to convince Luka to help me out? He doesn’t owe me any favors. I don't have access to my bank accounts at this moment. I'm hesitant to involve Inez or the others.
I scratch my temple with the barrel—my finger is outside the trigger guard because trigger discipline is the first thing you learn when handling firearms.
What do I know about Luka? What are his predilections, and how can I convince him to help me out?
He likes hookers—high-end escorts, to be precise. The kind that get all bent out of shape when you call 'em hookers. Expensive bitches with silicone tits, bottle-blonde hair, and six-inch heels. Not my thing, but more importantly, the kind of thing that requires more liquid assets than I have at my disposal.
Cocaine—preferably pure, uncut Columbian. Once upon a time I could have made a single phone call and had a couple of kilos delivered to his doorstep within an hour. This long out of the game, I don't much like my chances with that crew. They're likely to sell me out for the five mil.
Cars. Specifically, vintage Italian. Nothing gets Luka's dick harder than an all-original, numbers-matching Italian sports car. Ferrari, Lamborghini, Alfa Romeo, Lancia, shit like that. The rarer and more expensive the car, the harder he jizzes.
And you know who had almost as much for a hard-on for cars as Luka? My old fuckin' man. I guarantee you that garage has something in it I can trade to Luka. God knows my brothers won't give a shit. Neither of them cares about Dad's cars any more than I do…Although Sol was pretty particular about being the only one allowed to drive the '66 Mercedes 300SL gullwing. Which he chose. He didn't even hesitate, when we got inside that garage. He beelined for that fucker, knew exactly where the key was, and exactly which cars he had to move to get it out. Almost like he'd had his eye on it.
Silas? Like me, he's probably inclined to snag a ride from the garage out of convenience or necessity. Sol always had a flair for the finer things. He likes expensive watches, custom suits, fancy leather shoes handmade by Italian gnomes and shit like that. Silas and me? Maybe it was the life of organized crime, but our tastes are simpler. Good whiskey, maybe a joint of premium green, and a willing woman to have fun with. Cars, watches, and shit like that? Meh.
I'm getting sidetracked. Maudlin. I haven't been away from Silas in years. We ran away together. Joined the Cabal together. Survived that hellish training camp together. It was only at the end that we got separated, and even then, Inez brought us both in pretty much at the same time.
"Saxon? You said two minutes." Terra's voice is soft, and just behind me.
I clear my throat and spin to face her. "You haven't changed."
She glances down at the tight green dress. "Yeah, but then these assholes showed up, and then you went all…spacey. Where'd you go?"
"Trying to figure out how these fucks keep showing up like this."
She wraps her hands around my bicep, and her short, thin, delicate little fingers can't quite meet. Her chin rests against the outer cap of my shoulder, turquoise eyes gazing up at me. "And?"
