Chapter Thirty-Three
Thirty-Three
Axe
The roar of the engine is pure music.
All week, when I wasn’t working with the tech team, tinkering with our haptic suits, or thinking about Josie—who am I kidding?
I’m Axe MacKenzie, I can do both at the same time—I’ve been digging deeper into von Graf.
Cracking his password-protected files delivered me a treasure trove of gruesome information about Primogen Capital’s dealings—if not a peep about his family or personal life.
I shift gears, blow past a clown car full of teenagers and a station wagon with a Coexist bumper sticker.
The top is down, and I can feel the wind ruffling my hair.
I can’t deny that I felt an urge to wear driving gloves—the McLaren practically begs you to go ninety—but I settled for badass sunglasses instead.
My mind spins through von Graf’s files as I drive, a grim catalog of evil.
There’s no doubt from the nature of his businesses—import/export, private security firms—that von Graf is a sex trafficker.
But I’m surprised by the extent of his operations—this man is truly the Devil incarnate.
This bastard has recruiters in twenty different countries and buyers from everywhere.
He holds monthly in-person, high-end parties for the world’s richest and most debased men at remote locations.
(I have not been able to nail down where yet.) He even has a dark web auction site, where he sells off his girls to the highest bidders.
Once Strike and I identify each and every person involved with his enterprise, we’ll dismantle his rotten operation piece by rotten piece.
As much as I want to—and believe me, my mouth is watering at the idea of carving out this wanker’s heart—we never move fast. We are deliberate, careful, sure not to leave any stone unturned.
The last thing I did before I slung my bag into the trunk was send over the newest files to Strike so he can cross-reference them with the names that popped up with Petrov.
One common point of interest—Petrov’s wife, Veronica.
Just as dangerous as him but in a completely different way.
She keeps herself planted in the public eye, all smiles and charity events, using her good works to cover the quiet deals and favors she hands out behind the scenes.
And if her name keeps springing up, it means this mess is bigger and nastier than we thought.
Good. I am ready for it. Hell, I was born for it.
Then, like the pop of a champagne cork, Josie’s text pings on my screen.
Bikini might be overly optimistic, but it’s packed—I hope you’re bringing an umbrella? The official forecast is rain.
We’ve been texting all week, pretending it’s about work, but veering wildly off topic, revealing bits of ourselves that neither of us expected to share. It’s madness how easily I can talk to her about everything—except, of course, what’s really on my mind.
I picture Josie wearing a bikini, and my thoughts spiral.
Not just at the idea of seeing her in that way but at the possibility of this weekend taking us somewhere new.
I’m truly unsure of where this will lead.
I’ve imagined so many scenarios, each more distracting than the last, and it’s becoming difficult to focus on anything else—and now my dick is pushing up against my zipper.
I dictate a text to my phone: Be there in five. If it rains, I’ve got a whole plan B. And a playlist that will blow your mind
She responds almost instantaneously: I hope T. Swift is on there
I can’t help but grin as I Voice to Text: I’ve got the full Eras experience
She shoots back an immediate reply: Wait, like—you know all the words?
Quickly I dictate: Every bridge and key change, lass. She’s a great storyteller. I could practically go on tour
Her reply makes me snort: I’m so on for us belting All Too Well for the data minions
I hit back with: Try for a She’s the One—popstar experience?
Josie: Go big or go home…
The light turns green and I step on the gas. My speed climbs, and it takes all my willpower not to push a hundred. I’ll be there soon enough.
Need to hide at least a bit of my eagerness.
A weekend of pretending to fall in love—what a daft idea. And yet the only reason I’ve not swapped myself out with someone else is because this has been the most fun I’ve had in…hell, longer than I care to admit. Christ, I’m in trouble.
The real Josie, smiling when she sees me, stands outside her apartment building with a sprig of jasmine blossoms tucked in her curls.
She’s casually dressed, in a formfitting sweater and tight jeans that hug her hips and do exactly nothing to cool me down.
I am ridiculous. This woman makes me ridiculous.
When this project is done, I’m going to have to settle for getting my Josie fix from an AI approximation. Which is also ridiculous.
“Wow, this car!” But the minute she hops in, the rain clouds decide to sprinkle a light drizzle over us.
“Should I pop up the top?” I ask. “I think we’re going to drive through it.”
“No, keep it open. It’s just a mist,” she says, smoothing her hair. But then, in the next minute, I’ve got to work to keep from laughing.
“What’s so funny?” she asks, but she knows, as her fingers work to tame those wild ringlets.
“Is that what the rain does to your hair, lass? It looks like it doubled in size.”
“Not funny.”
“I’m just imagining you in the Scottish Highlands. It’s all mist all the time. You’d be pure Medusa.”
“Watch your mouth, or I might turn you to stone right now,” she jokes, but her cheeks are red.
Now I roar with pent-up laughter as I press the button to close the roof. “Ach, look at that. We managed to wrestle all those curls under one roof.”
She rolls her eyes. “You’re just jealous you can’t pull off this look.”
“Only teasing, mind,” I say. I’ve been looking forward to this weekend so long, and as good a sport as she is, I don’t want to ruin it with my smart mouth.
If she only knew how much I’ve dreamed of seeing her hair spread out on my pillow, of letting my hands cup the back of her neck.
How badly I’d like to be responsible for that untamed bedhead.
Josie shifts. “I think I’m sitting on your phone—here—” She’s about to give it back, but then it dings with a new text message that plays across the car’s screen. Dammit. I’m usually more careful about my privacy but I’ve never had anyone in my passenger seat before.
Strike: Got the file. Nice work. Now have fun, and don’t forget to grab your Magnum XLs for if it goes one way and a spare room key in case it goes another.
Josie’s eyes narrow when she reads the message. She looks up at me, horrified.
“Ah, that’s just…give me that.” I paw for my phone and then jab at the screen to make it go away. Fucking Strike. I am going to destroy him. It will be a miracle if she doesn’t make me turn this car around and go right back to Shelton.
“Seriously. What the hell, Axe? He used an eggplant emoji!”
“I’m sorry, luv. Strike is just being an arsehole.
Since before we even met, he’s been trying to set us up,” I admit.
This is true. Long before I first clapped eyes on Josie at Honor’s art show—when she rightly put me in my place—Strike was telling me how he’d found my soulmate and couldn’t wait for us to meet.
Soulmate was not a word I’d ever heard Strike use, even when he’d proposed to his deceased wife.
I’d put his new romantic streak down to Strike suddenly finding himself madly, stupidly in love and then madly, stupidly heartbroken when, for a while there, it looked like he and Honor were going to crash and burn.
Josie softens a bit. I pick up speed again, like if I get us to Shimmy Beach fast enough, she’ll be less likely to make me turn the car around.
“Honor wanted to set us up, too. She was so bummed when I…” Josie stops, embarrassed.
“When you hated me on sight?” I say.
“I did not hate you,” she says, crossing her arms. “I found you…insufferable.”
“And now?” I ask.
“You’re still insufferable,” she says, but there’s a smile sneaking into her voice. “And also kind of great.”
I try to keep a straight face, but I can feel a grin breaking through.
“Magnum XLs…?” she asks.
“I didn’t say it. Strike did,” I say and wait a beat. “But…he’s not stretching the truth.”
Josie’s jaw drops, and as I’m about to lean over and close it, we both jump as a zap of lightning breaks in front of us, followed by a thunderclap that rattles the car. The sky opens up and the rain pours down in buckets.
Reckon we’re going to plan B.