Chapter 6
Raine
The last five days have been a blur of surveillance.
Soren and I have been tracking Lukas Klein across Boston which has turned out to be insultingly easy.
The guy rarely leaves his remote property.
The heavily wooded cabin is completely isolated, which has made both the surveillance and assassination plan, including mapping escape routes, blissfully easy.
Lukas is a creature of habit; there’s nothing remarkable about him.
Sleeps half the day, stoned out of his skull.
How the hell this drug addict rose to the ranks to become one of the world’s biggest arms dealers is beyond me.
We’ll hit him early in the evening tomorrow, when his two bottom feeders are on the dinner run.
Soren and I barely acknowledged each other over the entire five days of covert surveillance.
We only spoke when necessary, and even then, it was clipped and direct.
There was zero small talk, which suited me just fine, as the last thing I want to do is get to know him.
And he definitely doesn’t seem interested in getting to know me.
He strikes me as someone who is on the verge of exploding, like a grenade, pin waiting to be yanked out. Smyth said Soren had killed his terror squad, so I’m guessing he has an axe to grind. And hey, as long as he grinds it anywhere but on my rock wall, we’re good.
He doesn’t want to babysit no bitch? Well, I don’t want to mother a man-child.
I lean against my Ducati, helmet under one arm, and breathe in the smell of burning rubber. I look out over the private racetrack located an hour out of Boston and watch as two bikes scream around the track.
Most people would try to relax the day before a hit, but not me. I need to remain busy, to do something to make my heart rate spike. I don’t feel like getting into a fight or having sex, so I decide on the next best thing.
Underground racing.
I’m no stranger to the track. I’ve been coming here since I was eighteen.
Ever since I realized the only place I feel truly free is on the back of a bike.
People come here to thrash their vehicles and each other, but I think the real reason they come here is to feel something other than whatever bullshit life threw at them that day.
Neon lights flicker above the small, yet rowdy crowd.
It’s close to midnight as I wait for my number to be called.
Illegal racing can be somewhat lawless, but at these meets, the rules are simple: three laps, winner gets bragging rights, and whatever they’ve chosen to lay on the line.
Some do bike ownership, others cash. My race?
I’ve put up five thousand big ones. Now I wait until someone is stupid enough to race me.
Finally, my number is called, and it’s my turn to race.
It doesn’t take long to move onto the track and get ready. Helmet already on, I throw my leg over the Ducati and adjust my gloves. She’s sleek and deadly, just like me. I hear my competitor sidle up next to me, and I see what they are riding. A Yamaha YZF-R1M.
Fucking fuck.
That thing’s a beast. It looks race-spec’d and responsive as hell. This might be a close one tonight. In fact, I might leave here five thousand dollars worse off. Which would be a first because I don’t lose. Ever.
The track lights flicker overhead as we roll to the start line and take our positions.
I keep my eyes laser-focused on the lights.
Three … two … one.
Go.
I launch off the line, tires screaming, my body folding forward with the machine. The world blurs as I ride like the demon hell-bitch I am.
But my opponent is fast. Too fast.
I slice corners, steal ground, and force them wide when I can. But whoever it is meets me where I’m at, defending and challenging at just the right times. I fight with everything I’ve got and redline the Ducati, beating my opponent by mere inches.
Even though that was way too close for my liking, I scream into my helmet in triumph, twisting off the track and into the undercover pits.
My heart’s still trying to break the speed limit as I skid to a stop and remove my helmet.
My competitor pulls up beside me, peels off his helmet, and my jaw drops open in total fucking surprise.
What the hell?
Soren. All broody and shit, clad in black riding leathers, sweaty and frustratingly sexy.
“Not bad.” He smirks. “For a chick.”
For. A. Chick.
My middle finger is up before I even know I’ve raised it. Blood boils beneath my skin.
“Fucking unbelievable,” I mutter, shaking my head in disbelief. The audacity of this man. I focus on peeling off my gloves and not at his hands which are unzipping his leather jacket. There’s writing along his collarbone, but I can’t make out what it says.
Not that I care.
I do not care.
My skin prickles with heat and adrenaline as he approaches me.
“You stalking me now?” I ask, keeping my tone flat as I stand up off my bike.
“You wish,” he says coolly. “Didn’t peg you for an underground racer.”
“Didn’t peg you for anything except a cunt with a god complex.”
He scoffs in amusement, unperturbed by my ruthless assessment. “Such a nasty mouth.”
“I’m a nasty girl.”
He laughs. That deep, unbothered, hot-as-hell laugh that slinks under your skin and rattles your bones. He jerks his head in invitation towards the open-air viewing area next to the pits and stalks off towards the vending machine.
Like I have a choice but to follow him.
Stepping into the viewing area, I unzip my jacket and shrug it off. I lay it over the fence and brace my forearms over the cool metal railing. My skin glistens with sweat, gluing loose strands of hair to the back of my neck. I roll my neck side to side, releasing the tension from the race.
Okay, fine. I’m tilting my hip and sticking my ass out slightly too.
Soren glides up next to me, holding two bottles of water, one in each hand. His eyes travel down my chest, waist, and legs, before slowly traveling back up my body. If I wasn’t so pissed he challenged me without my knowledge, maybe I’d have enjoyed the attention.
“Take a photo, it’ll last longer.”
Soren huffs out a breath through his nose and tosses me a water bottle.
I catch it, twist it open, and gulp the cool water down. Two racers zoom past us under the midnight moon. Soren braces his forearms on the railing next to me, water bottle dangling between his fingers.
“What are you doing here?” I ask.
“The same thing you’re doin’.”
“And what am I doing?”
He doesn’t answer, just chews his lip (ugh, hot-boy shit) and glances sideways at me.
I roll my eyes at his lack of response, but my stomach hollows out as I wonder if he is also dead inside and he’s here, reminding himself he is alive too.
“Ready for tomorrow?”
I can’t help it, my mouth curves into a smirk. “Yes, Daddy, I’m ready.”
Soren’s face twists into an expression of confusion. “What?”
I chuckle into my water as I take another sip. “Don’t worry about it.”
Something tells me Soren isn’t up-to-date on pop culture.
“What’s your story anyway?”
“My story?” I laugh. “What happened to the macho man act? We just spent five days together, and you barely spoke two words to me. Why would I tell you anything now?”
He swallows and turns his attention back to the track.
“Oh,” I mock. “Did I upset the big bad soldier?”
His eyes narrow as he remains focused on the track. A tell. His time in the military is a sensitive topic. I got him where it hurts. Good to know.
“You don’t know anything about me,” Soren mumbles.
“Nor do I want to.”
He kicks at a patch of loose dirt near his boot. It’s a strangely boyish movement, like a kid on a playground who just got told off. Except this kid could kill anyone here in seventeen different ways with a toothpick.
“Don’t be fuckin’ late tomorrow,” he orders.
“Whatever, asshole.”
He straightens and gathers up his jacket, turning to leave.
Keeping my hands braced on the railing, my body anchored forward, I twist just enough at the waist to glance back at him.
“Soren?”
He stops and glares at me. “What?”
I wait until the bikes race past us one last time.
“You owe me five grand.”
He spits on the ground before stalking off in a huff.
I chuckle, liking that I’ve gotten under his skin so easily. It’s petty. It’s stupid. But this isn’t about the money. It’s about dominance.
And who has the power.