shows. Murderer and corpse.
They reached Micah's old garage, its tile roof partially gone. Whatever was inside would be exposed to the elements. Was she lying again?
There was only one car inside the structure, a large, anonymous shape covered by a tarp and a pile of dead leaves.
She headed straight for the hidden car and pulled the tarp off. For a moment he stood in awe. He had no particular reverence for cars, having always been more interested in performance than beauty, but he would have had to be a fool not to recognize the beast in front of him.
"This was here when Micah bought the house. It was just a pile of rust, but Micah worked on it for the past five years." Her voice cracked for a moment, but there were no tears. Only pain. "Poor Micah," she said in a whisper.
"You'd be better off worrying about yourself," Taka said.
It was a Duisenberg, circa 1935, perfectly preserved, the chrome shining, the body a dark, rich blue, the seats a matching leather. "Does it run?"
She opened the side door, not looking back at him. "Does it matter? We're not about to drive it, anyway. It probably goes fifty miles an hour if we're lucky." She disappeared into the back seat, her legs still sticking out, and he could see her butt wiggling as she searched around for something. And for some damn reason he got hard.
He leaned back against the wall behind him, waiting. It was a waste of time being angry with himself—he had a healthy appreciation of female flesh, and while he'd never considered himself much of a connoisseur of women's butts, there was no denying that hers was delectable, trapped in that pair of faded black jeans.
But getting hot for someone he was about to kill was someplace he didn't want to go. He'd known men, and women as well, who enjoyed sex and death, who got turned on by the thought of killing someone and would combine both acts. That kind of thinking, and reacting, was the first step toward a sickness of the soul that was terminal. Summer Hawthorne was a job, off-limits, and if she emerged from that behemoth of a car with the Hayashi Urn in her hand then she would then become a casualty of war.
And he could go out and see if he could find a deceptively fragile, blond gaijin with pale skin, freckles and a delectable butt, and get his rocks off that way. Saner, healthier, straightforward. He was, after all, a practical man.
She slid farther inside the car, thankfully, so he no longer had to watch her wiggling ass, and a moment later flipped over so that she was sitting on the floor inside. "Got it," she said.
He was not a happy man. They could have searched all night and he would have been content. They could have driven south and tracked down her sister. But push had come to shove, and he had no more reason for delaying. He had orders, a job to do, and he was going to do it.
He pushed away from the wall of the garage and approached the Duisenberg, filling the doorway, blocking out the light from outside. He could see two things inside the huge old car. She'd placed the long-lost Hayashi Urn on the leather seat beside her, and even in shadow it was beautiful. And then he looked at her, forgetting all about the ancient ceramic he'd been tracking for months, and other people had been tracking for centuries.
She had blue eyes, not quite the intense shade of the urn, but bright blue nevertheless, and her wet hair was beginning to dry. She sat there on the floor of the car, unmoving, as if she knew what was coming now that she'd finally given him what he wanted.
He had no choice. He climbed into the car as she tried to back up against the far door, and there was no missing the panic in her eyes. She knew.
And he couldn't let that stop him.
Jillian Marie Lovitz, only child of Raphael and Lianne Lovitz, stuck out her thumb. Her big sister would be horrified at the thought of Jilly hitchhiking, but beggars couldn't be choosers, and at the moment Jilly was most definitely a beggar, with exactly
They reached Micah's old garage, its tile roof partially gone. Whatever was inside would be exposed to the elements. Was she lying again?
There was only one car inside the structure, a large, anonymous shape covered by a tarp and a pile of dead leaves.
She headed straight for the hidden car and pulled the tarp off. For a moment he stood in awe. He had no particular reverence for cars, having always been more interested in performance than beauty, but he would have had to be a fool not to recognize the beast in front of him.
"This was here when Micah bought the house. It was just a pile of rust, but Micah worked on it for the past five years." Her voice cracked for a moment, but there were no tears. Only pain. "Poor Micah," she said in a whisper.
"You'd be better off worrying about yourself," Taka said.
It was a Duisenberg, circa 1935, perfectly preserved, the chrome shining, the body a dark, rich blue, the seats a matching leather. "Does it run?"
She opened the side door, not looking back at him. "Does it matter? We're not about to drive it, anyway. It probably goes fifty miles an hour if we're lucky." She disappeared into the back seat, her legs still sticking out, and he could see her butt wiggling as she searched around for something. And for some damn reason he got hard.
He leaned back against the wall behind him, waiting. It was a waste of time being angry with himself—he had a healthy appreciation of female flesh, and while he'd never considered himself much of a connoisseur of women's butts, there was no denying that hers was delectable, trapped in that pair of faded black jeans.
But getting hot for someone he was about to kill was someplace he didn't want to go. He'd known men, and women as well, who enjoyed sex and death, who got turned on by the thought of killing someone and would combine both acts. That kind of thinking, and reacting, was the first step toward a sickness of the soul that was terminal. Summer Hawthorne was a job, off-limits, and if she emerged from that behemoth of a car with the Hayashi Urn in her hand then she would then become a casualty of war.
And he could go out and see if he could find a deceptively fragile, blond gaijin with pale skin, freckles and a delectable butt, and get his rocks off that way. Saner, healthier, straightforward. He was, after all, a practical man.
She slid farther inside the car, thankfully, so he no longer had to watch her wiggling ass, and a moment later flipped over so that she was sitting on the floor inside. "Got it," she said.
He was not a happy man. They could have searched all night and he would have been content. They could have driven south and tracked down her sister. But push had come to shove, and he had no more reason for delaying. He had orders, a job to do, and he was going to do it.
He pushed away from the wall of the garage and approached the Duisenberg, filling the doorway, blocking out the light from outside. He could see two things inside the huge old car. She'd placed the long-lost Hayashi Urn on the leather seat beside her, and even in shadow it was beautiful. And then he looked at her, forgetting all about the ancient ceramic he'd been tracking for months, and other people had been tracking for centuries.
She had blue eyes, not quite the intense shade of the urn, but bright blue nevertheless, and her wet hair was beginning to dry. She sat there on the floor of the car, unmoving, as if she knew what was coming now that she'd finally given him what he wanted.
He had no choice. He climbed into the car as she tried to back up against the far door, and there was no missing the panic in her eyes. She knew.
And he couldn't let that stop him.
Jillian Marie Lovitz, only child of Raphael and Lianne Lovitz, stuck out her thumb. Her big sister would be horrified at the thought of Jilly hitchhiking, but beggars couldn't be choosers, and at the moment Jilly was most definitely a beggar, with exactly
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