Page 93 of Lethal Legacy

One day, very soon, just as soon as my desire to strangle her with my bare hands fades enough to feel comfortable, I intend to remind Miss Lopez exactly how I take care of what is mine. Obviously my lessons thus far have fallen short.

That highly dangerous train of thought is interrupted by Dimitry’s name flashing on my phone screen. I snatch it up and punch the button. “What,” I snarl.

“What the fuck climbed up your ass?” Luckily for him, he doesn’t wait for a response before continuing. “Pavel found a trojan.”

I rake a hand through my hair and fight the urge to pour another Scotch.Can this day get any fucking worse?

“How bad is it?”

“He’s not sure. I’m with him now. He did try to call you first, but clearly you were... otherwise occupied.”

“Can it, Dimitry.” Normally I’d hit him with a comeback, but I’m not remotely in the fucking mood. I hold my phone out. Sure enough, there’s been a dozen missed calls during the time I spent with Lucia. I didn’t even notice the fucking thing ringing.

It’s five p.m. now. I make a rapid calculation. “I’ll be there within the hour. Tell Pavel I want to know exactly what we’re dealing with by the time I arrive.”

“Should I call Luis—”

“I can fucking drive myself.”

“Copythat.” Dimitry’s clearly got the measure of my current mood.

I feel a vicious sense of satisfaction. Lucia Lopez might have doubts about exactly how dangerous I am, but I can guarantee that right now there are at least thirty tech heads shitting their collective pants in anticipation of my arrival.

I head for the shower for the second time in an hour, tension coursing through my body like an electric current. I turn the water to ice-cold and revel in the discomfort. I need to wash every trace of Lucia off my body, get her bewitching scent out of my skin and her face out of my mind, or I’ll never be able to focus on whatever goddamn trojan virus has been sent to hijack Mercura. I eschew my usual suit, reaching for my bike leathers.

It isn’t the quiet whisper of the Mercedes-Maybach I need tonight.

Despite the fact that late-night rain is forecast, I take the elevator to the basement and head straight for the MTT 420-RR road bike. It starts with a deeply satisfying roar. I raise the security door and hit the road at an indecent pace, weaving impatiently through the city traffic. I’m itching for the steep curves of the mountain roads above Malaga.

There’s something about all of this that I’m missing, something nagging just at the edge of my conscious thought, like an out-of-focus picture.

I remember very little about the years before my mother left and my father was killed. Thinking back to it is like standing on a ship and watching a distant shoreline fade into fog. My view of the past is obscured by the storm of hardship that followed. Now, however, I feel a sudden need to remember as much as I can.

As soon as I kick the city lights, I open the throttle and feel the monster leap beneath me. The bike surges at my slightest touch, engaging every sense as I rocket up the steep road leading to Mercura. It’s this I need, the wind whipping against my body, the fierce tension of being at one with a machine as deadly as I feel right now. Every mile of concentration strips away another layer of distraction. The faster I lean into the tight bends, the more distance I get from the chaos in my mind and body. It takes about twenty minutes of hard, ruthless riding to gain the almost utopian mental plateau where my mind is entirely free of conscious thought.

The place where the magic happens.

Some people, I know, open their mind through meditation, or perhaps hypnosis of some kind. But for me, my unconscious is accessed through complete mental and physical focus. Climbing a rock face with no harness. Jumping from a plane.

Or speeding up a twisted mountain road on one of the fastest bikes known to man.

I lean into the road and let the visions come.

I’m eight years old, and it’s late at night.

I wake abruptly, to a strange tension that seems to hang in the air above my bed. I can hear the faint rumble of voices coming from downstairs. It’s rare for my parents to have visitors so late at night. I slip from my bed and crawl out to the landing.

The kitchen door is slightly ajar. Cigarette smoke weaves out of it, blue in the dim light. I can see a vodka bottle and three glasses on the round wooden table. A man is sitting with his back to me. He’s very tall, even taller than Papasha, with wide, strong shoulders. Despite his obvious strength, his voice is gentle as he addresses my father in Russian, and vaguely familiar.

“This is a bad idea, Aleksander.” Long fingers stub out a cigarette in an overflowing ashtray, then light another. “Let me help you.”

“Helping me means war.” Papasha’s voice is harsh with pain. “We have not come so far to lose our children again, Sergei.”

“The Cardeñases are a Colombian cartel.” The man’s voice is contemptuous. “This is not war, not for me. It is nothing more than pest control.”

“No!” My mother interrupts them. I realize, with a shock of fear, that she is crying. “You do not understand.”

“I know you ran away from the Cardeñases in Bogotá when you were a girl, Rosa.” The man’s voice is calm. “I understand you are afraid of your family. But here in Miami, they are still small players. Please believe me when I say they pose little threat to me.”

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