Iron to Iron (Wolf by Wolf) (8 page)

The victors’ furies were well matched. No matter how fast Luka pushed his engines, Katsuo kept the same kilometer count. They raced head to head—snatching seconds, stealing them back—all the way to a predawn Shanghai. By the time Luka reached the boat that would take them across the East China Sea, he was too exhausted to wait up for Adele. Even the most basic tasks—taking a piss, eating some grub, collapsing into the oh-so-sweet embrace of a private cabin bunk—had become epic feats of strength after a twenty-one-hour ride.

He slept well into the next day, snoozing away the hours while the last of the cataclysmic racers reached the
Kaiten
. When Luka finally woke, the world was swaying. There was no wrinkled pup tent above him, just steel or iron or whatever metal Imperial Japanese warships were made with, painted the somberest of grays. The color overwhelmed the cabin, making Luka feel more imprisoned than private.

He needed to get up. Find Adele. Make a plan. Though Luka’s front tire had been the first to hit the
Kaiten
’s ramp, Katsuo still had a sixteen-second lead. The Double Cross was so close: 1,229 kilometers from Nagasaki to Tokyo. Easy roads, straight shot.

Sixteen seconds seemed so short by the
tick
of a watch, but Luka knew the odds of gaining this time against Katsuo with nothing but an honest Zündapp were… dismal.

Which was exactly why he’d come prepared. Luka stood, assembling his uniform: boots, Luger, jacket, the illicit drugs sewn into its linings. One glance in the mirror told him he looked like
Scheisse
. He paused, just long enough to pat his hair back into place, splash two handfuls of water against his complexion.

It took a bit of nosing about to find Felix Wolfe’s cabin. There were no names on the doors, but directions weren’t hard to bribe out of the Reichssender staff. All they needed were a handful of Reichsmarks and the promise of an extralong interview. (“After you shower.” Fritz Naumann wrinkled his nose. “The Reich could probably smell you through that camera.”)

He was directed to a bleakly lit corridor. Second door on the left.

“Herr Wolfe?” Luka knocked. “We need to talk!”

The door opened and an eye peered out through the crack—blazing blue. The shadow beneath it matched the ship’s walls.

“May I?” He nodded.

Adele blinked. (Or winked. How could Luka tell?) The door didn’t budge.

“Ad—” Luka caught himself, midname. Thankfully, the corridor was empty. Fritz Naumann had fled from the road stench, and every other door was latched tight. “Felix. Just… let me in. Please.”

“I don’t—” She stopped. Her eye flashed. “I don’t think that’s a good idea.”

Was she… angry? Something in Adele’s words made him think so. If only he could see the rest of her face…

“What’s wrong?”

“Nothing,” Adele said, too quickly.

“Which means everything,” Luka replied. “I know how fräulein-speak works.”

“Don’t
say
that word!” Adele hissed. The door twitched open a few more centimeters. She glanced into the corridor. Still ill-lit and empty.

“Which one?” he asked, casually. “Fräulein?”

Adele’s hiss turned into a scowl. Her hand shot out, curled over Luka’s lapel, dragged him over the threshold so quickly that his head clipped the edge of the door frame. Pain roosted on his skull, enough to make him wince.

Adele kicked the door shut without an apology. Her gaze was so many things: art and speed and sharp. Piercing far deeper than Luka ever suspected another person might be able to see.

“Are you pleased with yourself?” she asked.

“Not at all, actually.” Luka rubbed his head. “Second doesn’t suit me.”

“Then why didn’t you stop the ferry operator?” Adele stepped close—kissing distance, but not. She faced Luka sideways—her chin tilted away from his, creped with anger. “Why didn’t you make him hold the raft until I got there?”

“I couldn’t tell the operator to stop without giving Katsuo a window to sabotage
my
bike. Not to mention making him suspicious about our alliance. You should have pushed faster.”

Judging from the expression on Adele’s face, Luka realized it was the worst thing he could possibly have said.

“So it’s my fault now, is it? You think I wanted Takeo to catch up to me? You think I wanted to lose ten whole minutes?” There was a sob in her voice—exhausted and fierce. “I came all this way. Nineteen thousand kilometers and nothing to show for it…”

Nothing? She doesn’t mean that, does she?

“The race isn’t over yet,” he reminded her.

“It is for me.” Adele’s smile was quarter-hearted. Dead before it grew. “You said it yourself: ‘Ten minutes is impossible to reclaim’ now.”

“We can still help each other. Help me oust Katsuo, help me win the Double Cross, and next year I’m all yours. I’ll get you to Tokyo and first place.”

“Why would you do that?” Adele asked.

“I like you, Adele Wolfe.” He swallowed. “You’re not just my equal. You’re my match.”

For all his motorcycle racing, for all the years he’d lived in the same house as Kurt Löwe, Luka had never felt a fear like this: heart pinned and pulsing on his leather sleeve. The girl who could crush it—less than a step away, blinking at his words, saying nothing in return.

“I know we can’t be together after Tokyo, but I’ll wait.” His tongue felt so stumbly, tying itself into
verdammt
knots. “I’ll wait, and next year I’ll race alongside you. Help you win. Then we can both be victors.”

Adele stared at him with a silence that made Luka want to run up to the
Kaiten
’s deck and jump into the East China Sea.
Heartbreak
. It was a term he’d always shrugged off, something he’d never needed to worry about. Until now.

Now it was terrifyingly real. Now he could feel his ventricles stretching, starting to tear, slippery blood raw everywhere—

“I like you, too, Luka Löwe.” This time Adele’s smile survived, climbed all the way to the corners of her eyes. “I didn’t think—I didn’t know—I didn’t… expect you.”

Luka felt his own eyes smiling. The bleeding in his chest had ceased, replaced by a soar that would not stop. Adele
liked
him. Maybe even
more than liked
!! She was leaning in to kiss him again, and it was by far the closest to heaven he’d ever been—wing tips brushing stars and all that poetic sort of stuff.

Both of Adele’s hands were on his chest, her mouth just a breath from his when she paused. “Will you really wait a whole year for me? Make me the 1956 victor?”

“One year. One win.” Luka’s heart thudded against her palms, a closeness he could barely stand. “I promise.”

“All right, then.” Adele’s grin widened. Her teeth flashed white as she moved in for the kiss. It was battle. It was bliss. It ended too soon. As much as Luka wanted the moment to go on, they had more important business to tend to.

“How are we getting Katsuo out of the picture? Shoving him overboard?” Adele guessed.

“Aren’t you a violent one? No. Subtlety is the way to go. We don’t want to do anything that could get us disqualified.” Luka reached into his jacket. The glass he pulled out was unmarked, but he knew exactly what it was: vomiting-in-a-vial. “One sip of this and Katsuo will be planted by a toilet for days.”

Adele’s eyes narrowed on the vial. “Where’d you get that?”

“There’s a lot of interesting things floating around Germania’s black market,” he told her. “American jazz records. Art that’s not
Scheisse
. I hear there’s even a guy who does tattoos if you fancy a bit of ink. And cigarettes, of course.”

“Of course,” she murmured. “Speaking of. Do you have any more on you?”

Luka shook his head. The truth: His pockets were empty, though he still had half a pack left at the bottom of his pannier. He was saving it for a celebratory finish-line smoke.

“So how are you going to get this”—Adele hesitated—“special ingredient into Katsuo’s grub without him noticing? Am I supposed to play the decoy? Distract Katsuo with my not-feminine wiles?”

Luka shook his head, handed her the vial. “Won’t work. Katsuo’s been suspicious ever since I pushed ahead to get on the raft. If I’m in the messdeck, you can bet he’ll be watching me.”

She squinted at her palm. “And what if he isn’t?”

“He will be,” Luka promised. “But take care. If he spots you… run. There’s a reason these doors have locks. Katsuo won’t try anything too violent on a ship full of officials, but if he does, I’ve got your back.”

Not to mention a second vial. You could never have too much insurance in a race like this. He trusted Adele—obviously—but the possibility of her getting caught was higher than Luka let on. The messdeck was a well-lit, open space, and Katsuo never sat alone.

“Be careful.”

“You said that already.” Adele’s fist closed over the vial. She shoved it into her pocket. “Don’t hurt your pretty little head fretting over me. I can manage on my own.”

What a
verdammt
amazing fräulein. What a full, full heart he had, beating just where Adele’s palms had pressed, just where the Double Cross would soon rest. In this moment, Luka felt more than strong.

Now he was invincible.

It took several hours—and many cups of green tea—before Katsuo graced the messdeck with his presence. As soon as he walked into the dining area, his eyes migrated to Luka: alone with a cold bowl of rice and his eighth serving of tea.

Caffeine sparkled through Luka’s veins as he lifted his cup, “
Sieg heil
, Katsuo!”

It was the cold shoulder today. Katsuo refused to respond, giving Luka’s table a wide berth as he settled down for his midday meal. Takeo and Iwao trailed him, both boys looking road worn,
almost home
reflected in their tired eyes. The group sat on Adele’s side of the room, not even bothering to glance at the German racer hunched over the pages of a dated
Das Reich
.

Luka picked at some stray rice grains on the edge of his bowl, watching Iwao play waiter. The boy brought Katsuo some tea and a bowl of
kake udon
in turn. Both liquids. Easy to spike.

Luka popped a final grain in his mouth and stood. The messdeck was full of movement—cooks stacking plates, cataclysmic racers finishing their meals with smacks and slurps, Adele Wolfe folding her newspaper over her hands, presumably uncapping the vial beneath it—but Victor Tsuda only had eyes for Victor Löwe.

That’s right. Eyes on me
. Luka kept one hand on the vial in his pocket while he sauntered, as swaggeringly as possible, toward Katsuo’s table. The other victor went rigid in his bolted chair. Takeo stood—hand in his own jacket—and because Luka really had no desire to go back to the infirmary with another Higonokami wound, he halted. Iwao remained seated, bruised eyes flitting over Luka, returning always to the hidden hand.

Luka had their attention.

Now he just had to keep it.

All three had their backs to Adele. None of them saw her glide in their direction, close as a shadow and just as quiet. The trouble? Katsuo’s meal sat just under his nose. Not even Adele’s hands were slight enough to manage that proximity.

If Katsuo turned…

“I just wanted to offer my congratulations on your imminent victory!” Luka’s bow was sweeping, theatrical enough to disguise the vial slipping from pocket to palm. “Even I know when I’ve been bested.”

Adele hovered by Katsuo’s shoulder. Poison in hand. Waiting for her opening.

“We might not be friends, and we most certainly aren’t gentlemen, but does that mean we shouldn’t be civil?” Luka was babbling now. More concentrated on shifting the black-market vial in his palm than any words he might be saying.

Iwao was still staring at Luka’s palm—a fact the victor counted on. He didn’t show much, just a flash of glass, but it was enough to make Katsuo’s ally point and yell.

Everyone moved at once. Iwao stood, eyes excited white inside their battered sockets. Takeo lurched forward, and Luka leaned back—out of knife’s reach. Katsuo placed both hands on the tabletop, his chest arched over his bowl of
kake udon
. The Japanese victor’s attention was all forward, too centered on Luka to notice the fingers beneath his armpit, the dash of something new into his soup.

“No need to get stabby!” Luka tossed his hands up and let his own vial fall to the floor. Takeo moved forward, crushing the glass with his boot. “As I said, I know when I’ve been bested.”

Adele had already returned to her table.
Das Reich
unfurled as if nothing had happened. It was time for Luka to get the hell away from this messdeck.

“Call off your cavalry, Katsuo!” He shifted away from Takeo’s advancing knifepoint. “You win, okay?”

Katsuo couldn’t help but smile. (So the
Saukerl
did speak German!) He allowed Takeo to advance a few more steps before throwing up a hand, motioning him back.