Page 84 of Theta

He shrugs. "I mean, you don't want to zip around right behind them, no. But even a thousand feet behind one of those monsters, the wakes will still legit fuckin' send you."

"Was that Cal's idea?" I ask, smirking.

He rolls his eyes. "Believe it or not, I have had some bad ideas of my own."

We reach the car and remove the backpack, body armor, and long guns—we decided, for the sake of appearances, to forgo the armor while killing time. It was a gamble that the next set of bloodthirsty mercenaries wouldn't show up early, but Sardinia in the summer is hot; we passed a bank with a digital sign flashing the time, the date in European—and far more logical—day-month-year order, and the local temperature. Which, when we passed it around four this afternoon, was reading 34 degrees Celsius; for the Americans out there, that’s almost ninety-five Fahrenheit. Wandering around in body armor is a good way to get heat stroke, in temps like that.

We carry our gear away from the car, heading for the nearby lot full of tractor-trailers. A subcompact cruises past us, an older model Peugeot with a yellow flashing light on top—port security. Panic creeps in at the edges of my mind, making my pulse race and my pace increase.

"Easy," Killian murmurs, surreptitiously holding me back. "What did you tell me earlier? Drive it as if you stole it, and they'll think you did. Same goes here. Act like you're supposed to be here. Don't look, don’t react, just keep on walking like you know exactly where you're going."

I give a short, tight nod and do as he says, trying to focus on walking with controlled purpose toward the ranks of trailers. The security vehicle slows as it draws even behind us.

"Ehi!" A male voice calls. "Dove vuoi arrivare con tutto questo?"

Killian adjusts his armload of things and taps his wrist, pointing vaguely in the direction of the nearest cruise ship. "Tardi!"

“You speak Italian, now?” I ask in a hissed whisper.

"No," he whispers back. "A smidge of Spanish. I'm just hoping that the Spanish for late is close enough to the Italian that it’ll sound the same." He breaks into a jog, checking the imaginary watch on his wrist again. "C'mon. Act like you're in a rush."

“You just told me not to!" I protest.

We cross the end of the nearest row of trailers and cut out of view of the security guard. Panting more out of nerves than exertion, Killy and I stop and wait to see if we're caught. When nothing happens for several seconds, Killian peeks out cautiously and then straightens. "Alright, we're good. He bought it."

"A lightless container was bad enough," I say. "I really don't want to end up in an Italian prison. I've seen the Amanda Knox show on Hulu. That doesn't look like fun."

Killian snorts at this. "I think in comparison to what Pugli has planned for you, an Italian prison would be Club Med. Of course, the problem is that Pugli can get his slimy paws on you even more easily in prison. He has access, and you'd have nowhere to go."

I frown at him. "Wow, Killy. That's so reassuring. Thank you very much for that."

He winks back at me. "No problem, babe."

"You're so helpful, babe."

"I know, babe."

We burst into suppressed snickering at our idiotic exchange, but the levity is short-lived. It's not fully dark yet, but the shadows are lengthening, and the heat is dissipating to merely brutal, although when I glance at Killian, he seems perfectly at ease, not even a dot of sweat on his upper lip; at some point, Killian has donned his vest, while I, too hot, have not.

I pull my shirt away from my chest, where it's sticking with sweat. "You don’t seem fazed by the heat."

He shrugs. "Not all that different than back home." He smirks at me. "You're a northern girl. Not used to real heat, huh?"

"Shut up," I mutter. "So let's go over the plan again."

Killy rolls a shoulder again, the very picture of studied indifference. "Wait for the goons to swarm the car, start cappin' some bitches."

"And then what?"

He blinks. "Then what, what? Then we win."

I gesture broadly around us. "Killian, this is a fairly large port. With its own security. We'll have the police on us within minutes if we just open fire."

"Oh. Hmm." he glances out at the car, scanning the road. "I mean, I don't see much of a choice. What we don't do is take another of their cars." He hums thoughtfully. "Mmmm? Okay, I've got it. We break these down," he lifts his MP-5 in gesture, "and stuff the pieces in the backpack. Keep the armor on and tough it out, and make a run for it. Do like we said and see if we can meet my new friend."

"Did you get a name for your drug-dealing buddy?" I ask.

He frowns. “You've clearly never bought pot off a sketchy dude in a back alley."