Chapter 4: The Chop Shop Bargain
The storm followed them west, a relentless wall of water that hammered the windshield and turned the world beyond the headlights into a smear of black and silver. Mainframe's knuckles were white on the steering wheel. The muscle car—a '69 Camaro with a rebuilt engine and plates that belonged to a dead man—growled beneath them, eating up the miles like it was born to run.
Zarana sat in the passenger seat, her back against the door, her knees drawn up. She hadn't said a word since they'd hit the highway. Her knife was still in her hand, the blade wet with something that wasn't rain.
The chop shop had been a trap.
Sal was dead. Mainframe had seen the body when they'd pulled up—slumped against the garage door, two bullet holes in his chest, his eyes still open like he'd been surprised. The old man had owed him a favor. Now he owed him a burial.
The Cobra agents had been waiting inside. Six of them. Maybe seven. Mainframe had lost count in the chaos.
Zarana had handled most of them.
He'd watched her move through the darkness like something out of a nightmare—efficient, silent, brutal. She'd taken down three before they even knew she was there. The fourth had gotten a shot off, wild and panicked, and then she'd put him through the windshield of a junked sedan. The fifth had tried to run. She'd caught him at the door.
The sixth had almost gotten Mainframe.
He still felt the heat of the bullet as it passed his ear. Still heard the crack of the shot. Still saw the way Zarana had spun, her knife leaving her hand like a comet, burying itself in the shooter's throat before he could squeeze off another round.
She'd saved his life.
Again.
Now they were speeding through the dark, no destination, no plan, just the road and the rain and the low, animal hum of the engine. Mainframe's hands were shaking. Not from the cold. Not from the fear.
From the adrenaline.
Zarana shifted in her seat. He felt her eyes on him, felt the weight of her gaze like a physical thing.
"You're bleeding," she said.
Mainframe glanced down. A gash on his forearm, probably from the broken window when he'd dove through it. He hadn't even noticed.
"It's nothing."
"It's something." She reached over, her fingers brushing his sleeve. "Pull over."
"We can't stop. They'll—"
"Pull the fuck over, Mainframe."
He pulled over.
The shoulder of the highway was narrow and gravelly, flanked by dark fields that stretched into nothing. The rain had softened to a drizzle, misting the windshield, blurring the world into something dreamlike and strange. Mainframe killed the engine. The silence that followed was deafening.
Zarana was out of the car before he could speak. She came around to his side, yanked the door open, and pulled him out into the cold. Her hands were on him, rough and urgent, checking for injuries. Patting him down. Looking for damage.
"I'm fine," he said.
"Shut up."
"I'm serious. It's just a cut."
"I said shut up."
Her fingers found the gash on his forearm. He winced. She made a sound—something between a scoff and a growl—and tore a strip of fabric from the bottom of her tank top. Wrapped it around his arm. Tight. Professional.
"You're shaking," she said.
"So are you."
She looked up at him. Her eyes were wild, pupils blown wide, her breath coming in short, sharp bursts. The rain had plastered her mohawk to her skull and streaked her makeup down her cheeks. She looked like a soldier fresh from a warzone.
She looked like she wanted to tear him apart.
"Zarana—"
She kissed him.
It wasn't gentle. It wasn't tender. It was teeth and tongue and desperation, her hands fisting in his shirt, pulling him closer, closer, like she was trying to crawl inside him. Mainframe staggered back against the car, his bag digging into his spine, and she followed, pressing herself against him, her hips grinding into his.
"I need—" She broke the kiss, gasping. "I need to feel something. Something that isn't—" She gestured vaguely at the darkness, at the rain, at the blood still drying on her hands. "Something that isn't this."
Mainframe understood.
He understood because he felt it too. The terror. The adrenaline. The sick, dizzying knowledge that they should be dead and weren't, that every breath was borrowed, that the world had narrowed to this moment, this road, this woman.
He grabbed her face in his hands and kissed her back.
She moaned against his mouth—a raw, filthy sound that went straight to his cock. Her hands were everywhere, tugging at his shirt, clawing at his belt, pulling him toward her with a hunger that bordered on violence.
"Backseat," she rasped. "Now."
They tumbled into the back of the Camaro, a tangle of limbs and wet clothes and frantic, grasping hands. The leather was cold against Mainframe's back, but Zarana was warm—so fucking warm—and she was on top of him, straddling his hips, her thighs bracketing his, her cunt pressed against the hard line of his erection through their clothes.
"Fuck," she breathed. "Fuck, I need—"
She didn't finish the sentence. She didn't have to. Mainframe's hands found the waistband of her leather pants and yanked them down, just enough, just past her hips. She wasn't wearing underwear. Of course she wasn't. She never did when she was working—too easy to trace, she'd told him once, back when they were enemies and the only thing between them was a loaded gun.
Now the only thing between them was air.
Zarana reached down and freed his cock from his jeans, her fingers wrapping around him with a confidence that made his hips jerk. She stroked him once, twice, spreading the precum down his shaft, and then she was positioning herself over him, her slick heat hovering just above the tip.
"Look at me," she commanded.
He looked.
Her eyes were dark, endless, burning with something that might have been need or might have been rage or might have been both. The rain drummed on the roof of the car. The world outside was cold and dark and full of people who wanted them dead.
None of it mattered.
She sank down on him.
Mainframe groaned—a low, guttural sound that he barely recognized as his own. She was tight. So fucking tight. Her cunt gripped him like a fist, hot and wet and perfect, and she didn't stop until he was buried to the hilt, her hips flush against his, her breath coming in ragged gasps.
"God," she whispered. "God, you feel—"
She didn't finish.
She started to move.
It wasn't slow. It wasn't gentle. It was hard and fast and desperate, her hips slamming down on his, her nails raking down his chest, leaving welts in their wake. Mainframe grabbed her ass, squeezing hard, pulling her closer, driving himself deeper. The car rocked beneath them, springs squealing, windows fogging.
"That's it," Zarana hissed. "That's it, fuck me, fuck me hard, don't you dare stop—"
He didn't stop.
He couldn't stop.
She was a force of nature, a storm in human form, and he was drowning in her. Her cunt clenched around him with every thrust, rippling and squeezing, and her tits bounced with the rhythm of their bodies, her nipples hard and dark against the damp fabric of her tank top.
He wanted to touch them. He wanted to touch every inch of her. He wanted to bury himself so deep inside her that she'd never be able to get him out.
"You like that?" he growled. "You like riding my cock?"
"Shut up and fuck me."
"You're so fucking wet. So tight. God, Zarana—"
"I said shut up."
She grabbed his jaw and kissed him, her tongue forcing its way into his mouth, swallowing his words. Her hips never stopped moving. Never stopped fucking him. She was using him, he realized. Using him to burn off the terror, to feel something other than the cold certainty that death was nipping at their heels.
He didn't care.
He was using her too.
His hand slipped between their bodies, his thumb finding her clit. She jerked at the contact, a sharp, broken moan escaping her lips.
"Fuck," she gasped. "Fuck, do that again."
He did.
He circled her clit with his thumb, matching the rhythm of her hips, and felt her start to unravel. Her thighs trembled. Her breathing went ragged. Her cunt tightened around him, fluttering, gripping.
"I'm close," she panted. "I'm—fuck, Mainframe, I'm going to—"
"Come for me," he said. "Come on my cock, Zarana. Let me feel it."
She came.
Her whole body convulsed, her back arching, her mouth open in a silent scream. Mainframe felt her cunt spasm around him, milking him, dragging him toward the edge, and he let go.
His orgasm hit him like a freight train—raw and violent and overwhelming. He came inside her, pumping his hips, burying his face in her neck, groaning her name like it was the only word he knew.
For a long moment, neither of them moved.
The rain had stopped. The world outside the fogged windows was silent and still. Mainframe could hear his own heartbeat, loud and fast, and Zarana's breath, slowing by degrees.
She sat up.
Her hair was a disaster. Her makeup was a mess. She looked like she'd been through hell and come out the other side.
She looked beautiful.
"So," she said.
"So," he echoed.
"We're still probably going to die."
"Probably."
She nodded slowly. Then she leaned down and kissed him—soft this time, almost tender, a stark contrast to the violence of moments before.
"Thanks for the save," she said. "Back at the chop shop."
"You saved me first."
"Yeah, well." She pulled off him, wincing slightly, and started adjusting her clothes. "Don't make a habit of it."
"I won't."
"Good."
She climbed over the seat and settled into the passenger side, her boots leaving muddy prints on the upholstery. Mainframe stayed where he was, staring at the ceiling, his heart still hammering, his mind spinning.
They had no plan. No allies. No safe place to go.
But they had each other.
And for now, that was enough.
He sat up, pulled his jeans back into place, and climbed into the driver's seat. The engine started on the first turn. The road stretched ahead, dark and endless, and somewhere out there, the Jugglers and Cobra were closing in.
Let them come.
He glanced at Zarana. She was staring out the window, her expression unreadable, but her hand had found his on the gear shift.
He squeezed it.
She didn't pull away.
They drove.