Iron to Iron

  The sun was all shine. Their motorcycles rumbled, weariless machines. Luka’s wrist shuddered over the Zündapp’s throttle, but the engine revolutions weren’t enough to rattle the weariness from his veins. They did not banish the shadows from the edge of his goggles, the ones that threatened to shove him into sleep there and then.

  Speed helped. Thick, humid ribbons of air smacked Luka’s cheekbones, spurring him out of Hanoi, past rice fields of mirrored sky. Katsuo’s fender flashed only meters ahead—something to chase, something to beat.

  They were well into the day—zooming through a land of mountains without ranges—when Luka made his move. He was awake now. All awake. Wrist, hand, fingers, made of pure adrenaline as he twisted the throttle. Katsuo was so close Luka could see the vertebrae sloping along his neck. Their wheels were a turn away from touching, lunging along with a maniac hum. Katsuo lashed his engine forward. Luka’s acceleration matched it, until he realized that bikes did get weary. Hot oil and rattling bolts. You could only push an engine so fast, so far before it broke.

  The land blurred green around them: rice seedlings into hillside foliage into bamboo stalks. Luka’s Zündapp—stretched with speeds faster than his speedometer needle could measure—made noises he’d never heard before. Katsuo’s motorcycle joined the duet, refusing to slow.

  The road curved, sloped downward to its first glimpse of the Li River. Its waters were as green as the rest of the landscape, threading around the hillsides like a jade necklace. Cormorants sat, wide-winged, on docks made entirely of stone. A lone ferry operator stood at the end of the nearest one, waiting to transport the racers across.

  The race path was ending, but Katsuo kept pushing. The dock’s rocks flew forward—too narrow to drive on—and Luka knew it was down to nerves. Who would buckle first?

  The cormorants—unsettled by the dueling engines—slipped into the water. The ferry operator gripped the edge of his hat, knuckles knotted. Luka was close enough to see the whites of the old man’s eyes. Fear gleamed in them.

  Luka had to fight the put on your brakes, you death-flirting dummkopf flex of his fingers. There were only a few meters left before not even a state-of-the-art brake system or years of mastered technique would save him.

  Six meters. The ferry operator waved his pole in warning. He was probably shouting, too, but the engines clashed too loud to hear. Four meters. Scheisse, scheisse, scheisse! Two meters…

  His bike made a terrible screech when he slammed to a stop. Luka’s heart flung forward with the sound, disappearing into the emerald tangles of shoreline bamboo. He had no time to calm down, breathe, find it. The dock was at hand, and to Luka’s surprise, he’d managed to out-nerve Tsuda Katsuo by an entire meter.

  The plan was working.

  He shifted the bike into neutral, dismounted, and shoved it along the dock. The beast was heavy. Its overworked engine blistered against Luka’s leg as he pushed, but he had no time to whine about it. Behind him Katsuo was doing the same.

  The ferry sat at the dock’s end, looking as shambly as ever. The craft felt that way, too, leaking water through the gaps in its bamboo stalks when Luka boarded with his bike. Every year he feared the raft would just keep sinking: ankle, knee, engine deep. Every year it didn’t. River water licked the edges of Luka’s boots, but that was as high as it would ever go, even when Katsuo rolled his bike onto the raft.

  Luka kept his Zündapp at his back, well out of Katsuo’s reach. An uneasy expression shadowed the other victor’s face.

  “Relax!” Luka grinned at him. “Enjoy the river cruise.”

  Other riders jostled their way down the dock—a frantic blur of armbands. Swastika, rising sun, rising sun, swastika, swastika. All shoved their bikes forward, hoping to claim the third space on the raft.

  Come on, Adele.

  He could see her at the front, jaw set. This time Adele’s girlness was working against her. She simply didn’t have the strength to push her 224-kilogram Zündapp as quickly as the others. A rising sun was closing in from behind—

  Luka felt his smile going stale as he watched the Japanese racer—Takeo, he thought it was—push forward, draw even with Adele, go faster. The dock was barely wide enough for both bikes, too narrow for a fight.

  This didn’t stop Adele from trying. She shoved into the boy, ramming both his body and his motorcycle to the edge. But Takeo was firm on his feet. His Zündapp stayed grounded. He lashed back—Higonokami-less—knuckles hitting the sliced spot on Adele’s jacket, the wound beneath.

  Her scream was loud, stripped of fake-Felix huskiness. Luka’s grin vanished. The raft’s water level rose as the ferry operator took his place at the stern and removed the ramp.

  No! Luka wanted to shout, but the word didn’t quite make it out. This isn’t right.… What about the third passenger?

  The operator didn’t look like he gave a Scheisse about his raft’s capacity. In fact, he seemed eager to leave, turning his back on the skirmish as he shoved off from the rocks.

  Adele and Takeo ceased fighting. Both racers stood, watching first place float away. The river swirled—green and gray—between themselves and the dock. More green, more gray, wider, wider. Luka’s insides sank into the shivering waters.

  No! No! No! Still the cry did not come. Adele… their plan…

  Luka wasn’t sure which loss hurt more—girl or a chance at first. Neither was a pain he could allow to show, so he twisted his lips into default: sneer mode.

  Katsuo sneered back. The other victor had positioned himself in front of his tires, body rigid. Not that Luka would try anything now. Without Adele to provide a distraction, sabotaging Katsuo’s bike would only lead to mutually assured destruction. It was useless.

  Without Adele…

  The raft pushed into deeper waters. Katsuo folded his arms against his chest, eyes heavy with dare. What are you going to do now, Löwe?

  Excellent question, Katsuo.

  Luka crossed his own arms. Stared back. It took everything in him not to look over Katsuo’s shoulder, to the girl standing by the river’s edge, drawing farther and farther away. She was just a dark speck on his periphery, blending in with all the other black-clad racers. Without a spot on the first ferry, Adele’s time was hampered by ten whole minutes. As talented a rider as she was, there was no coming back from a loss like that this late in the race. Her Axis Tour was over.

  It was just Luka and Katsuo now.

  Victor and victor.

  The race was on.

  Chapter 14

  1st: Tsuda Katsuo, 13 days, 5 hours, 53 minutes, 49 seconds.

  2nd: Luka Löwe, 13 days, 5 hours, 54 minutes, 5 seconds.

  3rd: Felix Wolfe, 13 days, 6 hours, 5 minutes, 19 seconds.

  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… disma
l.

  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 ma
ny 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.”