Iron to Iron (Wolf by Wolf) by Ryan Graudin Read Free Book Online

Voidless, holding a spark that set Luka’s whole insides ablaze.
    Don’t smile!
    The interviewer scrambled to save Luka’s silence. “Or perhaps there’s a fräulein in Germania?”
    “No.” Luka shook his head. “There’s no sweetheart.”
    It wasn’t the sweethearts that held his interest.
    The interviewer was knee-deep into his next question when Yokuto strode into the main room, the whole of him patched in bandages. His face was furious through quilt-work gauze. He must’ve been in crippling pain, but this didn’t stop him from stepping straight up to Tsuda Katsuo’s table. The Japanese victor stood, unquailed by the few centimeters of height that Kobi Yokuto had on him. He did not flinch when Yokuto started yelling—a string of words bound together with a spray of spit.
    Had the cameras not been on and the officials not watching, knives would’ve been drawn. Yokuto’s hands thrashed through the air, pointing at Katsuo and then waving at a first-year racer. Oguri Iwao, fifteen, seventh place. Sporting not one but
two
black eyes. Luka hadn’t made much of the injuries when the boy walked in. Bumps and scrapes were the Axis Tour’s signature, but now it was clear the road had nothing to do with Iwao’s wounds.
    No. The first-year standing beside Katsuo had taken a beating.… His bruises were fresh, darkened just enough to match the shouts from two nights ago. Was he the saboteur in the sabotage gone south?
    Probably
, Luka thought as he watched the drama unfold. Katsuo did not return the yells. The Japanese victor just shook his head, his own hand held out to keep Watabe Takeo from snapping out his blade.
    Kobi Yokuto reached into his jacket and drew out a small amber vial. Luka knew it on sight, if only because he had two very similar ones tucked inside the lining of his own jacket.
    Drugs. There was no telling what kind. The liquid in Yokuto’s hand could’ve been soporifics—meant to knock a racer flat for hours. Or it might be a poison too weak to kill, but strong enough to turn a stomach inside out for days.
    Words kept flying. The rapid Japanese was beyond Luka’s understanding, but a good deal could be inferred from the boys’ motions. If the drugs belonged to Yokuto, he wouldn’t be flashing them around so brazenly. Iwao winced at the sight of the vial—an expression so pained that Luka bet the first-year was its true owner. He must’ve been caught before he could empty the contents into Yokuto’s canteens. That would explain the fine-pulp beating.
    It would also explain Yokuto’s sudden road rage, why he went for the pass on such a treacherous road. Katsuo had gotten under his skin—was still under it—judging by the way the boy smashed the vial to the floor.
    Scores of tiny pieces glimmered by Katsuo’s boot. Sleep or sickness spread out between the floor tiles, now useless. The victor smirked.
    Yokuto spit at the floor and turned away.
    For a long minute no one spoke. Fritz Naumann switched off his camera. Katsuo, Takeo, and Iwao sat down in unison. Adele smashed her fork into her chickpeas one final time. A servant came to sweep the glass from the floor.
    Luka frowned.
    The flat tire he had expected. It fit Katsuo’s modus operandi perfectly. But sending a first-year to drug a racer who was technically in third place, eating Katsuo’s dust? That was a wrench in the predictable, throwing off everything Luka thought he knew about his competition.
    The long game was changing.
    Was Luka the hunter? Or the hunted?
    For the first time since he mounted his bike in Germania’s Olympiastadion, Luka was not sure.

Chapter 8
    The roads were better outside of Baghdad. They still weren’t as smooth as the central Reich’s autobahns, but this didn’t stop Katsuo from blasting fourth-gear fast into the desert. It didn’t keep Luka from following, fist tight against the throttle, teeth set on edge.
    It might not be by blade or vial, but Katsuo was coming for him. With Georg Rust and Kobi