If your going to burn bridges, keep a boat handy . #3

Sabastian Anders, called 'Torque' by pretty much everyone at the estate, was a character, both figuratively and relativity. Nearly seven foot tall and hundred and a half kilos, Torque was a Troll. But more important, Torque was a master mechanic with minors in ingenuity and customization. To Cara, he was also a friend.

"Leavin' are ya?"
"I've outstayed my welcome."
The huge mechanic made a sound like a popping 2-cycle motor. "Yer family, you know tha'"
Cara opened the locker and proceeded to strip off her blouse and skirt. If being half nude in front of Torque bothered her, it didn't show. She was like that.
"You know what I mean. If I stay, it'll be taken as consenting to father's plans. His plans, not mine." She pulled out her riding leathers and wiggled into the skintight pants. "I have no choice..."
"Choice, a clever word, eh? Many meanings, depending how ya use it." The mechanic paused, "So you've gotta plan, than?"
Truth was, she didn't, not really.
"I've got a few ideas..."
After a few adjustments, Cara grabbed a T-shirt emblazed with the faded image of the Seattle Seahawks and pulled it on. "Can't stay in my flat since it's family owned, so I'll start with that. Then, I been thinking that I'd look up Lady Ginger."
Torque's frown was a bit fearsome as it displayed his already prominent tusks even more. "Tha Fixer?"
Cara nodded.
"She's nobody to muck with, you know."
"She's a Fixer; she'll have work..."
There was that 2-cycle snort again.
"Dark work; dangerous work..."
"Work."
Grabbing the matching leather jacket, Cara started to close the locker then paused and reached up, towards the back of the top shelf. The plastic case felt heavy. She closed the locker and set the case on a nearby tool caddy.
"Dangerous work," Torque repeated, eyeing the case.
Cara shrugged and popped it open. Inside was a compact pistol inside of a slender holster and what appeared to be the handgrip of a Japanese Katana.
"I can take of myself," she said simply, "Mother made sure of that."
Which was true. While away at those private schools, her mother had insisted that her education included mixed martial arts, small arms, and how to use them, among other things proper young ladies usually weren't exposed too.
"The shadows are not some ivy league playground," Torque grumbled softly.
There was little Cara could say to that. Tucking the holstered gun into the special pocket inside the jacket meant for it, she grabbed the Katana handle next and slid it into a pouch on the calf of her pants.
Torque watched as she straddled her bike and visually went through her mental checklist.
"Jus' remember, Cara, tha' family means far more tha' some understand. I'll send Ben a text an' let him know ya be in tha 'plex. If'n you need serious help, call him direct."
She barely nodded that she'd heard as she fired up the crotch rocket and guided it out of the garage. Family. Yeah, family never likes to let you forget who owns who, she noticed.
As she rode slowly down towards the steel gates protecting the estate grounds, Torque's sigh popped and grumbled. He pulled a phone out of one of the many pouches suspended from his work harness and keyed a number.