Overdrive

by Dawn Ius

  Shit. I sling my pack off my shoulder and dig around until I find them. Amateur move.

  “It’s locked,” Chelsea says. She quickly sets to work on the lock and seconds later, we’re through.

  I’m impressed. “You are a Jedi.”

  “Wait until you see what I can do with my ball pick.”

  The easy laughter fades to disappointment when my quick flashlight pass over the room reveals nothing but air.

  “Empty,” Nick says. “Thought maybe we’d get lucky and the car would still be here.”

  Too easy. “It’s got to be on the loading dock.”

  We retrace our steps, turning left, right. A second corridor up ahead steers us around a corner. The synchronized thunk of our footsteps echoes through the halls.

  At another locked door, Nick pulls out his cell and checks the blueprints. “After this, we’re home free.”

  Chelsea examines the lock. “It’s electronic.” She lowers her lips to the Bluetooth mic clipped to the collar of her jacket. “Sending you the specs now, Mat.”

  “On it,” Mat says.

  “I’m heading back,” Chelsea says. I swallow hard and give her a quick hug. She braces my shoulders, holds my gaze. “You’ve got this.”

  My heart jackhammers. “We don’t have a choice.”

  Nick and I slide through the door and aim our flashlights at the warehouse-style space. Cars are lined up on the cement floor, strategically parked in rows of eight. If the Cosma Ray is somewhere in the middle, we’re screwed.

  “George isn’t here,” Nick says.

  “He has to be.”

  His flashlight beam bounces off the walls, reflecting off windshields and side mirrors. He’s right. There’s no sign of the Cosma Ray.

  “The rest of the Barris cars are . . .” I pause as his flashlight beam catches a glint of orange. “Wait. Go back.” The light hovers over a Stingray hood. “There you are.”

  Tucked behind an oversize storage crate.

  We almost missed it.

  I hit my mic. “Eyes on George.”

  “But there’s no available exit,” Nick says.

  All hope deflates when I spot the issues. Heavy crates block the bay doors. There’s only one other exit, and it leads straight to the main artery of the museum. If we can fit George through–and it’s a big if–we’ll have to drive through the maze of corridors to find an exit.

  My limbs go limp. “It’s impossible.”

  “Oh ye of little faith,” he jokes. “Tight, yes. But doable.”

  He’s fucking crazy.

  But we’ve run out of options. Nick yanks the Slim Jim out of my pack, pops the lock, and motions for me to get in the car. “This is your domain.”

  “Hold up, are you saying I’m better at this than you?”

  He winks. “Let’s not push it.”

  I slide into the car before he can see the blush that creeps up my neck. George has one seriously tricked out interior. Walnut finish coats the steering wheel and side panels. Leather covers the seats. The upgraded, obviously modern entertainment console even has a–

  Nick taps the roof. “I’m not seeing any action.”

  “There’s a fucking TV in here.”

  He leans in through the window. “Huh. Well, how about you catch up on your soaps a little later?”

  “Screw you, dick.”

  He flips me the bird but it’s all in jest–which makes me think about how far we’ve come.

  I duck under the steering wheel and start disassembling the paneling. The routine comes second nature, but I hesitate. Jesus. It almost hurts to take apart this car.

  Shaking it off, I focus on grabbing the wires, stripping and twisting them until I feel the connection. The engine sparks before it engages, and then George roars to life.

  Vibrations ricochet off the walls.

  Nick gives me an enthusiastic thumbs-up and my heart skips with pride. I slide up in the seat and give the ’Vette a little gas. My adrenaline jacks.

  Chelsea’s whoop! blasts into my eardrum. “Sounds good, girl.”

  Nick waves me in the direction of the exit.

  I inch toward him, careful not to give the car too much gas. As I creep closer, I realize we can’t do it. The throughway’s too small. I’m just about to give up when I hear Chelsea again. Her voice is high and panic-stricken. “Company. You guys, you’ve got . . . oh crap. Cops!”

  My heart drops like it’s falling into my chest.

  Nick jogs over to the window and leans in. “You good?”

  I can’t even see straight through the blinding fog of fear. Emma’s face comes into focus. I gasp and press my back into the seat, my fingers wrapped tightly around the steering wheel. “This is it. We’re finished.”

  “No, I believe in you.” Nick snaps his fingers, forcing me to look at him. “You’re the best at this.” He tries to lighten the mood. “You’ve even got a nickname.”

  “Yeah, a stupid one.”

  But what I don’t say aloud is that there’s nothing more I’d like than to disappear. Right now.

  “You’re a legend,” he says.

  A screech builds on the tip of my tongue. “You think that’s how I want to be remembered?”

  He takes a step back. “None of us do, Jules.”

  It’s the first time he’s said it–the first time I’ve believed–he wants out just as much as me. The idea is comforting, somehow gives me the confidence to keep going. If we’re busted now, there’s no shot at normal. No future.

  No us.

  I give the engine another rev and creep forward. The front end of the car slides through the doorframe. Another inch. Again.

  Scraaape.

  The passenger mirror snaps off. “Shit.”

  Nick shakes his head. “Don’t worry about it. Keep coming. You’re almost through.”

  I tap the gas and deliver George into the hall. Holy hell. Nick scoops up the broken mirror and hops into the passenger seat. I grip the steering wheel so tight my hands glow white through my gloves. I am freaking out.

  “How are we going to get past the cops?”

  “It’s probably just security.”

  Not comforting. “They still carry guns, right?”

  “Maybe, but they drive like shit.” Nick slaps the dash. “Let’s get out of here.”

  I flick on the headlights and the museum teems with cars–vehicles on pedestals and mini stages, angle parked on slabs of pavement, tucked into corners. Mat navigates us through the maze to a bay door at the side of the building.

  “Disengaging the lock now,” he says. “Gimme four, three. Shit. Need another route. Security is on it.”

  I clamp down on the steering wheel and grit my teeth. “Just open it.”

  He hesitates. “You sure?”

  Not even close. “Do it.”

  The bay door lifts in slow motion. I hit the gas and shoot out of the museum–and straight into the scene of a movie. A half-dozen cars swarm toward us, blue and red lights flashing.

  “Get past the gate,” Nick says.

  If I don’t we’ll be trapped.

  “Gas!”

  I stomp on the pedal and the Corvette shoots through the gate. I crank the wheel left and the back end slides right. Two security cars flip a U-turn and come in hot.

  “Real cops coming,” Chelsea says.

  My eyes widen.

  Nick puts his hand on my knee. “Just drive.”

  George may not be the fastest car on Roger’s list, but he’s got enough torque to put some distance between us and the guards.

  Nick leans forward to peer through the window. “Hard right.”

  I make the turn and we disappear behind a cluster of buildings. Right, left, another right. I duck behind a Dumpster in the alley and cut the lights.

  My heart beats so fast I struggle to breathe. Ten, Mississippi.

  Nine.

  Eight.

  At five, I crawl back onto the main street.

  “Clear,” Nick says.<
br />
  I push the gas pedal all the way in. “Hang on!”

  There’s a flash of white in my rearview as one of the security cars stops, spins around, and tries to follow. He’s too late.

  Nick threads his fingers through my hair and squeezes the back of my neck. “Holy shit, we did it.” I grin so wide my cheeks feel stretched out of shape. “You did it, Jules.”

  Mat and Chelsea echo his praise.

  “Yahoo!” Chelsea yelps. “George is coming home.”

  That’s right. I’m bringing George home.

  Nick leans back in the seat and tucks his hand behind his head. Shifts a little and fake yawns.

  “Don’t you dare fall asleep on me.”

  He leans forward to flick on the TV. “Nah, I’m just going to check out what’s on the boob tube. Rest my eyes a little. . . .”

  22

  IT’S ALMOST THREE IN THE morning by the time we turn onto Kyle Canyon Road. My nerves are like frayed live wires, stripped and raw, buzzing with energy. I now know every Doors song by heart.

  “You really can’t sing,” Chelsea says.

  I stick out my tongue. “I wasn’t joking.”

  Mat thumps the back of Nick’s seat. “Five bucks says Roger’s already waiting for us at the Trophy Case.” He emphasizes the last part with a faux fancy accent.

  “No one is going to take that fool’s bet,” Nick says.

  Chelsea pokes her head between the two front seats and squints. She points out the window. “There’s proud papa now.”

  I cradle the Corvette’s busted side mirror in my lap. “He’s going to flip.”

  “He’d better not,” Chelsea says. “We risked our butts back there.” She pauses. “Well, mostly you and Nick.”

  I twist around in the seat. “Everyone played their part. We’re a team.”

  I’m surprised to realize I believe it. In less than a month, we’ve not only gelled as a team, but have begun to form friendships. I don’t know the last time I could call someone a friend.

  Nick rubs my kneecap. “You good?”

  “Just exhausted.” We’ve been up almost twenty-four hours, and Nick’s the only one who hasn’t had a reprieve. “You must be running on adrenaline.”

  “NOS, actually.”

  I roll down the window as we approach the gate, and Roger comes up beside me. The peppery scent of his freshly extinguished cigar lingers on the brim of his fedora. His eyes narrow in on the mirror tucked between my legs.

  “We had a minor casualty,” I say. His nostrils flare. “Nick can fix it,” I add quickly. “It will be good as new.”

  Roger nods tersely. “And the rest of the car?”

  “It’s all here.”

  “Show me.”

  Jesus. After five boosts you’d think he’d have some faith. But I guess that’s a little hypocritical, since he’s the last person I’d put my trust in. I call him an asshole under my breath and hop off the truck. My left leg stings with pins and needles. I bend to stretch my back, massage the kinks out of my thighs, and then hobble to the back of the trailer.

  Nick slides open the cargo door.

  “Bring it down,” Roger says. “I need to see the whole car.”

  Because we’d leave half of it in California? I could drag it out, play with him a bit, but one look at the dark circles under Chelsea’s eyes and I know the team is eager to put George to rest. “Roger, Roger.”

  With Nick’s go-ahead, I climb up onto the back of the truck and into the Cosma Ray. My fingers feather across the walnut finish on the steering wheel as I think about our narrow escape. I blow out the last remnants of fear through my nose.

  Nick adjusts the ramp and gives me the signal that I’m clear.

  I fire up the car.

  Exhaust fumes are trapped inside the confined space of the trailer. The engine noise rattles the steel walls. As I shift the car out of neutral, the headlight beams bounce off the front panel and blind me. I flick them off, relying on the eerie glow of the reverse lights to guide me out of the trailer.

  The wide tires hit the metal ramp with two slightly out-of-sync clicks.

  “Keep coming,” Nick shouts.

  The engine sputters like it might give out, but I tap the gas and a puff of smoke blooms from the tailpipe. George settles back into an easy idle.

  When all four tires hit the pavement, I stick my head out the window. “You want me to park this thing?”

  “There’s an empty stall at the end of the Corvettes,” he says.

  I drive inside the warehouse and putter past the Mako Shark. Thoughts of Kevin hit me like a bad nightmare. A shiver crawls up my spine. The sooner we finish this gig, the less chance we’ll have of running into my ex and his creepy boss.

  I’m not even out of the car before Roger starts petting it. A low purring sound rumbles from his mouth. Okay, I get it, the guy’s got a car fetish, but I can’t watch. This whole ritual makes my skin crawl.

  Chelsea wraps her arm around my shoulder and tilts her head toward mine. “You did really good tonight.”

  “You too,” I say. If not for Chelsea, there’s no way Nick and I could have cracked those locks. “But there’s not enough money in the world to pay for the therapy we’ll need after tonight.”

  “Booze,” she says. “Lots and lots of booze.”

  A grin splits her face when she catches me nervously steal a glance at Nick. The butterflies in my stomach start fluttering and I know something’s changed between us. He gives me one of those lazy smiles and KABOOM! My insides explode.

  “Or that,” Chelsea says. She squeezes my shoulder. “Go get some therapy.”

  I feel myself blush.

  Mat and Nick join Chelsea and me at the front of Corvette Row. Roger is still feeling up George, which is wrong on so many levels. I shake my head and look away. “The guy’s messed up.”

  Even Chelsea agrees.

  “I don’t know about you guys,” Mat says, “but I need some sleep. Let’s blow this place.”

  Roger looks up from the hood of the car. “Before you leave, Julia, there’s something I’d like to talk to you about.”

  I stand at unease.

  “You guys go ahead,” Nick says to Chelsea. “I’ll stay behind with Jules. We can take my bike back to the mansion.”

  Chelsea hesitates. “You’ve been driving all day. You okay?”

  His cheeks go a little pink. “It’s cute that you’re worried about me.”

  “It’s disturbing you think my concern is for you,” she says, giving me a pointed look.

  When they leave, Roger flags me over.

  I start toward him, but Nick grabs my wrist. “You don’t have to do this alone.”

  I have a suspicion I know what Roger wants to talk about–Nick’s car–but I like that he wants to protect me. Warmth spreads through my body and I get a little shy. My tongue ties into knots.

  “Whatever you have to say to Julia, you can say to me too,” Nick says, mistaking my nerves for fear.

  Roger reaches into the front pocket of his corduroy pants and tosses us a small key. I barely catch it.

  “That opens the box over there,” he says. “In it, you’ll find keys for any of the cars that were obtained . . . legally.”

  I stare at the key. “I don’t get it.”

  “Perhaps you want to know a little more about some of the cars,” Roger says, with a bit of emphasis on the last part of the sentence. “However, be advised–you’re not permitted to drive them.”

  I’m still not quite getting what he’s putting down, but my gut tells me he’s giving me a hint about Nick’s car. Is Vicki in the building? I scope out the first floor, skimming over the Mustangs. It’s not there. Wow. He’s really not good at this.

  “And you probably shouldn’t go near the third floor,” he says, his eyes never wavering from mine.

  Got it. Vicki’s on the top level.

  I nudge Nick’s shoulder. “Hey, wanna go sit in a Ferrari?”

  His eyebrows kni
t in confusion. “Uh . . . sure?”

  I know he’s wary, but I need him on board, so I grab his hand and drag him toward the second level of the Trophy Case. Glancing over my shoulder, I find Roger staring at us with an almost wistful expression.

  “Lock up when you’re done,” he calls out.

  I’m shocked he’d leave us alone with his precious collection of cars. But as he watches us round the corner, I wonder if he isn’t thinking about his wife, and a love that ended too quickly. What kind of man was Roger before she died? A sadness starts seeping into my bones. Maybe things could have been different for all of us.

  Nick stops at the front of a modern sports car–sleek, silver, shaped almost like a bullet. Probably goes just as fast.

  “What the hell is that? A rocket?”

  “It’s an Aston Martin One-Seventy-Seven,” he says with a touch of awe.

  “It’s–”

  “Breathtaking,” he says. “Let’s take it for a spin.”

  Before I can respond, he climbs into the unlocked car. I open the passenger door and stick my head in. “You have no intention of following the rules, do you?”

  He laughs. “Probably not. But don’t worry, I don’t even know if I could handle this thing. Hop in.” I hesitate and he rolls his eyes. “We’re not going anywhere. I just want to sit in it.”

  “Mr. Barker! Are you asking me to park?”

  His wolfish grin widens. “Well, when you put it that way . . .”

  I climb into the car and settle into the seat. The leather closes in around me like a glove. Everything about the car screams expensive. The black detailing is polished, chrome gadgets buffed. There is nothing antique, nothing classic about this car–there’s not even a stick shift–and yet, I’m mesmerized by it.

  “This beast tops out at two hundred miles per hour,” Nick says. “Now, that’s some speed.”

  “Faster than Vicki?”

  He frowns like he can’t understand why I’d bring up his Mustang–an obviously touchy topic–and it takes me a second to realize I probably should have waited. Too late to take the words back now.

  He shrugs. “Vicki’s a project, but she’d never keep up with something like this.”

  “I guess I never thought of you as a racer.”

  His eyes light up. “I’d love to be. But I’d take a cross country run over a lap track any day.” He shifts so we’re sort of facing each other. “That kind of racing takes cash–a lot more than the hundred grand Roger’s forking over. I’ve got more important things to worry about with that money.”