Overdrive

by Dawn Ius

  Chelsea curls up into the side of the car and yawns. “Maybe it’s not even here.”

  “Gotta be,” Nick says. “This is his garage.”

  A couple of rough-looking dudes in oil-stained jeans and wife-beaters loiter outside the building, smoking and tossing back some beers. We can’t get close enough to see inside.

  “What if this isn’t his only garage?” I say. “Is it possible he’s expanded?”

  “Maybe.” Nick holds the binoculars up to his face. “I recognize a couple of those guys, but some of the regulars are missing. Could mean something. We’ll have to wait it out and see.”

  “Wait, wait, wait,” Chelsea says with an exaggerated eye roll. “Seriously, after this gig, I am so done with crime. Half your time is spent being bored out of your mind.”

  I smile. “What happens when you get to Harvard and there’s all that boring studying?”

  She waves me off. “That’s different. Med school is something I’m passionate about.”

  “Doctor Chelsea,” I say, enjoying the way the title sounds on my lips.

  “Has a nice ring to it,” Mat says.

  She pouts. “Are you mocking me? Because that’s not funny.” She shrinks lower into the seat. “I was actually thinking about doing something with chemistry. Maybe getting a PhD.”

  Nick twists around in his seat. “Hey, you could mix potions and stuff.”

  “I’m not a witch, douche bag.”

  Mat nudges her shoulder. “You could totally do anything you wanted.” Chelsea’s eyes soften and a tint of red touches Mat’s cheeks. He recovers quickly. “We all could.”

  I never pegged Chelsea as a scientist or a doctor–but I bet she never figured me for a ballerina, either.

  Nick sits upright. “Something’s happening.”

  Chelsea and I lean forward. “Hallelujah,” she says.

  Nick peers through the binoculars, giving us the play-by-play. “Riley just showed up. He’s handing someone a key. . . .” He waits. “Okay, now that guy and some other dude are getting into a tow truck. Shit.” He hands off the binoculars. “Keep eyes on them. We’ll follow and see where they lead us.”

  “Wait. Follow. Wait. Follow.”

  Mat nudges Chelsea and she grins. “Don’t mind me. I’m just writing my memoirs. I’ll call it Profile of a Serial Heister.”

  “What happened to giving up the life of crime to become a legitimate scientist?”

  She slumps against the backrest. “Who said anything about legitimate?”

  • • •

  Riley’s tow truck follows a maze of side streets that cross over the I-15 and into Spring Valley. When we turn onto Rainbow Road, Chelsea tenses. Even her curls seem to lose some of their bounce.

  “I hate this area,” she says.

  “It’s not all bad,” Nick says. “A few of the houses on these side roads are massive.” He winks at me. “I boosted a couple of hot rods from here a few years back.”

  “Doesn’t some rich politician live around here?” Mat says. “I read about him on Twitter, Senator Lynch or something. His whole platform is built on a tourist tax.”

  Chelsea pales. “He thinks it will help keep teens off the streets. But he doesn’t have a clue about kids–especially his own,” she says.

  I remember Chelsea’s last name is Lynch, and that’s when I realize the senator is her dad. I reach behind and grab her hand, a silent promise I won’t rat her out even if I’m more sure than ever that I only know half of the story.

  Nick turns left at Charleston Boulevard.

  “If Riley’s got the car stored out here, that’s good for us,” Nick says. “We’re close to the Trophy Case. Less chance of getting caught.”

  We follow the tow truck into an industrial area, but when it veers off onto a side street, Nick goes straight and turns into a back alley. He cuts the lights and parks so that we can see through two abandoned storefronts to what looks like a small warehouse. A chain-link fence surrounds the perimeter.

  One guy gets out of the truck and unlocks the gate, his hand at his hip. I can see the butt end of a gun. My shoulder blades pinch together as I stiffen up.

  “There are two security cameras in the front,” Mat says. He tethers his phone to his laptop and starts typing into a search engine. “A numbered company owns the building–no name. I can find out who it is, but it’s going to take some time.”

  Nick’s jaw tenses. “Don’t bother. I know this is Riley. I can feel it.”

  “Can’t you do that thing you did at the hangar?” Chelsea says. “Take pictures from the outside like Superman or whatever.”

  “Too much interference,” Mat says. “The hangar was pretty much in the middle of nowhere.”

  “The car is here,” Nick says. He grabs the binoculars. “I spot seven cameras, maybe eight, unless that’s a light. Hard to tell. The gate has a triple lock on it. Might need bolt cutters.”

  “Too risky,” Chelsea says. “Mat, if you can freeze out those cameras, I can crack this lock. I just need to buy one thing.”

  “I don’t like the idea of you being out there exposed,” Nick says. “Three locks is a long time, and this isn’t a residential area.”

  The implications of his words send a shiver up my spine. Riley’s goons don’t mess around.

  “Come on, you guys, you know I’m the weakest link here.”

  “Chelsea, stop,” I say. “We’re all in this together.”

  “Perfect. Then get me to a mall, so I can do my part.”

  27

  IF NICK’S PLAN TO TRICK Kevin was stupid, Chelsea’s is outright dangerous. I’m so not on board with it, but she’s beyond rational thought. I keep telling her she has nothing to prove, that we’ll figure out a different way.

  She’s convinced this is our only option.

  I duck down in the backseat of the nondescript Honda we’ve borrowed from the Trophy Case to execute this phase of the plan. We’re about a block from Riley’s garage, waiting for Chelsea to work her magic. The vinyl smells like aftershave, which makes me wonder about the last person who drove this car. Was it one of the thugs Roger recruited to steal his cars? Or another random car-theft victim?

  Mat strums his fingers on the steering wheel. “So, I put the clutch in and then step on the gas, right?”

  My voice rises in surprise. “Tell me you’re joking.” When he doesn’t say anything, I sit up and smack him lightly across the back of the head. “You’d better not be serious.”

  “Relax! I know how to drive a stick.” He laughs. “Get down before someone sees you.”

  Ha. Because that’s not like trying to change the tires on a Mustang without the right lug nuts–aka impossible.

  My cell buzzes. I stare at the caller ID. “It’s Emma.”

  “You have to answer it,” Mat says. “You always answer.”

  I bite my lower lip and accept the call, touched that he knows that. “Hey, Ems.”

  “Jules? Where are you?”

  My throat constricts. I can’t tell her what we’re doing, but I’m having trouble spitting out a lie. “We’re just out. Something wrong?”

  She sighs. “You said you’d come to my audition.”

  “That’s tonight?” Shit. I bash my head against the seat. “Of course I’ll be there. What time?”

  “You’re not coming, are you?”

  The tone of her voice kicks me right in the gut. “We’ll be there.”

  “All of you?”

  Mat leans over the seat and nods his head. “We’ll get there,” he mouths. Despite his confidence, I’m not convinced. If Chelsea completes her mission, this heist has to go down tonight. We’ll have a narrow window of time.

  “We’re going to do the best we can.” The answer barely appeases Emma, but I’m relieved when she sounds more positive. We talk about staying calm, about doing her best, about how proud I am no matter if she gets the part or not.

  She admits that she’s nervous, but says she also hopes Melissa gets a par
t too, so no one goes home sad. Warmth spreads through me as I realize I’m thrilled she’d bonded with someone outside the mansion. She doesn’t easily make friends.

  “I love you, Jules.”

  “Me too, Ems.” My chest swells with pride. “And hey . . . break a leg.”

  Emptiness fills my chest when the line goes dead. I keep telling myself it’s just a few more days. What if she can’t hold on?

  Through the window, I catch a glimpse of a vulture flying overhead and I shudder. I’m pretty sure birds of prey are a bad omen.

  Or maybe that’s just crows.

  “We’ve got three hours to do this and get to Emma’s audition.”

  “Chelsea’s in.”

  And so it begins. She’s borrowed one of Roger’s older cars, which she hopes will convince Riley’s crew that she’s in need of a mechanic. With her tight skirt, high heels, and a padded bra, she’ll distract them enough to find what she’s looking for–the key to the second garage. Riley’s goons are stupid enough to fall for it, which makes me throw up a little in my mouth.

  I argued against this plan, but Chelsea’s right–we need this.

  My hands pool with sweat. I wipe them on my jeans and exhale three times in quick succession. It still feels like my chest is filling up with air. “How long has she been in there? An hour?”

  “Five minutes.”

  Damn it.

  “How are we doing on locating the Shelby?”

  Mat sighs deep. “A bunch of dead ends.” He runs his hand through his hair, snagging his fingers in the curls. “Lots of chatter, but it never amounts to anything. Might have one lead, but they’ve got one hell of a smoke screen–I can’t seem to hack under the surface.” He pauses. “Yet.”

  “Fuck.”

  He squares his shoulders. “I’ll get it, don’t worry.”

  I gnaw on the inside of my cheek until I taste blood. Obviously I’m nervous about finding the GT, but I’m also worried about Mat. He’s in deep–too deep for a guy looking to reform.

  “You still planning to cut loose from this life?”

  “More determined than ever.”

  His answer gives me some comfort. Part of me feels like this is my fault, like if I hadn’t moved into Roger’s, he’d still be looking for the fourth member of his crew. Knowing Mat’s plans haven’t been derailed assuages some of that guilt.

  His cell rings and we both flinch. He puts the call on speaker.

  “Rico,” Chelsea says, using Mat’s code name for this objective, “you can pick me up now. I’m at . . .” There’s a pause while she fake asks someone for the address in a way-too-chipper voice. “It’s that mechanic’s place, just past East Sunse–what’s that? You’re just a few blocks from here? Perfect. I owe you one.”

  She’s babbling, which either means she got the key, or she’s in trouble. Either way, we need to set the extraction plan in motion.

  Mat puts the car in gear and taps the gas pedal, but takes his foot off the clutch too soon. We jerk forward and stall. He restarts the engine.

  Panic starts building in my chest. “Thought you knew how to drive a standard?”

  He shifts again, but I know the clutch isn’t engaged.

  “No problem.”

  I fight to stay calm. “Let me drive.”

  Mat refuses to give up. He fires off a string of curses and jams the gearshift up into first. This time, it clunks into place. Relief ribbons through me.

  “Easy on the gas,” I say. “It’s a balance. Listen for the friction po–”

  Mat stomps on the pedal. A cloud of black smoke comes out the car’s back end, along with the strong scent of burning rubber. The engine starts to whine. “Let off the clutch!”

  He should be in second right now, but if he shifts and we stall, then what? Instead, we kind of leapfrog to the front of Riley’s shop.

  “Scoot over to the passenger seat.” It’s a clunky move, but if we need a fast getaway, Mat won’t be able to pull it off. “Chelsea can drive.”

  He climbs awkwardly over the gearshift, shooting me an evil glare when his foot gets caught on the steering wheel. Maybe I’ve had too much experience maneuvering my way around car interiors, but he makes it look a lot more complicated than it needs to be. The gearshift jabs him in the groin. “Merde!”

  I cup my hand over my mouth to stop laughing just as Chelsea flings open the door. She pauses to giggle and wave at someone inside, then slides into the seat. “Holy crap.”

  She jams the car into gear and peels out of the parking lot.

  “Subtle.” I sit up and buckle in. “Jesus, that was close.”

  “I did good,” Chelsea says. With one hand on the steering wheel, she reaches into her padded bra with the other to retrieve a key.

  To anyone else, it’s a tool to open a locked door. But for the four of us, it’s a much-needed symbol of hope.

  • • •

  Nick’s knee bounces.

  Up and down.

  Up. Down.

  The heels of his feet don’t even touch the pavement. If he loses balance, I’m not strong enough to hold the bike upright, which means we’re going down. This is the last place I want to fall flat on my face. The alley reeks of sewage and overripe bananas.

  Nick chews on the end of his fingernail, shifts, and bounces again.

  I reach around his waist and rest my hand on his knee. “Stop. You’re making me crazy.”

  This is where Nick usually jumps in with some quip about my fragile mental state. When he doesn’t, I realize his nerves are even more frazzled than mine.

  Things are not going as planned.

  We’re tucked between two buildings at the end of the block while Mat and Chelsea wait on the other–cleaner–side of the street in another nondescript car. They’re both disguised, so unless Riley’s goons are specifically looking for them, they’re well covered. Unfortunately, cheap costume disguises wouldn’t be enough to camouflage Nick and me.

  A faded full moon crests the horizon. Dusk turns the surrounding buildings into shades of gray. Pieces of litter blow around in the light wind, yanking me back to a couple of months earlier in another grungy end of town. A boost that went all wrong.

  I study Nick’s profile. Okay, it wasn’t a complete bust.

  Chelsea’s voice pipes through the Bluetooth. “We’ve got movement.”

  A few minutes later, two trucks and a motorcycle pass. I count to ten in my head before checking in again. “Clear?”

  Mat answers this time. “Cameras are disabled. Chelsea’s at the lock.”

  Nick nods to let me know he heard and fires up the bike. When Chelsea gives us the all clear, we’ll cruise up to the gate and hot-wire the tow truck in the lot, back it up to the shop, hook up the car, and hit the road.

  No sweat.

  Except we don’t even know if the car’s in there.

  Chelsea’s curse blasts through the earpiece. I should be used to her trucker mouth by now, but it shocks me every time. “This key’s a piece of shit. Argh.”

  My pulse speeds up. “Are you sure you grabbed the–”

  “Shut the hell up, Jules,” Chelsea snaps. I shrink a little under her tone before remembering she’s not always like this. By the time we drop James off at the Trophy Case she’ll be back to “aw, shucks” and “you guys are so freaking cute.” I can hardly wait.

  Nick coughs. “You’ve got one minute Chelsea or else–”

  “Don’t you threaten me,” she cuts in. “Damn it. It’s not working. Bring the bolt cutters.”

  Nick pulls out in the alley and drops me off at the gate. I take the tool and she grabs it from me. “I got this.”

  “You’ll break a nail.”

  “Then you’ll owe me a manicure.” She snaps the cutters around the lock. Two hard squeezes and the metal breaks.

  I swing the gate wide. “Guess no spa package in your Christmas stocking this year.”

  Nick rides to the perimeter and over to the tow truck. The plan’s a little sh
aky from here. I’ll work with Chelsea to get inside the shop, while Mat stands watch. Nick will hot-wire the truck and hook up the car. I’ll drive the tow truck to Roger’s, and the others will keep close to make sure I’m not being followed–or in the event I need a quick exit plan, I can catch a ride.

  It’s by far our least thought-out boost, and probably the most dangerous.

  “I must have grabbed a bum key,” Chelsea says. She nudges up against the door of the building. “Should have known it was too easy.”

  Unease creeps around the back of my neck. In my experience, anything simple is usually too good to be true. “You think you were made?”

  She pauses long enough to make my heart stutter. “No.” She shakes her head. “No way. I just got nervous and took the wrong one.”

  It’s small comfort.

  The lock clatters to the ground. “Shit,” Chelsea says. “I really mangled that thing.” She flashes a grin. “Not my cleanest work.”

  “Perfection is overrated. . . .”

  She pushes open the door. I stick my flashlight inside and wave it around. The light beam lands on a shadowed form in the shape of a car. My pulse skips. “Think that’s it?”

  I hold the light while Chelsea rips off the gray cover. Dust flitters through the beam and lands on the silver curve of the Aston Martin’s front fender. My breath hitches.

  James.

  Blood rushes to my head as my adrenaline jacks. Holy shit. Chelsea and I fist-bump.

  “Go tell Nick we found James, then meet up with Mat to keep an eye on things. We don’t have a lot of time.”

  Sixty seconds.

  I pan the flashlight beam over the front of the car, lightly touching the headlights. My fingers trail along the grille. The wheels and one side mirror are missing. Scratches mark the paint. Surface flaws, easily fixed.

  “Looking good, James,” I murmur.

  On my way to the garage door opener, I scan the shop for the missing headlight or the rear fender. Maybe an extra set of wheels.

  The place is empty. Too empty.

  A chill weaves its way under my skin. I shine the light on the floor. There’s not a speck of oil or dirt on the concrete finish. In fact, there’s nothing in this place to even hint it’s a garage.