“We have those magnets,” I suggest. “Can we disguise ourselves as we pass through their monitoring?”
“It might work,” she says. “But it’s risky. My dispatcher knows everything about me. My weight, my exact measurements, and more. I don’t think we’d make it through without being spotted.”
I grimace. “So what should we do?”
“Go south,” she says. “I can divert early. We can take I-76 to Los Angeles.”
“But I’m trying to get to San Francisco,” I tell her. “That’s going to add days to the trip.”
“Hours,” she corrects. “But it will make it a lot harder to find us. The dispatcher also knows that my route should take me over I-80 and to a freight hub outside of Sacramento. From there I’m supposed to drop off my container and get a new one. The idea that I could be anywhere other than my programmed route won’t even occur to my dispatcher. They’ll search this section of I-80 several times first. By the time they look elsewhere we’ll be long gone.”
I look to James, who just shrugs. “I don’t care,” he mumbles.
“But what do you think?” I ask.
“It doesn’t matter. Go whichever way you want.”
“Look,” I say, “you can either stop pouting and stay, or we can drop you off at the next town. It’s up to you.”
Lara-B coughs before he can reply. “If I may…I’d actually recommend we keep him with us for a while longer.” She adopts a stage whisper. “He knows too much.”
He puts up his hands in defeat. “Actually, you know what? That’s perfect. I want it on the record that I’m here against my will. Ok? I’m your hostage, not your accomplice.”
A moment later, his voice is replayed through the speakers. “I want it on the record that I’m here against my will. Ok? I’m your hostage, not your accomplice.”
James looks startled.
“I’d say that’s Lara-B putting you on the record,” I tell him.
“Fine,” he says, his arms crossed. “Do you have a blanket?”
“In the back of the cab,” Lara-B says.
“I’m going to sleep. Wake me when you decide you can trust me.”
James curls up on the long bench seat, careful not to touch my side. He’s asleep by the time Lara-B takes the I-76 exit toward Los Angeles.
I can’t sleep. I just watch the road. It’s my first day as a criminal and so far I’ve extorted a semitruck, helped take down a police drone, and now I have something like a hostage with me. But those pale in comparison with what I’m planning to do when I get to San Francisco.
Six
“They’re looking for us,” Lara-B whispers.
I’m instantly awake. None of that is-it-a-dream-or-reality stuff. I’m not having a dream that puts my situation in new light. No. Lara-B is speaking, and I’m upright and alert.
I get my bearings. James is still asleep next to me, his legs stretched out and his head awkwardly against the window. The cab is dark—the lights on the dash are dimmed to almost nothing—and the surrounding landscape matches. There’s very little light coming from anywhere, just the dark sky above and the dark land below.
“Police?” I ask, rubbing a little sleep out of my right eye. “Are they nearby?”
“Yes, police. No, they aren’t nearby. Yet. Plus my dispatcher is looking for me now too. They’ve realized I must not be on my programmed route anymore. They’ve alerted other trucks from our company to look for me,” she reports.
“How many trucks is that?”
“Thousands,” she says. “All over the country. Every freeway is now much less safe for us.”
“Can you map where the other trucks are?” I ask.
“Yes. The closest truck will cross paths with us in about forty-five minutes. It’s dark, for now, which might help, but that’s not going to matter soon.”
“It won’t?” I ask, staring through the windshield at the dark sky in front of us. But then Lara-B crests a ridge in the freeway and a bright light from ahead fills the cab. I shield my sensitive eyes and look away. Blinking rapidly, trying to reclaim my night vision, I ask, “What is that light, Lara-B?”
“Vegas,” she whispers.
A feeling somewhere between terror and elation fills my heart.
“We’re going to need that disguise,” she says.
James is on top of the truck with me. It shouldn’t feel like we’re that high, but I’m scared to get too close to the edge of the container Lara-B is hauling.
“Little bit farther this way,” I say. We inch our way toward the cab, hauling the rolled magnet with the dragon on it as best we can manage. “Ok, that looks like center.”
We unroll the magnet with the magnetic side up and we each take a corner. “Ready?” I ask. He nods. We’ve already done this on the other side of the truck, so this time we have the gist of this maneuver down. First it’s a flip and a push and then we hang on for dear life as the total weight of the gigantic decal is in our hands. But it only lasts for a second. With a satisfying snap, it’s stuck to the side of the truck. It’s not level, and it’s a little high, but we have a ladder on the ground and we can adjust it from there.
I fall onto the roof of the container and catch my breath.
“Thank you,” I say eventually. And then, when I wonder if that’s enough, I add, “It was kind of you to help.”
“Is that going to be enough?” James asks, sitting down by me. It doesn’t escape my attention that he’s skipped over “you’re welcome.”
“Lara-B seems to think so,” I say. “Along with everything else she’s done.” My heart is still racing and my chest is heaving from hauling the magnets. And James has a slight sheen on his forehead. But at least we’re not avoiding each other’s eyes like we were in the truck. It’s more like it was when I first saw him. Mutual interest. Curiosity. Maybe a spark of something else.
He seems happy. Or at least he’s not angry.
“This ok?” I ask.
He shrugs.
I kick his shoe gently.
“It’s been…something else,” he concedes.
“How very vague of you,” I say.
The corners of his lips turn up.
“At least you’re not stuck in Nebraska anymore,” I add for him.
“True. That is worth something, I will give you that. Me leaving probably cut their black population in half.”
I laugh and he does too. Then he pretends to get serious and does a little bow with his head. “Thank you for the ride, Pen Davis.”
“You’re welcome.”
We’re looking at each other and I notice that our shoes are still touching. Not like I can feel anything of him, but there’s definite pressure from the toe of his shoe against mine. I know I’m probably reading something into it. But it still feels good.
He breaks eye contact first and looks off at the city lights again. I do as well.
“Not that I really needed to see Vegas again,” James says, “but being up here and seeing something different than that damn river and the corn on the other side of it…I’m feeling better. Even if I’m an accomplice to something…nefarious.”
“You’ve been to Vegas?” I ask, ignoring the opportunity he’s leaving me to explain myself. Maybe, I tell myself. But not yet. There’s something more important I want to get to.
“My mom took my sister and me to see my dad when we were kids,” he says. “He lived here for a few years.”
“Did you gamble?” I ask. This is the question I’m particularly interested in.
He snorts. “No. I was…what, twelve? It was loud and bright and flashy and there were half-naked women everywhere.”
“You liked that, I bet,” I say, even though I don’t know why. Maybe I’m trying to assess if he likes girls.
“Sure, but mostly it freaked me out if I’m being fully honest with you.”
I shoot him a look. “And why are you being fully honest with me?”
He shrugs and in the dark, I can’t read his expre
ssion. “What about you? Have you been?” he asks.
I shake my head. I can tell he’s watching me but I intentionally don’t turn to look at him.
“You want to go?” he asks.
“Maybe,” I whisper. “I could use some money.”
He laughs, a joyless sound. The mood has changed. He’s mad or he’s making fun of me. Or both, I can’t tell. “You weren’t willing to spend it on Lara-B’s charge, but you’ll gamble with your money instead?” he says bitterly. “I can’t believe you.”
“Look, when I told you that I’m not rich—that wasn’t a lie,” I fire back. “You charged me a buck to pee and I paid it because it was better than paying more to go outside and having someone in your rest-stop goon squad find me with my pants down. But that leaves me with just three hundred and one dollars. That’s all I have to my name. Now—”
“That’s a whole lot more than I got,” he cuts in.
I ignore that. “Yes, I’m pinching pennies. But if I could use some of my money to earn more in a casino, I could have enough to pay you back for your charge and for…for what I have planned…then we’d both come out ahead.”
“What exactly do you have planned?” He leans forward and we’re real close now. In the dark of the desert with this closer proximity it’s like I can feel the heat coming off of him. I try to stare him down but I start falling into his brown eyes and I look away.
He laughs and leans back again. Not so bitterly this time, I’m happy to note. “Fine. Whatever. But you don’t earn money in Vegas. It’s called gambling. You could lose it all.”
“Or I could make a lot more,” I say.
“You’ve got three hundred bucks in your pocket and all you want to do is feed it to a slot machine. That’s crazy.”
“Not a slot. One of those other games. Like the one with the wheel. Roulette?”
He smirks. He’s laughing at me for not knowing the name. “Yes, roulette.”
“Or blackjack or…the one with the dice,” I say quietly. When I see the game in movies it’s always people standing around a sunken table, throwing dice across the green felt, and saying things like “Baby wants a new diamond necklace.” They’re having the most fun they’ve ever had. But if I’ve ever learned what it’s called, I’ve lost it.
“Craps,” he tells me. “Some of the guys played that at the rest stop with nickels.”
“You can play it anywhere? You don’t need to be at a casino?”
“You just need dice.”
“So you know how to play?”
He nods slowly, his eyes far away. His long fingers are on autopilot, playing with his shoelace. I can practically hear his mind whirring. It’s like he’s gone. I remember how it felt when he started reading his book back at the rest stop, like the outside world—including me—suddenly wasn’t there. The only time I can do that is when I’m looking at a puzzle like a crossword, a riddle, or a line of code. It’s like I’m in it. But James seems to be able to do it all the time. There’s some interior life he’s got going that I just want to see a piece of.
Finally he snaps out of it. “This thing that makes you and Lara-B outlaws—”
“The busted drone?” I interrupt.
“No, besides the drone. You keep hinting at it. What are you trying to do? What is it?”
I open my mouth instinctively and then close it again. “I can’t tell you,” I say. “I’m sorry.”
“Right. Why tell the hostage anything?” he says coolly. The tension is radiating off of him. It’s palpable and finally I can’t take it anymore. Whatever he was thinking about in his inner world, this is what he’s decided—if I’m asking for his help, he wants to know what he’s getting into.
“It’s a…robbery,” I say into the quiet. “No, a burglary, I guess. Technically speaking.”
“I didn’t know there was a difference.”
“Well, there is. I’ve been researching jail time. Just in case.”
He’s giving me side-eye. “You’re serious about this, aren’t you?”
“I have to be.”
His body doesn’t shift but that feeling in the air is calmer now.
“You’re, what? Going after a big pile of cash?”
“No. It’s…an object.”
“Worth a lot of money?”
“It’s worth forty million dollars,” I whisper.
His eyes bulge a little bit. “Forty mil?” He shakes his head and looks at the skyline of Vegas again.
“Tempting, right?” I ask.
He kind of shrugs, but he’s not meeting my eye. “Didn’t anyone ever teach you that stealing is wrong?” he asks after a pause.
“Not this time,” I say.
“Why?”
I’m about to defend myself when I remember that if I tell James too much, he could probably piece it together with a little logic and time logged in front of a search engine. So I decide to play coy. “I’m sorry. I can’t tell you that just yet.”
He purses his lips but nods. “But you think you can do it?”
“I think I have a pretty good plan.”
He eyes me again. “Ok. Let’s assume you’re right for a second. You have a perfect plan. Why bother with Vegas if you have a chance at forty million?” he asks.
“The job gets a lot easier if I can buy some equipment. Whoever heard of someone pulling off a heist with just three hundred bucks?” I ask and he smiles. A full smile. “My plan was to scrape it together when I got there. But winning in the casinos would save me a ton of time.”
“How much more? To pull it off, I mean.”
“Another five grand would be amazing,” I say.
He snorts. “No way. You can’t turn three hundred bucks into five thousand in Vegas,” he says. “You’ll lose it. Whether its craps or roulette or a slot machine. In the end, it’s all the same.”
“Some people win.”
He’s quiet, but he clearly disagrees. I don’t understand how he can argue with that. It’s true. Some people do win. Why can’t that be me? Especially because I’m pretty sure I have an ace up my sleeve.
“What games do you know?” I ask.
“All those you mentioned,” he says. “Craps, blackjack, roulette.”
“Which one takes actual skill?” I ask.
“I don’t know what you mean.”
“Which could I beat.”
“None of them.”
“Hypothetically. If I put my mind to it.”
He scratches his nose. I’m distracted briefly by his long fingers again. He should play piano. “Blackjack,” he says. “I don’t know how you’d do it. But that’s the one. Craps is the luck of the dice. Roulette is the luck of the spinning wheel. But for blackjack, if you were amazing at counting cards—and I mean amazing, they have something like ten decks of cards they deal from—you might be able to get an edge. Did you ever hear about those MIT students who beat Vegas? It was a long time ago. But that’s what they played.”
“You know…I went to MIT,” I say, arching my eyebrows significantly.
It’s his turn to arch his eyebrows. “For real?” I nod in return. He looks me over again. “You seem kind of young.”
“I was a computer and math prodigy. C’mon. Stop giving me excuses and show me the rules,” I say before he can find new reasons to doubt me.
He thinks again—he’s inside his head—and then nods once. Definitive. Clear. He’s in.
“Then let’s go!” I exclaim. I hop up and offer him my hand. “It’s just right there.” And it is. The lights of Las Vegas already feel brighter. Closer.
He takes my hand and I pull him up. Our hands are still clasped. With him almost next to me, it’s clear that he’s a few inches taller than me. I don’t let myself step back—I’m enjoying this feeling too much. Just two people in the middle of the desert. (On top of a truck.)
“Now?” he asks. “We have to finish Lara-B’s decals or we’ll stand out.”
“Right after that.”
“I’m h
appy to help, but you’re going to have a hard time busting Vegas with just an hour’s worth of teaching,” he says.
“I just need to know the basics. Enough to not look like an idiot in front of the dealer.”
“So how do you expect to win?”
I stomp once on the container that Lara-B’s pulling that we’re on top of. “I don’t know if you’ve noticed, but we’re traveling with a rogue AI who has a rather open-minded approach to ethics.”
His eyes widen as he looks at the truck in a new light.
I’m enjoying how close we’re standing and I’m definitely enjoying that I got to drop that bomb on him. “What’s the point of having a supercomputer as your new best friend if she can’t help you make a little money on the side?”
Seven
“We’re close,” Lara-B tells me. “Eight miles to the Strip.”
“Almost done,” I say, but my focus is on my work. I’m in the passenger side of the cab, head bent over a short piece of hard plastic that is serving as a makeshift workbench.
I finish my work and hold up the two earpieces, formed from some of Lara’s speaker components and parts I’ve scavenged from the drone’s wireless communication system. I have a decent mind for engineering and technical problems, but designing these from spare parts would have taken me weeks. Instead, I asked Lara-B to figure out how I could build them and she printed out schematics on thermal paper in about twenty seconds. The printing of it probably took longer than the time it took her to design them.
I hand one to James. They are identical—a speaker in the ear and a small wire and microphone that can be hidden in our hair. We put them into our ears at the same time. I adjust my hair but I’m pretty sure I don’t need to. The device Lara-B designed is incredibly small. James’s microphone is visible but just barely. With his unkempt brown hair—they must not have had a good barber at the Nebraska rest stop—it could easily be a loose strand.
“Testing, testing, one, two, three,” I hear in my ear. It’s Lara-B. There’s no voice in the cab. She’s speaking to us over the earpieces.
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