Phantom Wheel

by Tracy Deebs

  “Nope. Definitely not Zephyr—they weren’t near fast enough for that,” Talia’s husband says.

  By this time, my nerves are stretched to the breaking point. But Mad Max stays cool. “Really? I always thought that’d be a great name for a horse. My sister”—he nods to me—“would never go for it, though. She threw a fit until we named the horse Zinnia.”

  Talia’s grinning now, and so is her husband. “Zinnia’s a great name! Our kids went with Bert and Ernie, even though the horses were both girls. Those two loved Sesame Street.”

  My whole body sags with relief.

  “Bert and Ernie were always my favorites too,” Mad Max tells them. “I loved their shirts.”

  Then he makes a show of looking at his phone. “Oh man, my mom just texted. She’s looking for us. Thanks for the help, though. It was great talking to you.”

  “You too, young man. I hope you enjoy the show.”

  “Oh, we will. Absolutely!” He gives her a spontaneous hug that she returns, even going so far as to pat him on the back a few times.

  Then we walk away slowly when all I want to do is run until we make it to the only open building on the compound. It’s supposed to be for restroom use only, but I scouted out a room earlier that we should be able to use for a few minutes.

  “I can’t believe you got it!” I tell him as we settle behind the desk in the dark, so no one can see us.

  “Told you I would. But, jeez, do you know how hard it is to think up Z words on the fly? I was sure the zebra thing would work.”

  “It did—just on the wrong person.” I pull out my phone and send the audio recording to my laptop. Then I open my computer and pull up the sound software that will help me isolate—and combine—different sounds from Talia’s speech so that I can duplicate her verbal password: zydeco two.

  “Did you get the badge?” I ask as I start pulling apart the recording. I spent most of last night practicing, but as there’s nothing voice protected in Silver Spoon’s whole apartment, it was impossible to test my new skills.

  “I’m really beginning to get my feelings hurt,” he answers, dangling the badge in front of me.

  “Sorry. It’s just that we’ve got one chance at this, and I don’t want to blow it.”

  “I know. I feel the same way. Plus, Ezra and Issa already got their stuff. Can’t let them beat us.”

  “There’s no world where Silver Spoon beats me,” I tell him, and I’m concentrating so hard on what I’m doing that I don’t even realize I slipped up until he lets out a bark of laughter.

  “Silver Spoon?” he repeats. “That’s a brilliant nickname for Ezra.”

  “Yeah, well, he’s definitely got one. More than one, in fact.”

  “He really does.” He laughs a little more, repeats the name to himself three more times. Then says, “Hey! Do you have nicknames for the rest of us too?”

  I pretend to be absorbed in what I’m doing so I don’t have to answer. Well, half pretend. I need a long O sound and I’ll be done with zydeco—and there it is. Nope. It takes a minute, but I manage to isolate the O. Getting the P out was easy since it’s such a hard sound, but the N took some work.

  I’ve got it, though, and since Mad Max got her to say too, I should be able to lift that directly and—

  “You do! You do have nicknames for us! What are they?”

  “Dude, I’m trying to finish this like, yesterday. Can you give me a minute here?”

  “Yeah, sure, of course. Sorry.” He settles back against the desk next to me, muttering softly to himself. “Luke Cage… The Rock…”

  “What are you mumbling?” I ask.

  “Trying to figure out Owen’s nickname.”

  “Oh.” I go back to work.

  “Seriously? That’s all you’re going to say? Come on, just tell me. I won’t tell anyone.”

  The too slides into place just like I hoped it would. I play the whole thing back a couple of times, just to make sure the sounds all blend together.

  Zydeco two.

  Zydeco two.

  Zydeco two.

  “There’s too big a space between the words,” he tells me. “You need to smooth it out a little more so it doesn’t trip an alarm.”

  I shoot him a look. “You are paying attention.”

  “Of course I am! Unlike some people in this partnership, I can actually multitask.”

  “Multitasking is highly overrated.”

  It takes me about ten tries, but I finally manage to blend the sounds together perfectly. As soon as I do, the tension leeches from my shoulders.

  “Owen’s the Lone Ranger,” I tell him as I save everything and then slide my laptop into my backpack. “Obviously.”

  “Obviously!” he crows. “You’re really good at this. So, what’s mine?”

  “Like I’m going to tell you.”

  “Come on, I won’t get mad. I promise. Unless it’s like Rooster or something. Because that’s not cool.”

  “It’s not Rooster.” I head for the door.

  “Good.” He grins. “Okay, then. Porcupine?”

  I shoot him an appalled look. “Definitely not.”

  “See? As long as those two are off the table, there’s nowhere to go but up. Right?”

  “Sure.”

  “You’re still not going to tell me, are you?”

  “Nope.”

  “What if I guess?”

  “Yeah,” I say with a snort. “Because you’ve been so good at that so far, Porcupine.”

  “Hey, I didn’t mean for you to start calling me that.” He pushes the door open, waits for me to go through first.

  “And I didn’t mean for you to start bugging me about this, but we don’t always get what we want, do we?”

  “Maybe I should start calling you porcupine.”

  “And maybe I should start punching you in the face.”

  We walk out of the building, and I pause for a second to get my bearings before turning toward the meeting point.

  “Is it Spinosaurus?”

  “You have a real issue with that Mohawk of yours, you know that?”

  “Come on, Harper, tell me.”

  “No.”

  “Pleease.”

  “No.”

  “Pleeeeeeease.”

  I stop and look at him. He gives me his most winning smile. “No.”

  “That stinks.”

  “Not as much as you do… Porcupine.”

  “Haaaaaaarpeeeeeeer!”

  “Por-cu-piiiiiiiine.”

  We dodge a couple of kids more interested in their ice cream cones than looking where they’re going. “You know I’m going to keep bugging you about this.”

  “As long as you know I’m going to keep saying no.”

  “I’ll wear you down eventually.”

  “Every boy needs a dream, I guess.”

  14

  Owen

  (1nf1n173 5h4d3)

  “Are you sure that’s the guy you want to go after?” Alika asks. “He’s huge.”

  She’s standing next to me, her hand holding my elbow as we weave our way through the crowd. She says it’s for appearance, but I’m pretty sure it’s because she can’t walk over the grass in those ridiculous shoes she has on.

  Not that I don’t appreciate them, because they’re sexy as hell. Just like that dress. And I get that appearances are important—hell, they’re everything during a con like this—but still, it makes me a little uncomfortable seeing her dressed like this, because it’s so different from her usual style. Guys have been practically breaking their necks checking her out. Alika seems oblivious to it, but it’s seriously pissing me off, and I think maybe she’s just pretending not to notice all the lewd looks she’s getting.

  “Of course he’s huge,” I say as I guide her toward Michael Jenks. “He used to play for the Raiders.”

  “And now he works for Jacento?” She sounds incredulous. “As a security guard?”

  “Security supervisor,” I correct. “And not all
football players are loaded, you know. Or stupid.”

  The last part comes out a little harsher than I intend it to, and she must pick up on it, because her eyes go wide. “I’m sorry, I wasn’t implying—”

  “I know. Don’t worry about it.”

  Jenks is speaking into a walkie-talkie, his eyes constantly scanning the crowd for some disturbance—real or imagined. He’s doing his job to the best of his ability, but he has no idea what’s about to hit him. Or that hyper vigilance out here in the crowd isn’t going to save him—or Jacento.

  Part of me feels bad for the guy, considering the havoc we’re about to wreak on his perfectly planned day, but life is rough all over. Besides, when you work for a company like this, you’ve already sold your soul. Especially if you’re a security supervisor who knows way more about how things operate than the average administrative assistant.

  “Showtime,” I murmur to Alika as we get close. “You ready?”

  “Let’s do this.” Tossing her long black hair over her shoulder, she takes a few steps away from me, then spins in a couple of circles while looking up at the sky. “I love this song.” She glances over her shoulder at me. “Come dance with me.”

  I shoot her an exasperated look. “There’s no dance floor.”

  “Who needs a dance floor when they’ve got music like this?” She shimmies a little, takes a few rocking steps to the side. And plows right into Security Supervisor Jenks.

  “Oh, I’m so sorry!” she says, grabbing his arms to steady herself.

  Most guys’ natural inclination might be to help, but not Jenks. He’s too busy checking her out to actually play the gentleman.

  Gritting my teeth, I make my way forward, trying to ignore the way he’s looking at her—like she’s a treat he can’t wait to gobble up, despite the fact that she’s a good twenty years younger than he is.

  “You okay, babe? I told you not to wear those stupid shoes.” I glance up at Jenks like it’s the first time and continue, “Thanks so much for catching her. She insists on wearing crazy shoes to places like this and— Hey, wait a minute. Aren’t you Michael Jenks?”

  His eyebrows shoot to his hairline. “Yeah, I am. Why?”

  “Oh my God! Michael Jenks from the Raiders, right? You played for them from 1999 to 2010. I’m a huge fan!”

  “No offense, kid, but you don’t look old enough to be a fan of mine.”

  “Are you kidding me? My dad loves the Raiders—he took me to my first game before I could walk. And you were definitely one of his favorites. I knew all your stats growing up.” I rattle off a few just to salt the story, to prove that I’m the superfan I’m claiming to be.

  Then, because I’m also playing the role of concerned boyfriend, I glance at Alika. Check her over with my eyes. And ignore the uncomfortable heat that slides through my veins as she looks up at me with that beautiful face of hers. “You all right, baby? You didn’t sprain your ankle or anything?”

  “I’m good,” she answers, shifting her gaze to Jenks. “Oh my gosh, I just realized. This is the guy from the poster you have hanging in you room. Number seventy-two, right?”

  “Right.” Jenks’s surprise is fading, his ego taking over. Not that it’s exactly a shock. Most of these guys are the same once the limelight fades—they’re always looking for something to remind them of the glory days, someone to remember who they used to be back when they were “important.”

  Having grown up with a very “important” dad, one who people have done all manner of crazy things to meet, I know the syndrome well. But considering what that “importance” has done to my dad over the last few years, I don’t have much patience for it.

  Still, it’s going to get us what we want, so I keep my mouth shut and my annoyance on simmer. Buttering this guy up is totally the name of this afternoon’s game.

  “Man, you were such an amazing defensive end. Seriously, one of the best in the game. It’s a real shame what happened to you during that Green Bay game.”

  His face clouds a little as he remembers the game-ending knee injury. “Yeah, well, shit happens, you know.” His walkie-talkie goes off, and suddenly he remembers that he has a job to do. “I’ve got to get going. Hope you two have a good time today.”

  He takes another lingering look at Alika—one that makes me want to punch him in the face—and then moves to step around us.

  We haven’t gotten what we need from him yet, though, so I put myself in his path. Give him a look designed to make him feel like a god—the same look I’ve seen on the faces of my father’s fans a million times through the years. “I know you’re busy, and I’m sorry to even ask, but could you maybe sign an autograph for me? And maybe take a selfie with me? My father will freak out if I bring home a picture of the two of us. Like seriously, freak the hell out.”

  His walkie-talkie goes off a second time, and he looks torn. But the siren song of fame gets him in the end—just like it always gets them—and he grins. “Sure. No problem.”

  “That’s amazing. Thanks so much.” I pretend to fumble in my backpack, looking for something for him to sign, then come up with the specially treated notebook and pen.

  “What’s your name, kid?” he asks as he starts to sign.

  “Owen.”

  “Cool.” He signs with a flourish, and when he hands it back to me, I make a big deal of oohing and aahing over his illiterate scrawl.

  “Selfie time?” he asks.

  “Absolutely!”

  “You want your girl in the picture?” he asks as I crowd in close.

  The answer is no, I don’t want Alika anywhere near this guy who keeps looking at her with his horndog thoughts written all over his face. But that’s not part of the con, and two chances are better than one, so I bite my tongue as Alika smiles and allows Jenks to pull her close.

  “Of course I want in the picture!” she says. “I’m going to plaster it all over social media. My friends will freak when they find out I met a real, live professional athlete!”

  He doesn’t remind her that he’s a former pro, but then, it’s not like I expect him to.

  Alika cuddles into Jenks on one side while I squeeze in on the other. I press my free hand to Jenks’s back as I hold up my camera, hoping he’ll do the same to me. But he never does, no matter how many selfies I take, or how many times I clap him on the back.

  And when his walkie-talkie goes off a third time, he disengages from both of us. “I really do have to go now,” he says a little regretfully. “But it was so nice meeting you guys.” He punches me lightly on the shoulder as he walks away. “Keep it real, man. Keep it real.”

  “Oh, I will,” I promise like a total starstruck jerk, even as my mind is racing, trying to figure out what to do next.

  “I didn’t get it,” I tell Alika as she loops an arm through mine and pulls me away.

  “Maybe not,” she says with a grimace. “But I did.”

  “You sure? I was watching pretty closely, and I didn’t see him put his hand on your back either.”

  “Yeah, he was pretty slick about it, but then again, it wasn’t my back he was touching.”

  It takes a minute for her words to sink in. “Your ass?” I say as she starts dragging me toward the building with the open restrooms. “That jerk touched your ass?”

  The thought makes me see red. I turn around, scan the crowds, looking for his big head floating above the others, but the jerk is nowhere in sight. “I’m sorry—”

  “Why are you apologizing, Owen? You didn’t just maul me, he did.”

  “Yeah, but still…!”

  “It’s not the first time that has happened to me, and it won’t be the last,” Alika tells me.

  “That doesn’t make it okay.”

  “Of course it doesn’t.” Alika looks me straight in the eye. “I appreciate your outrage—I do. But we got what we needed, so let’s just keep moving here.”

  I don’t know what to say. Or how to understand that she can appear so calm about what just happened to
her. But it’s not about me. It’s about Alika, so I just nod and go along with it.

  She grabs her backpack off my shoulder and slips into the women’s restroom to change, leaving me staring after her.

  15

  Harper

  (5p3ct3r)

  “Where have you guys been?” Snow White asks the second we make it to the rendezvous point. “We’ve been waiting for you forever.”

  Mad Max flushes a little. “We’re sorr—”

  “We’re three minutes late, not thirty,” I interrupt, making a point of looking at my phone. “And we had a situation to handle.”

  Silver Spoon’s gaze sharpens. “What kind of situation? Everything okay?”

  “Everything’s fine. We just had to meet some clowns.” I nod toward the twenty-story building looming several hundred feet in front of us. “You ready to do this?”

  “Clowns?” the Lone Ranger asks. “You had to meet clowns?”

  “It’s a long story,” Mad Max answers. “I’ll tell you when we don’t have a state-of-the-art security system to hack.”

  “Make sure you tell me too,” Buffy says, bumping shoulders with him in that way she has. “I’m dying to hear about how you faced your fears.”

  “Yeah.” Now he’s full-on blushing. “That wasn’t quite how it happened.”

  “Yes, it is.” I don’t like the way he’s always so self-deprecating, especially since I’ve decided he’s the best person here. I know for sure that he’s better than me, anyway. “You were great.”

  “Great enough to—”

  “No.” I make eye contact with Silver Spoon, quirk a brow. “Shall we?”

  “By all means.” He waves an arm in a ladies-first gesture, and I step forward, more than ready to lead the way.

  More than ready to get this over with.

  It’s not that I’m nervous exactly. I may not have done anything like this before, but I’ve got total faith in my skills. I’ve even got faith in their skills. But trusting five other people not to let me down? Putting my fate in their hands? It’s hard, and I really wish that it was over with and that we were back at Silver Spoon’s apartment doing the postmortem.

  We keep it casual as we walk in a nothing-to-see-here kind of way. We’re just a group of friends in designer sunglasses and cool clothes, taking time out from the party to walk along the ocean—it’s a beautiful day, after all. The sun is shining, the weather is crisp but not cold, and the sky is a deep, unending blue. It’s a wonder there aren’t more people over here walking with us, really.