Phantom Wheel

by Tracy Deebs

  “Sounds hard,” Seth tells me.

  “Turn in right up there,” Ezra orders all of a sudden, and I look up to see a huge parking garage looming in front of us.

  “Dude, you really want to trap us in another high rise?” I ask.

  “Do it!” he orders Alika when she hesitates, and she swings us into the entry lane way too fast.

  “Go, go, go,” he says, and for the second time today she flies right through the red-and-white arm that’s meant to block traffic.

  “I don’t even want to know how much damage we’re causing,” Harper says when she finally peels her hands away from her eyes.

  “So much,” I tell her.

  “Pull into the first available parking spot,” Ezra tells Alika as she barrels up the ramp. “And for God’s sake, close the stupid sunroof.”

  Without a word, Seth reaches over and pushes the button.

  “Be ready to move,” Ezra continues.

  Moments later, Alika pulls into a parking spot.

  “Get to the stairwell!” he orders. “Go, go, go.”

  The others take off running as soon as their feet hit the ground, but he stops at the back of the SUV. After a moment I figure out what he’s doing and pull out my Swiss Army knife and use the screwdriver to go to work on the license plate of the car three down from ours.

  “Get moving!” he hisses at me as he works on the SUV’s license plate.

  “I will, as soon as you do,” I answer.

  “Come on, guys!” Harper shouts. “They’re coming!”

  Sure enough, I can hear an engine racing and brakes squealing on the level below us. “One screw should be enough,” he says. “Just enough to hold it in place.”

  “On it,” I answer, as we switch places. I screw the new license plate onto the SUV as he does the same to the black Jeep I took it from. But by the time we’re done, one of the SUVs that was chasing us comes racing around the corner of the parking garage.

  With no time to run, I do the only thing I can: drop to the ground and scoot under the car next to ours. A quick glance at Ezra tells me he’s doing the same thing with the Jeep.

  Within seconds, the two big Navigators squeal to a stop behind the Escalade. But a quick license plate check has them screaming away, aiming for the next up ramp.

  By unspoken agreement, Ezra and I wait until they squeal around the corner at the end of the aisle. As soon as they do, we’re up and running full out for the stairwell.

  “What the hell!” Issa says, grabbing both of us and practically pulling us down the stairs behind her. “Don’t ever do that again! You scared me to death.”

  We’re too busy running to answer. When we get down the second flight of stairs, Ezra takes the lead. “We need to get three blocks down,” he says as he races across the busy street, dodging cars as he goes.

  The others take off after him, and I grab Alika, who has all but stopped dead on the sidewalk outside the garage.

  “What’s wrong?”

  “I can’t jaywalk!” she hisses at me.

  “Are you freaking kidding?” I look at her like she’s crazy. “You just broke every traffic law in existence, and now you’re worried about jaywalking?”

  “It’s not the same thing.”

  “Maybe not, baby, but we got to go.” The endearment slips out, but I don’t bother worrying about it as I grab her wrist and gently pull her toward the street. “They could come out of that garage at any minute, and we need to not be out here where they can see us.”

  Her eyes meet mine, and for the first time since this insane ride began, I see fear there. Like real, honest-to-God fear. Because she has to cross the street against traffic. It doesn’t make sense.

  She doesn’t budge. “Come on, Alika. Trust me. I swear I’ve got you.”

  “My sister was killed jaywalking,” she says after a few tense seconds. “She took off before the light, and some guy in an SUV…” Her voice breaks and she doesn’t say any more.

  But then, she doesn’t have to. It will cost precious seconds that we don’t have, but I’m not going to fight her. Not after she told me something like that. Besides, it’s pretty obvious she’s not crossing this street here, and it’s just as obvious—to me, anyway—that I’m not going to leave her.

  “Come on. Let’s go to the corner. We’ll cross at the light.”

  “No, go ahead,” she tells me. “I’ll just—”

  “It’s fine. Come on. Let’s get moving.”

  Up ahead, Ezra’s looking back at us like we’re crazy. But I ignore him and angle my body so that Alika can do the same.

  “I’m really sorry,” she says when we get stuck at the corner, waiting for the light to change.

  “No big deal,” I tell her. “They’re waiting for us.” Which they are. Impatiently.

  The WALK sign flashes, and we take off at a run, making it down the block fast enough to cross the second street too, before the light changes again.

  “What the hell was that about?” Ezra demands when we finally catch up to the others.

  “Don’t worry about it,” I tell him. I glance past them, trying to figure out where we’re going.

  “BART,” Harper quietly answers my unasked question.

  Right. The train. Of course. “Smart.”

  “Occasionally,” Ezra answers with a raised brow.

  We head inside, but as we stop at the machine to buy tickets, I notice a transit cop nearby. He doesn’t seem to be paying any attention to us, but I keep an eye on him anyway.

  “Keep your heads down,” I tell the others out of the corner of my mouth as we wait for our turn at the machines. It takes a few minutes, but finally we make it to the machine.

  Trying to speed things up, I buy all six tickets, then wait impatiently for the stupid things to print. It seems to take forever, especially when I notice that the cop has pulled out his radio and is talking into it.

  No big deal, I tell myself. It doesn’t mean anything. But then he turns and circles back around, hand on the butt of his gun, and I start to get nervous. Really, really nervous.

  And that’s before I realize he’s headed straight toward us.

  21

  Harper

  (5p3ct3r)

  “What are we going to do?” I ask the others almost soundlessly.

  I’m trying not to look at the police officer, but I can’t help it. It’s like I’m hypnotized by the sway of his walk, my head turning a little more with each step he takes in an effort to keep him in my peripheral vision.

  Panic is a sick ball in my stomach, short-circuiting my brain and turning me into a sweaty, shaky mess. I can’t get arrested. I just can’t.

  If I do, I’ll go back into the system for sure.

  Yeah, I have a pretty decent fake ID on me, but fingerprints don’t lie. And once they figure out who I am, even if they don’t send us straight to jail, they’ll send me back into the Las Vegas foster-care system, and I just can’t do that. Not ever again.

  I learned to hack so I could change my records and get myself out of that system. And after years on my own—free from the never-ending cycle of one horrible house after another—I can’t go back to it. I won’t go back.

  Now that we have a little downtime, a few moments to think, it’s sinking in, in a way that it didn’t back at Jacento headquarters or even during the car chase. My panic turns to living, breathing terror as the cop gets closer and closer… and closer.

  We need to run, the little voice in the back of my head says. We need to flee and never look back. But where do we go? How do we get away? The SUVs are probably back to patrolling the street by now, and even if they aren’t, the cops probably are.

  And now that this guy has made us, even if we try to leave, he can tell them exactly where we’re starting out.

  We’re screwed.

  Totally and completely screwed.

  “Come on,” Silver Spoon says quietly as our last ticket falls into the chute. “Let’s just start walking toward the tr
ain, see what happens.”

  “What’s going to happen is that cop is going to slap handcuffs on one of us,” Buffy tells him. But she doesn’t have a better idea to volunteer—none of us does—so she follows directions. She starts walking toward the turnstile like she doesn’t have a care in the world. Certainly not like she’s being stalked by a transit cop.

  Soon, we’re all doing the same… more from lack of any other ideas than because we think just walking away is going to work.

  I don’t look back the whole way to the turnstile, but when we get in line to scan our tickets, I squat down and pretend to tie my shoe… and subtly glance at the cop who has been on our tail.

  I freeze when I realize that he’s been joined by two more officers… and that they’re heading our way, this time with a much more purposeful step.

  “Come on, come on, come on,” the Lone Ranger whispers to himself as he waits his turn. We’ve divided up two to a turnstile, and I’m with him, waiting impatiently for the tourists in front of us to figure out how to use the stupid scanner and move the hell along.

  It only takes a few seconds, but with the police bearing down on us, it feels like forever.

  Finally, it’s our turn. The Lone Ranger jams his ticket in, the thing beeps, and the gate retracts to let him through. Then it’s my turn, and somehow eternity doubles.

  “What are they waiting for?” Snow White asks once we’ve all made it through the turnstiles and are on the escalator down to the train platform. “If they’re going to grab us, why don’t they do it now?”

  “The crowd’s often thinner on the platforms,” Silver Spoon answers. “They probably want to get us away from the herd, where we can cause the least amount of damage.”

  “That doesn’t really make sense, though, does it?” Buffy tells him. “Maybe we’re just being paranoid.”

  “Yeah, because the fact that there are now three policemen following us is totally normal, right?” The Lone Ranger shakes his head.

  “What do we do?” I am trying to fight down the sickness churning deep inside me. I can’t believe how bad this has gone—and how fast. “What do we do?”

  “I don’t know,” Silver Spoon says. “But follow me and I’ll try to think of—”

  “No,” Mad Max interrupts, speaking up for the first time. “Follow me.”

  And at that, he starts moving quickly toward one side of the platform. It’s crowded, and I wonder if he thinks we’re going to lose ourselves in the people milling around. I don’t think it’s going to work—the crowd’s not that heavy, and I can see the police officers surging ahead, like they’re trying to cut us off.

  But at that moment, a train comes rumbling into the station. That’s when Mad Max yells, “Run, now!” and takes off in the opposite direction—toward a much less crowded part of the platform.

  I don’t think; I just follow him—the others hot on our heels—as he vaults a bench. Since I’m not as graceful, I do more of a scramble over it, but the result is the same. We hit one of the entrances just as the train comes to a stop right in front of it.

  Behind us, the cops are yelling for us to stop, but it’s too late. There’s a crowd of people between them and us, and the train doors are already opening.

  We slide in the back car, then start moving fast between the cars, putting as much distance between the cops and us as we can. They might be bogged down for now, but who knows how long that’s going to last? I don’t know what we’re going to do if they manage to get on the train.

  One step at a time, I tell myself as we finally make it to the first car. One step at a time.

  A warning to stand away from the doors comes through the train’s overhead system, and then the doors are closing and the train is taking off. I stumble at the abrupt change and grab one of the overhead rails as I glance out the window and realize that somehow we managed to leave all three cops behind.

  “How’d you know?” Buffy asks as we speed into the sheltering darkness of a tunnel. “How’d you figure out where the train was going to stop?”

  “No big mystery,” Mad Max answers, holding up his phone. “I pulled up the schedule and just took a gamble.”

  “Yeah, well, it paid off.” The Lone Ranger claps him on the back. “You saved us back there.”

  Mad Max grins. “Just returning the favor, man.”

  “What train are we on?” Silver Spoon wonders suddenly. “How long before the next stop?”

  “Does it matter?” Snow White asks.

  “Yeah, it matters,” he tells her. “You think they’re just going to let us get away? They know what train we’re on and where it’s going next. They’ll be at the next station waiting for us.”

  “So we just won’t get off,” Buffy suggests.

  “Yeah,” I say as Silver Spoon’s point sinks in, “but that won’t stop them from getting on.”

  The Lone Ranger is already whipping out his computer. “How long do we have, Seth?”

  “We actually got really lucky,” he answers. “We’re on one of the outside lines, so we’ve got twenty-seven minutes before we stop. Well, twenty-five now.”

  “Okay.” The Lone Ranger ducks his head and gets to work, his fingers flying over the keys faster than I’ve ever seen. I’m one of the fastest code writers I know, but he leaves me in the dust. “I got this.”

  “What are you doing?” Snow White asks, crowding close to look at his screen.

  He glances around the half-full car, then lowers his voice. “I’m going to hack into the BART system and stop the train before it gets to the station.” He nods to Mad Max. “Do me a favor and Google Earth this route. Find me a good place to stop in the last six or seven minutes of this leg. I’ll need at least that long to do the hack.”

  “What if you can’t?” Snow White demands. “What then?”

  “Then we’re all screwed, so let’s think positive for a few minutes, okay?”

  “Can I help?” I ask, reaching for my own laptop.

  “I’m just trying to brute-force the password—if you want in on it, feel free.”

  “I’ve got a bad feeling about this,” Silver Spoon says, and he looks more on edge than I’ve ever seen him.

  “Stopping the train?” the Lone Ranger asks. “Because if there’s something else you want to try—”

  “No, not that. Just… I don’t know.” He shakes his head, steps back. Then he pulls a gray hoodie out of his backpack—the first time I’ve seen him open the bag all day—and quickly exchanges it for the shirt he’s wearing before adding a skullcap beanie and pulling it low on his forehead. “Just keep doing what you’re doing. I’m going to go take a look around.”

  We all look at him like he’s lost his mind. “For what?” Buffy asks.

  “I don’t know. I just… I don’t know.”

  It’s the most indecisive—and inarticulate—I’ve ever seen him. Which sets off warning bells all over my brain. “You’re really freaked out, aren’t you?”

  “Not freaked out. Just… I don’t know, I’ll feel better once I get a look around. I just feel like that escape was too easy back there.”

  “Too easy?” Snow White whisper-yells. “Are you kidding me?”

  “Not from Jacento. From the train station. I just—”

  “Well, I’m going with you,” Buffy says, then holds her hand out to Mad Max. “Give me your hoodie.”

  “Ummm, okay.” He starts to dig through his backpack, but Silver Spoon stops him.

  “Don’t bother. I’m probably just being paranoid.”

  “Yeah, well, I like paranoid,” Snow White says as she yanks the beanie off his head and pulls it down over her long hair before popping her hood back up. “So let’s go look around. Maybe we’ll find out what’s giving you the heebie-jeebies.”

  “Do you want me to come too?” asks Mad Max.

  “I don’t want anyone to come!” Silver Spoon sounds totally exasperated. “But definitely not the three of you—keep doing what you’re doing. It’s way mo
re important.”

  “You sure?” the Lone Ranger asks, eyes narrowed as he studies Silver Spoon’s face. Silver Spoon stares back at him, and I’m not sure what kind of silent guy communication is going on between them, but after about thirty seconds they both kind of nod and get on with their business.

  “Hey, Harper,” the Lone Ranger says after the others leave the car, “I think I’ve found a back door into the signaling system. I’m going to work on blowing it up, but can you do some research on the schematics of the trains? See what it’ll take to get the doors open?”

  “Won’t they open automatically when the train stops?” Mad Max asks.

  “Yeah, probably. I just want to be sure we’ve got it.” He sounds so casual that I know something is up. I glance at Mad Max, and the worried look on his face says the same thing—there’s something the Lone Ranger isn’t telling us.

  A part of me wants to call him on it, but we don’t have time for that right now. Besides, if this has anything to do with Silver Spoon’s hunch, I figure we’ll find out soon enough—one way or the other.

  So I don’t say anything. I just duck my head and get to work pulling up train schematics from the manufacturer. Turns out, though, BART runs trains from five different manufacturers. Since I don’t have a clue which kind of train we’re on, I’m not going to be able to get much done.

  I move to the back of the car and start looking for any kind of logo or insignia, something that might tell me who made this train. Unfortunately, there’s nothing except BART information, which is not what I need.

  But as I head back to my seat, I see a small amount of raised text along the bottom of the door. Squatting down to get a closer look, I realize it’s a gear with the word BOMBARDIER written across it. According to Wikipedia, that’s one of the most recent train manufacturers for BART, so I’m going with it.

  Three minutes later I’ve got the schematics to the train pulled up. The only problem? They’re in freaking German. I pull up Google Translate on a split screen and google just enough to know what words to look for on the graphics. But the clock is ticking. We’re moving fast, covering a lot of ground, but I’m not sure it’s fast enough.