With is hands locked at ten and two on the steering wheel, Cash crept ahead at a snail’s pace. A quarter of a mile later, blue and red lights began to flicker behind us.
My heart shot into my throat.
I swallowed heavily. “Baker?” I asked, my voice tense. “What do you want us to do?”
“Nail this motherfucker,” he said.
Cash hit the gas. The SUV took off like a rocket. With the cop right on our tail, we shot through the neighborhood’s winding roads as break-neck speeds.
“I don’t know where all those go-fast buttons are,” Cash blurted. “You?”
With one hand gripping the “oh shit” handle and the other plastered to the dash, I glanced at the array of illuminated buttons. Covered with German’s universal automotive industry symbols, it seemed they were everywhere. I had no idea what they meant. They just as well been printed in Greek.
“I have no idea,” I replied. “Just keep this motherfucker to the floorboard.”
The exhaust from the 800 horsepower SUV bellowed as we blasted through the neighborhood with the cop right behind us. The winding narrow roads, abrupt turns, and poor street lighting prevented us from going anywhere close to as fast as the vehicle was capable of. Nonetheless, Cash managed to stay just a few feet ahead of the tailing officer.
“Get this motherfucker on the highway, so you can outrun that asshole,” I shouted.
A sharp left turn came up out of nowhere.
“Cash! Left!” I screamed. “Left! Left! God damn it, Cash!”
He screamed and yanked the steering wheel to the left. We nearly slammed into a forty-foot date palm before the vehicle reacted. Missing it by the thickness of a hair, we veered off the road and into someone’s yard.
The SUV fishtailed. The engine revved. My heart faltered. The vehicle slid out of control. Everything started spinning. What was left of my life flashed in front of my eyes. With screeching tires, the vehicle was thrust back onto the roadway. When the rear tires contacted the pavement, we damned near flipped over.
The headlights behind us went dark. The sound of steel crunching made me cringe.
“Jesus, fuck!” Reno shouted. “Cop hit that tree.”
“Thank fucking God,” Cash exclaimed, glancing into the rearview mirror. “What now Bake?”
“Get the fuck out of here. Take backroads home. Not the highway. As soon as you get where we can do it without raising eyebrows, switch the plates on this fucker.”
“Back to the legal plates?” I asked.
“Yeah,” Baker responded. “I’m sure he called in this plate number. They’ll be looking for it.”
The thought of driving the vehicle five hours or more through the backroads with our legal plate on the rear made me more nervous than I already was.
But Baker was right.
Undoubtedly, they’d be looking for the plate that was on the vehicle. If a cop saw us with that plate attached, they’d be on us like white on rice. If we switched plates, we’d blend in with the other five thousand BMW SUVs on the roadway.
“I say we take the highway,” I suggested. “We’ll blend in with the other BMWs. After we switch plates. If we take the backroads, we’ll be the only flat black BMW SUV in existence.”
“Good point,” Baker said. “Find a place to pull over.”
My mouth had gone dry. My stomach was knotted. I realized I still had a death grip on the “oh shit” handle and released it.
Ghost’s absence was killing us.
I closed my eyes. I wasn’t worried about the night’s botched job. Nor did I care about any upcoming jobs. All I wanted to do was make back to San Diego alive.
I needed to leave a note on the board at my newfound favorite diner, Abby’s Place.
From there, I’d decide what my next move was.
145
Ally
I parked my car on the concrete drive behind the house. As soon as I shut the car door, Goose shouted at me from over the roof’s edge. “I’m up here.”
I looked up. It had been less than twenty-four hours since I’d seen him, but he looked different. His face was gaunt and covered in a few days’ growth of whiskers. The skin underneath his eyes was dark. He needed sleep. Desperately, I might add.
“Coming up,” I said.
When I reached the roof, I gawked at the sight of him. Dirty handprints peppered his normally pristine white tee shirt. His jeans were covered in a light film of gray dirt, as were his boots. He was filthy from head to toe.
He came limping toward me.
“What happened?” I asked.
“Got everything cleaned up,” he said. “Worst fucking night of my life.”
“No. What happened to your legs? You’re limping.”
“Bad fucking night, that’s all,” he said. “Just got home, to be honest. Left a message at the diner, drove here, and walked up the steps. Haven’t even been inside yet.”
“You look like hell.”
“Feel worse,” he said.
“What happened? Did you get everything resolved?” I asked. “Everything?”
“Cleaned up one mess, and Cash made another.”
I was starting to not like this Cash guy so much. I walked up to Goose and gave him a light kiss, being careful not to get any of the filth that was all over him on me. “Seriously?”
He forced a sigh and then rubbed his hand over the top of his closely-cropped hair. “He’s a stupid fuck.”
“I was defending him the other day,” I said. “Now, I’m beginning to wonder if you’re right.”
He laughed. “I’m right.”
“What did he do?”
He shuffled to the bench, sat down, and patted the seat beside him. “Have a seat.”
I sat down at his side. He smelled like sweat and adrenaline. Like my father did after a big job.
“I guess I can tell you,” he said. “Not specifics, but some basic stuff on why he’s so fucking frustrating.”
“Okay.”
“Everyone in our little group has a specific strength. I’m good with guns. We’ve got a guy that’s good with computers. We’ve got another guy that’s former military—he’s good with tactics, making bombs, and all kinds of cool military-type shit. Anyway, we each gave our strengths.”
I looked at him and widened my eyes dramatically. “And Cash is good at being brave.”
He laughed. “He wasn’t very fucking brave last night. Or this morning. Whenever the fuck it was. Sunrise. Whatever time that falls into. He was screaming like a little bitch.”
“Why?”
“Well, for one, he damned near hit a tree.”
“On his motorcycle?”
“No, in a car. Truck. Whatever you want to call it. An SUV.”
“Cash was driving an SUV?”
He nodded. “Kind of. As best he could, anyway.”
“Were you behind him?”
“No, I was in the SUV with him.”
It surprised me that Goose was riding in a car. He hated cars. “Was Cash drunk?”
“No, just stupid.”
“Why’d he almost hit a tree?”
“Because he can’t fucking drive,” he said, his tone elevated. “And, it was dark.”
“Were the headlights off?”
He chuckled. “No. They were on. He’s just. Fuck, I don’t know. Ghost was our driver, and with him gone, there’s nobody left to drive. Not like Ghost did, anyway.”
I had no idea what a bunch of bikers were doing in an SUV, but whatever it was it looked like it was dirty work. My guess was they were burying a body in the dark.
It was almost ten am. If it took him six hours to get home, they were a hell of a long distance from San Diego doing whatever it was they were doing.
“You said you went right to the diner, and then came up here, right?” I asked.
He nodded. “Yep.”
“And Cash was driving in the dark? At almost sunrise?”
“Yep.”
“Where the h
ell were you?” I asked with a laugh. “Mexico City?”
“About as bad,” he responded dryly. “Fucking Bakersfield.”
My heart stopped. “Did you say Bakersfield?”
“Yeah, why? You ever been there?”
Two weeks earlier, I would have done what I always did. Skirted the truth. Through a series of carefully-worded manipulative responses, I would have left Goose thinking one thing while knowing his interpretation of what I’d said wasn’t the truth at all.
Now?
I wasn’t willing to manipulate him. Complete honesty was the only way things could work between us. I either had to trust him or walk away. I wasn’t about to walk away.
“Yeah, I’ve been there,” I said.
I left it at that, and then I felt guilty. I started to elaborate, but he interrupted my thoughts before I could speak.
“What took you to Bakersfield?” he asked. “Hell, you’ve only been here for what? Three months? That place is a shit-hole.”
“I went there for work,” I said.
He chuckled. “Went there to pick a pocket?”
“No.” I swallowed regret. “It was a bigger job than that.”
“Well.” His gaze fell to the toes of his boots. He rubbed his head with the palms of his hand. “Our night in Bakersfield wasn’t very fruitful.” He looked up. “How was your trip there? Fruitful?”
“I was there last night,” I admitted. “It was very fruitful.”
I held my breath.
His eyes widened. “You were in Bakersfield last night?”
It could have been coincidental. I doubted it. My mouth went dry. I swallowed hard. Twice. “I was.”
He turned sideways. Now facing me directly, his eyes went from wide to thin. Paper thin. “How big of a job?”
“It uhhm. It was big. Really big.”
He lifted one eyebrow. The curious one. “Care to elaborate?”
The only way things would truly work between us was for both of us to be brutally honest with one another. Keeping secrets, regardless of the reason behind them, was a recipe for disaster.
“We’re going to have to reach an agreement,” I said.
“What kind of agreement?”
“I’ve never talked to anyone about my work,” I explained. “Well, short of my father, and he was my partner. Or, I was his. I keep to myself and do my thing. If I’m going to talk to you about everything and be honest, entirely honest, you’re going to have to do the same with me. That’s the only way things will ever be on the up and up between us. Agree?”
He looked away. “I don’t want to lie to you. I just. I don’t think I can tell you everything.”
If he couldn’t be truthful with me about his endeavors, I couldn’t trust him with the details of mine. “Then I can’t answer your question.”
He looked at me. “Are you serious?”
“You either trust me, or you don’t,” I said. “Whatever you say stays between you and me. I won’t jeopardize my relationship with you—or yours with your men—by letting anyone know what we’ve discussed. You’ll have to agree to do the same.”
He stared blankly.
“You’ve heard the phrase, ‘there’s honor amongst thieves’?” I asked.
He nodded.
“Do you know what that means?”
He shrugged. “Never gave it much thought.”
“The Omerta,” I explained. “The code of silence. One thief will never reveal the activities of another. Ever. To anyone. There’s honor amongst thieves. I’m a thief.”
He studied me for a moment, and then let out a sigh. “I went to dispose of a body last night. I can’t tell you where, but I’ll say it went well. We went to do a job after that, as a group. This job included cutting into a safe and taking the contents. The only problem was that after we spent four or five hours cutting into it, it was fucking empty.”
I gulped a breath. “What uhhm. What time were you there?”
“Got there about one in the morning. Maybe a little before.”
It wasn’t coincidental. It was fact. We were both at the same place, with intentions of doing the same job. I simply arrived long before he did.
“Huge house?” I asked. “Driveway about a half mile long, lined with palm trees?”
His filthy face went pale. He swallowed so heavily that I heard it.
“I’ll take that as a ‘yes’,” I said. “Sounds like we might have been at the same place at different times.”
He seemed mortified. “I know you weren’t there for the contents of the safe,” he said. “Because it was pretty obvious we were the first ones to cut into it. What were you after?”
His tone was flat. He wasn’t upset. At least he didn’t seem to be. Shocked? Yes. Upset? At least not yet. Overall, I was pleased.
I reached for his knee and rested my hand there. “I manipulated his safe.”
“What the fuck does that mean?” His brows knitted together. “Manipulated?”
“I cracked his safe,” I said.
He returned a puzzled look. “Like, turned the dial and opened the door?”
“Pretty much.”
“You knew the combination?”
“I didn’t.” I drew a long breath and then let it out. “I figured it out, though.”
He coughed out a laugh that nearly brought him to tears. Tears that I imagined were a result of frustration. “You’re fucking serious?”
“My father was a locksmith, and a master at safe manipulation. He taught me. He could manipulate a lock in minutes. For years, he held the world record on manipulating a four-number combination lock.”
He laughed. This time without nearly crying. “There’s a world record for that?”
I nodded. “There is.”
“How long did it take you to crack it?” he asked.
“Fifteen minutes. Give, or take.”
“Holy shit,” he said.
I grinned a guilty smile. “I’ve got a gift.”
“I’d fucking say so,” he said. “That’s impressive.”
“Thank you.”
“What was in it?” he asked.
Showing him would fill him with the same elation I felt when opening it. “How about I just show you? After we’re done talking?”
“That’ll work.”
He turned to face the beach. He rubbed his head with his palms. Frantically. After a moment, he glanced over his right shoulder. “How’d you find out about this guy?”
I knew it would come down to that. This is where things got sticky. Porter told me about the job in confidence. Because he trusted me. I had no idea that he was planning the heist with a group. He hadn’t mentioned being part of a group, club, or crew. After his death, I looked at the job as available.
Furthermore, he hadn’t told me about everything. He mentioned the city, what the man did for a living, and the size of his home. It required a considerable amount of work and research on my part to find him.
Telling Goose how I learned of the job would go against the very code that I’d just sworn to uphold.
“I can’t say,” I said. “The certain someone who told me was one of us. A thief. If I divulge that information, it will go against the very code that I just swore to uphold.”
His lips pursed. He looked away and then met my gaze. “Did that certain someone tell you about it in the diner?”
I considered his question for a moment and found no harm in answering it. “He did.”
He nodded. “You were of the opinion it was a solo project?”
“I was.”
His gaze fell to his feet. “Fair enough.”
“Are you mad?”
He looked up. “Mad?” No. I’m not mad. I’m frustrated about last night. Fucking cops nearly got us. Chased us for a mile on the twisting roads out of that neighborhood. Cash can’t drive to save his fucking ass, and we damned near hit a tree. Luckily, the cop hit the tree that we missed. If it wasn’t for that, I’d be calling the diner and having tha
t George fella write me a note on the board to have you come bail me out of jail.”
“None of you guys are good drivers?” I asked.
He shook his head. “Ghost was. We’re good riders, not good drivers. We do small jobs on our bikes. Big ones, we take an SUV.”
“What kind of SUV?”
“BMW,” he said.
“X5M?” I asked.
“Sounds right. Fuck, I don’t know. Why?”
“Just wondering. If you want to go fast in an SUV, that’s a great choice. About as fast as it gets. Five hundred sixty-seven horsepower.”
He looked me over. “You know quite a bit about cars, huh?”
I shrugged. “Compared to most, I suppose.”
“What?” he laughed a dry laugh. “Was your dad a mechanic, too?”
“No. But we spent a lot of time at Lime Rock Park.”
“What the fuck’s Lime Rock Park?”
“One of the United States’ oldest race tracks. My dad was his own getaway driver until I got old enough to drive. I grew up at that racetrack while he practiced his driving skills.”
“Now you’re going to tell me you can drive as good as you can crack a safe,” he said with a laugh.
“I held the track record at Lime Rock in late 2005 and early 2006,” I said proudly. “Not many can outdrive me. Men or women. After my father died, I quit going. I can still drive, though.”
After a lengthy blank stare, he stood and limped to the edge of the roof, which was only fifteen feet or so from where I was sitting. He peered toward the ocean for a few minutes, and then tuned to face me.
“We were in seventh grade. It was spring, right before school let out for the summer. Ghost claimed his bike was faster than mine.” The corners of his mouth curled up a little as he told the tale. “Tito explained that they both had the same weight and rolling resistance, therefore, they were equal. Ghost and I argued about until we finally agreed to race.”
I had no idea where he was going with the story but decided to play along. “Who weighed more?” I asked. “Between the two of you?”
He laughed as if recalling the memory. “Ghost. He was eating cheeseburgers when he was a year old.”
“Okay.” I grinned. “Go ahead.”
“Ghost was sure it was going to be a lop-sided race. I thought otherwise. I convinced him we needed Tito to decide who won. So, Tito went to the bottom of the hill, and we were supposed to race right past him. Tito went to the end of the block and raised his arms. When they fell, we took off.”
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