I return to the couch, picking up my phone, no longer giving a flyin’ fuck that the Feds are reading our messages.
Me: You got this. And you got me.
I watch three little dots bobble across the screen before her response pings.
Arcadia: You got me too.
My body gets tight because this time when she says it, I feel it deep down inside. Despite the shitty hand life dealt me, and despite almost folding those cards so many times with my fuck it all attitude, I never ended the game, and now I got the ace of hearts in the palm of my hand. She’s my trump card.
The Pontiac GTO is a walk in the park. We watch from a strategic position inside the Subaru as she eases the car from the garage and down the short drive way. The owners are out. It’s a simple matter of getting inside their house and taking the keys.
That’s how ninety percent of cars are stolen, because people just toss their keys on the breakfast table, or the kitchen counter, or on a little key nook that hangs from the wall just inside the door. They don’t even think twice about it. They don’t think someone is going to get inside that quick and just drive on out with their car. But they do. Ace just proved it, driving that stealthy black animal out of the garage, the black paintwork gleaming as she pulls out on to the road.
“Dude’s running fifteen wide on the rear,” Fox says from the back, and my eyes drop to the tyres. They’re large, their tread thick and wide, making them able to hug the corners better because they run at a lower pressure. It plants more rubber on the road, making more contact and increasing cornering grip. Fuck me but I’m in love with those beauties. “She looks hot in that car.”
My eyes lift to Ace. She’s as catlike as the car she’s driving, dressed all in black and wearing a bomber jacket with the hood up, keeping her face in shadow. She looks smokin’ hot. “Keep your dick in your pants,” I mutter, watching as she drives down the street, brake lights red as she slows for an intersection before disappearing around the corner.
“You need to buy her a GTO. She belongs in that car.”
“She wants a Mustang.”
“Yeah Mustangs are cool and all, but that car is a beast.”
I shake my head. “The woman gets what the woman wants.” I glance to Mitch beside me. “We gonna follow?”
“No need.”
My gut gives a niggle. “We should follow.”
“We have another Fed on her tail, and we can track her movements right here,” Mitch says, pointing to the map screen on the dash and the moving dot. Ace is simply a blip on a screen. It’s not good enough. It’s not a camera.
Mitch checks his mirrors before pulling out on to the quiet street, doing a quick U-turn and taking us in the opposite direction. “She’s being watched, Daniels. Too many cars tacked to her ass will raise suspicion.” He looks across at me, changing gears, and it makes me itch to be in the driver’s seat so I can take my frustrations out on the wheel. “It was an easy boost. She’ll be fine.”
Maybe it’s because we’re near the end, or because there’s only one car remaining on the list, that my chest is tight. I sit in the passenger seat, quiet, rubbing at the beard on my chin. Minutes tick by as I try telling myself that everything is okay, that I’m just antsy because the boost went entirely too smooth, but I can’t switch the feeling off. It’s all just … wrong. “Nup.” I shake my head, even as the dot continues moving calmly toward the Marchetti chop shop, my unease overrides it. “Nup. Somethin’ ain’t right. Turn the car around, Valentine.”
“I’m not turning the car around, Daniels,” he says, accelerating through a green light. “They’ll check in when the GTO is delivered, and it’ll be fine. I’m not risking this operation because you have some random itch.”
“It’s not an itch,” I say, my voice beginning to rise. “My gut is telling me that somethin’ is wrong. Turn around.”
“I’m not—”
My heart begins to hammer like a hunted animal. Lightning streaks across the sky as though sensing my agitation. “Turn the car around.”
“Daniels, calm down.”
“Turn the fuckin’ car around!” I bellow, slamming my fist down on the centre armrest that sits between us, my breathing harsh and my blood on fire.
“Goddammit, Valentine,” Fox interjects from the backseat while a fear that I can’t even explain threatens to swallow me whole. “If Kelly says Ace is in trouble, she’s in fuckin’ trouble. Turn this car around or I’m callin’ in every goddamn Sentinel in the city, and I don’t give a flyin’ shit if that busts your operation wide open. We’re not risking Ace for your fuckin’ collar.”
Mitch’s lips press in a thin white line. He looks across at me. Really looks. Then he pulls up at the red light of the nearest intersection, hitting his indicator to turn back around.
I give him a short nod and sit back in my seat, feigning a calm I do not feel. Then the radio on Mitch’s dash comes to life. “Boss, we got a situation.”
Tension rises in the car. “Is this your boy on Ace?” I ask Mitch.
He nods and presses the button to answer. “Go ahead.”
“The GTO has a tail. It doesn’t look like Marchetti’s boys.”
“Did you run the plates?”
“Running them now. Stand by.”
The radio crackles before going silent. I swallow, my jaw tight as we wait. “Fuck it,” Mitch says and hits the accelerator. The Subaru shoots forward like a horse at the starting gate. We squeal through the red light, its back end sliding out as he performs a U-turn. “My gut is not liking this either.”
The car fishtails forward, leaving rubber on the road behind us as Mitch’s boy comes back on the radio. “Car is registered to a Michael Lincoln. Lives at 556 Banksia Road, Parramatta.” Who the hell is Michael Lincoln? “He’s clear.”
“Is Lincoln still on her tail?” Mitch asks.
“Roger that.”
“Then he’s not fucking clear, is he?”
Damn straight he’s not clear.
“You want us to pull him over or let it play out? Could be he just has a hard-on for the car.”
“Let it play out.”
The Subaru roars through a corner. “Play out? Play out? If that was your woman gettin’ tailed by some unknown, would you—” Shit. Fuck. Shit. Gabriella. I bang the back of my head against the seat behind me. As if that would knock any sense into it. “I’m an asshole.”
“You are an asshole,” he says, grim. “And yes I’d let it play out. Ace can outdrive anyone on the road. If she gets in any trouble, she’ll handle it.” As if on cue, lightning strikes again, shuddering the earth around us, and the heavens open. Water buckets down and Mitch flicks his wipers on. The blades chop back and forth as we streak along the road. “Even in these conditions.”
I open the glove compartment, revealing a forty-calibre semi-automatic and ammunition magazines, a two-way radio, one set of handcuffs, and a torch. Mitch is a regular boy scout. I know for a fact the gun is a spare because Mitch has his gun tucked into the back of his jeans. He looks across, giving me a warning glance. I don’t heed it and take out the gun.
The radio crackles. “Boss, Ace has spotted her tail. She’s speeding up.”
“Did Lincoln respond?”
“Roger that,” he says as we hit a stretch of traffic. “He’s still on her.”
“Man.” I grab at the back of my neck, failing hard at containing my stress levels. “I need my bike. I need my fuckin’ bike.”
“That’s it,” Fox says, sounding fed up and twitchy. “I’m callin’ it in.”
“Do not make that call, Fox,” Mitch warns, eyeing him in the rear-view mirror.
He shakes his head. “You can’t salvage this operation. It’s already in the shitter.”
Mitch gets back on the radio. “Pull him over.”
“Roger that.”
I drum my fingers against my leg as another minute passes by.
“Boss, he won’t stand down. We have another situation.”
“We have police flooding Marchetti’s chop shop. He’s getting arrested as I speak.”
He slams a hand against the steering wheel, yelling, “On whose orders?”
“We don’t know that yet. My gut is that Lincoln is an undercover.”
Mitch’s jaw works for a moment. “Dammit!”
“What the fuck is going on?”
“Undercover cops are issued with false identities and matching cars. That way if anyone runs their plates, us included, nothing gets compromised. We might have walked in over the top of their operation. If we did, it means we tipped them and now they’re playing their hand early.”
I’m literally gobsmacked. “How the hell can you not know about another operation?”
“Because whoever it is, they’re in deep. My guess is that they’re after Ace too. They won’t know she’s working on our side.”
“Jesus Christ!” I shout, hating how out-of-control of this situation I’ve become. All I can feel is fury, the taste of it bitter and harsh. “This shit storm is on me. You might have fucked this up, Valentine, but it’s my fault for bringing you in. Now I’ve got cops hunting my woman? I swear to God if they put her in a cell I will rain down Sentinel hell all over this city!”
I dial Ace’s normal phone. There’s no point hiding now, not with the cops storming Marchetti’s shop. I didn’t want her distracted for a single second, but I can’t have her thinking she’s all alone, that I’ve thrown her to the wolves. “Fox,” I bark as her number rings in my ear. “Call in the brothers. I want my bike.”
* * *
Arcadia
“Kelly?” I shout into the phone.
The rain is teeming down. I have a tail and I can barely see three metres in front of me. I should have called off this boost as soon as I saw the storm roll in, but half the time they blow right over, unleashing out over the ocean. Instead, I was impatient. We had two cars to go, and I was desperate to have them done with. I wanted that night with Kelly in front of the television every night. I was tired of being kept apart. Frustrated. Angry. And it made me reckless.
Kelly’s response is a crackle.
I put him on speaker and set my phone down in the centre console. “What?”
“Do…” crackle “…pull…” crackle.
“I can’t hear you!”
I glance in the rear-view mirror, the car behind me barely visible. Police lights start flashing from its dashboard. My chest begins to pound. The Feds would not be on me like this. I’m on their side. My eyes lower, checking the speedometer. I’m driving below the limit, safe and steady like I always do.
“Kelly, I have an unmarked police car on my ass! What is happening?”
“Ace…” Crackle … crackle “…pull over!”
“What?” I shout, my skin prickling with the heat of panic.
“Do not pull over!”
I stare ahead as the magnitude of what he’s saying sinks in. I have the cops on my ass, and he’s telling me to run. There’s only one reason why he would be telling me that. My belly knots with fear.
“I’m on…” crackle “…way, Ace. Hold…” crackle. “I’m … my—”
The call cuts out. Breathless, I grab for my seatbelt, making sure it’s clicked in place with trembling fingers. Then I put one hand on the wheel and the other grabs the gearshift. With a deep breath, I drop it down and plant my foot.
The GTO surges forward through the storm, my wipers going a thousand miles a minute. All I can see behind me is blinding headlights and a flashing siren, but their car responds, keeping pace.
I find the nearest intersection and turn, searching for back streets. My ride hugs the corners, gripping the road like a powerful magnet. I don’t know whether to head for the city where I can hide in a dingy alley, or find the nearest motorway and open up the car. All I know is that I can’t flip a coin. I need to decide now.
I glance across at the empty passenger seat, my heart giving a pang that Mason isn’t here beside me. He would know what to do.
The Chevelle, Ace. Don’t make the same rookie mistake.
Mason was shot because we were ambushed at the end of an alley. Split-second decision made, I check the street sign. I’m on Macauley Avenue in Bankstown. I need to make a right turn up ahead and the traffic light is green. My foot lowers on the pedal. The light turns orange. Fuck. I speed up, making the turn, fishtailing through the rain as the light turns red behind me.
I risk another quick glance in my rear-view mirror. The undercover car has driven through the red light. My heart thunders in my chest. The cop is goddamn barnacle, taking every risk to stay on me.
The drive is a smooth sail on the wider road. I shift my way through the slower cars, braking and accelerating, gears shifting as I put the GTO through her paces. The street sign looms ahead. Sydney Motorway 5. Left hand lane only.
I roar past another car and downshift, sliding into the left lane between a Mazda 6 and a Toyota Hilux. Both cars continue ahead as I take the exit, speeding down the on-ramp and onto the Motorway, merging into minimal traffic.
A text message pings on my phone. I grab it, reading the screen.
Kelly: Stay on the M5
I exhale a deep, shaky breath as I set the phone back down, my eyes on the long road ahead of me and my pursuer still behind me. Five minutes pass, five minutes of me angry at myself, cursing, and coming to the stomach-sinking realisation that I need to pull over.
The AFP might have honoured my deal, but these clearly aren’t the Feds. And Kelly might be on his way, but he won’t catch me. It’s not right for me to rely on him, or anyone else, to save me from this mess. The choices I made brought me here. It’s only right I take responsibility for them.
Another on-ramp looms head. The rain begins to ease as two police cars shoot down it, reaching me at the same time I pass. One of them doesn’t account for the slippery conditions and clips my back end.
I grapple with the wheel as the GTO skids sideways. The tyres catch loose gravel and I spin, the world flying dizzyingly around me in slow motion. Blood roars in my ears and trees come at me with powerful speed. The scream and grinding crunch of metal deafens me, the impact bringing the dashboard toward my face. My head slams into the wheel and I lose consciousness.
“Step out of the car!”
My eyes blink open, my head throbbing. I bring a trembling hand to my face, pieces of smashed glass scattering everywhere as I touch it to my forehead. I pull it away, seeing two bloody palms swim in my vision.
“Step out of the car!” someone shouts again.
I take in a shuddery gasp, trying to fill my lungs as I fumble for the handle of the door. It opens with a jerky, grinding motion. I go to step out and jerk back in my seat. My head swims as I look down. My seat belt is holding me in place. I swallow, tasting blood as I unclip it.
My body freed, I step out of the car, my legs unsteady and my stomach lurching. Light rain pelts my face, mingling with the blood and glass, trailing it down my cheeks. It drips to my clothes as I squint, blinded by the headlights pointed in my direction.
Someone steps toward me, walking slowly, gun pointed at my head. “On your knees.” It’s a female voice. I blink as she gets closer. “On your knees now! Hands behind your head!”
I sink slowly, lowering one knee to the rocky ground. The other follows, and I sway, woozy as I place both hands to the back of my head. The light at the end of the tunnel darkens, closing in as she steps in front me, gun pointed in my face.
Sobs rise in my chest. I hold them back. Do not cry. Do not fucking cry. I lift my chin, my eyes slowly rising, blinking against the drenching rain. I encounter tight black jeans, a police badge tucked into the waistband. My eyes lift higher, skimming a wet black tank top, until I reach her face.
My eyes widen in shock, my voice a croak. “Murphy?”
A man steps up beside her, his gun pointing at my head while Murphy tucks hers into the back of her jeans, her
hands coming away with a set of handcuffs. My eyes shift to his, and I blink against the rain, my heartbeat erratic as his face swims into focus. It’s Miles Howard.
31
Arcadia
“Is this some kind of personal vendetta?” I say to Miles, my voice a rasp and my wrists handcuffed behind my back. He grabs my arm and drags me to my feet, pushing me toward their car. Murphy walks ahead of us, opening the back passenger door. “Because I did the time for your piece of shit Camaro.”
Miles shoves me inside. I fight a wave of dizziness and glare, straightening in the seat. He’s grown taller, wider, his eyes dark brown and surly. He ducks his head, leaning in. “You think I have a personal vendetta? I might have you to thank for helping me find a career where I can take scum like you from the streets, but it doesn’t mean I’m going to kick back and watch you run loose all over Sydney. Once a thief, always a thief.” He arches a brow. “Isn’t that what they say?”
“I have a deal with the AFP, you imbecile,” I hiss.
Miles straightens, a smirk playing on his lips, so cool and smarmy I want to slap it off. The bully inside him has never left. “I don’t care about your deal with the AFP. I have no intention of honouring it. They were moving in over the top of our operation, so we’re taking Marchetti out tonight, and you along with him. You’re in my jurisdiction now, Jones.”
He shuts the door and walks around the front of the car. He slides in the driver’s side while Murphy seats herself in the passenger seat in front of me. I scowl at her back and it hurts my head. Traitorous cow.
She half turns. “You okay, Ace?”
The Thief Page 31