Overdrive (13 page)

“Don't be an idiot.”

I stare straight to mask my relief. But that's when I notice the red traffic light at the intersection ahead. A quick glance in my rearview tells me the cops aren't far behind. If I can hit the interstate before they catch up, we might have a shot.

“Five fifteen should be coming up quick,” Mat says. “Take the off-ramp to the right.”

I step on the gas. We punch through the light, leaving behind a stream of extended tire squeals and angry car horns. I crank the wheel right and we bounce onto the off-ramp.

Nick pitches forward. “Shocks could use some work.”

I round the corner so fast two wheels lift. It's probably no more than an inch, but my stomach leaps with a split second of fear. The tires slam back onto the pavement and I merge into traffic.

Nick lets out a whoop. “You did it, Jules. You lost them!”

He reaches over and squeezes my knee. His touch is unexpected. Electric.

When I glance over he smiles, a lazy grin that makes my insides explode and my chest bloom with pride. I take the car into fourth and roll down the windows, allowing the Vegas heat to blow through my hair.

Nick pulls away and grabs his cell. Speaks into it like he's on a walkie-talkie. “Everybody to the Trophy Case. We've got Jack and we're bringing him home.” His voice fades over the steady thump of my heartbeat. “I repeat, Jack is coming home.”

Behind us, the neon lights of the Strip disappear. A low humming vibration starts in my chest. I flick on the radio. Jim Morrison growls through the speakers about a “Moonlight Drive.”

I glance up at the overhead moon and grin.

  •  •  •  

Chelsea and Mat wait at the corner of I-95 and Kyle Canyon Road. Mat fist-bumps me through our respective windows, and Chelsea leans over the dash to give me a thumbs-up.

The air hums with excitement and relief, but as the adrenaline rush weakens, I'm starting to crash. “Roger know we're coming?”

“He's already there,” Chelsea says.

Figures.

This should be the easy part–drop off the car, cross Jack off the list, start planning the second grab. But my heart rattles in my rib cage like a window shutter in a tornado.

Nick picks up on my unease. “Home stretch.”

I can't risk looking at him, because the emotions I've stuffed in the back of my conscious come rushing to the front. At some point we'll do a post mortem on this boost and all the things that went wrong–we narrowly missed getting caught and it's because I couldn't get the car in reverse. I need to own that.

We roll up the windows and I turn on to the gravel. Flick on the high beams. The Super Bee sputters like it wants to go fast. As the awkward silence stretches between us, I focus on the road, on not beating myself up over the mistakes. It was our first boost together–no one expects perfection.

Maybe I do.

“You did good back there,” Nick finally says.

I duck my head forward so that my hair hides the side of my face. My cheeks catch fire. “You're a bad liar.”

His hand inches toward my leg, then pulls back before making contact. A hollow ache forms in my chest.

“We'll take this one car at a time,” Nick says. He's not angry or gruff, but some of the tenderness is gone.

Up ahead, Roger's car idles outside the gates of the Trophy Case. He barely acknowledges us as we slide through and drive around to the back of the building. Pebbles crunch under the car's wide tires.

A giant bay door creaks open and Roger waves us inside.

I inch forward, waiting for further instruction.

Roger circles the car, hands clasped together and pushed tight against his chest.

“He's so . . .”

“Touched,” Nick says, making me laugh.

Roger runs his finger along the hood, the side of the door, across the back. I shift, becoming more uncomfortable by the second.

“If he starts masturbating, I'm out of here,” Nick says.

I gag. “Thanks for that.”

Roger motions for me to roll down the window. Engine noise ricochets off the concrete walls.

“Park it over there,” he says, pointing to an empty stall in a row of similar-style cars. “Make sure you back it in.”

My fingers tense on the wheel.

“I'll do it,” Nick says.

Screw pride. I jump out of the car and stand next to Chelsea and Mat. The three of us watch in silence while Nick eases Jack into position. Roger stands ramrod straight, his hands balled into fists at his sides, arms trembling. He's like a fucking kid.

Nick hops out of the car and taps the hood. “Nice-looking car, Rog.”

Roger stiffens. “Indeed.”

He yanks a handkerchief from the front of his vest and crouches to get a better look at the bumper. Buffs out a speck of dirt.

“Car wash might be faster,” I say.

When Roger doesn't answer, Mat loudly clears his throat. “If that's everything . . .”

Roger swivels his head and stares long enough to give me the heebie-jeebies. Finally, he pulls an envelope out of an inside vest pocket and counts out some cash. I don't know what I expected–check, IOU, whatever–but at the sight of all that money, my pulse starts to purr.

“Consider this a signing bonus,” he says, handing off a stack of bills to the others. At me, he pauses. My mouth goes dry. “Good work, Ghost.”

The nickname lands hard.

I squeeze the money so tight, I'm sure my thumb will pop right through the center of the bills.

Mat tosses his money on the floor. “This wasn't the deal.”

“These things take time, Matias.”

Anger leaks into Mat's voice. “I suggest you work faster.”

I SPOT MAT HUNKERED DOWN
at a computer terminal tucked into the back corner of the public library. The place is massive, but aside from the couple copping a feel on the second level, Mat pretty much has the place to himself. Even the librarian's too engrossed in a book to notice I've smuggled in two cans of soda and a tube of Pringles.

Mat glances up before my ass hits the empty chair next to him.

I nudge my chin. “Check out Romeo and Juliet up there.”

The guy's hand is up the back of the girl's shirt, and she's grabbing his ass. I'm not one for PDA, but I guess Shakespeare really turns some chicks on.

“Tragic,” Mat drawls.

He's tucked into the reference section at the back wall with a wide view of the place. Through the bank of windows along the west wall, palm trees sway in a light breeze. Sunlight streams through the glass.

To our left, a mix of nonfiction books fills an end cap display, including a thick compendium of muscle cars. An angry-looking '69 Mustang Boss leaps from the glossy cover.

I set a can of soda next to Mat and pop open the chips. The pungent scent of vinegar makes my nose twitch.

Mat reaches for his Coke, eyes on the screen.
“Gracias.”

“De nada.”

He gives me the side-eye. “You're catching on,
muñeca
.”

Yeah, except I haven't figured that one out yet and I'm too stubborn to ask. I think it's the equivalent of “doll face,” but the bulk of my Spanish is translated from insults and swears.

I point to the screen. “Getting anywhere?”

Mat pushes back his chair, snaps open his soda, and hits the enter key. “You're just in time to see this thing go live.”

This thing
is a new trawling program Mat's created, designed to scour the Internet based on specific search parameters. With less than six weeks left to boost the remaining cars on Roger's list, the Darknet is our best shot at tracking down the Aston Martin and the Shelby. “You think this will work?”

He shrugs. “Got a better plan?”

Solid question.

I pull a spiral-bound notebook out of my school bag and flip open to the middle. I've documented everything we know about the last two cars, sorted into columns: James and Eleanor.

Mat takes a swig of his drink and wipes his hands on his jeans. He shuffles his chair, fingers hovering over the keyboard. “Let's plug in some data. Start with the Shelby. Color?”

I skim my notes. “Nightmist Blue.”

“One word?”

Fuck if I know. Mat types it in twice–one word, then as two–along with various other key words: Jim Morrison, The Doors, 1967 Shelby GT500, and so on.

I frown. “You call that discreet?”

“Trust me.”

He doesn't know me well enough to recognize that's a big ask. But if anyone's going to knock down my walls, Mat's got the best chance. He's got this calming vibe about him, like I could tell him anything. Well, almost.

Mat hits enter and the computer screen goes black. Slowly, a series of green lines scroll from top to bottom, picking up speed until they become continuous streams of neon gibberish. Every few seconds, a soft
ping
whispers through the speakers.

“What's happening?”

Pride seeps into his voice. “The program runs an initial filter, sorting through the information we've entered. It spits out anything unreliable or irrelevant and will eventually compile a list of sources that will require more checking.”

“You programmed this yourself?”

His dimples widen. “And you thought I was the weakest link.”

I punch him lightly in the arm and he pretend rubs it like I've hurt him. My chest fills with uncharacteristic warmth.

“But really, how'd you do that?”

He crunches down on a chip. “You want an instruction manual?”

“Seriously, dude. You're not nervous about getting caught?”

He pauses, scopes out the room with exaggerated left and right head turns.

Okay, I get the picture. Even the lovebirds sucking face in the Shakespeare aisle have vanished.

His attention turns back to the information scrolling across the screen.

I start counting the
pings
. Five, six . . . ten . . . “Sounds like we're getting results.”

Mat runs a hand through his hair. “I haven't quite worked out all of the bugs, so it's a bit hit or miss.”

I can tell it kills him to admit it. We're halfway through the second week of our deadline and still haven't landed a single clue that will give us the GPS on the missing Bond car or Jim Morrison's lost Shelby. Without those two marks, this whole heist is a bust.

Best not to go down that negative path.

I snag the muscle car book off the shelf and start flipping pages. The chapters are broken into profiles of famous car collectors–some sultan dude, Jay Leno, Clive Cussler, a bunch of other rich guys. They all own warehouses filled with high-end vehicles–Land Rovers, BMWs and shit–but a couple of Mustangs catch my eye, including a gunmetal gray Shelby.

“How many of these cars were even made?” I say with a groan. “There's, like, three of them in Roger's collection alone.”

“Ask Nick. He's your trivia expert,” Mat says. And then, “Unless you guys aren't talking this hour.”

At his knowing smirk, a blush rides up the side of my neck. Is everyone in on it? “Ain't that the truth?”

The librarian angles her body so she faces us. I shift the soda cans and chip container out of view. “Why use the
public
library?”

Thanks to Roger, Mat has three laptops at the mansion, not to mention an assortment of top-notch gadgetry that virtually secures his spot as the biggest tech geek in the universe.

“I'm tapped into the library's IP,” he says. “I've blocked the address, but I don't trust the trawler to fully stay under the radar. Like I said, I've been working on it a while, but this run is a test. If something flags, the IP leads here–not to Roger's house.”

A tinny beep makes him jump. He types something onto the screen. Waits.

“What's happening?”

“Absolutely nothing.” He slumps in his seat. “The trawler didn't work.”

My intestines twist. I rest my hand on his forearm. “We've got time. . . .”

But we both know that's a lie.

His bicep twitches. “The more time I waste with this shit, the longer it takes to find my family.”

“What a mess.” I breathe out. “How'd you end up here, Mat?”

“You mean instead of in juvey with the rest of the other Latino hoodlums?” It's not quite what I meant, but he chuckles. “You're not the first to ask. My last bust got me into Roger's Wonderland, but not before the cops threw my skinny ass behind bars. I spent an hour with some moron coming off a crack high.” He circles his finger around his ear. “Batshit crazy. Next thing I know, I'm being dragged out of the cell by some dickhead telling me it's my ‘lucky day.' Roger bailed me out.”

“You lived on the street before that?”

“Couch hopping mostly. Picked up odd jobs here and there to earn my keep.” At my extended silence, his eyes darken. I'm shocked by the change in his demeanor–different, hard. “You think I didn't try to make an honest go of it?”

“No, I . . .” My voice trails off. Hell, I don't know what I think.

“I got a job at a body shop, but I'm no Nick.” A shadow falls across his face. “And it's not like I've got any Latino brothers to lean on. No family business to work for. My
familia
dumped me. I haven't figured out how to make peace with that.”

A sudden need to protect him sparks a fire in my stomach. “Why bother trying to find them? They don't fucking deserve you.”

His smile is sad. “Do you know what the stats are on Hispanic adoption in this country?”

I shake my head.

“Low. And before you go blaming the government, that's not the issue,” he says. “There are fewer Latino kids up for adoption–it's rare. I need to know
why
. Why didn't my parents want me?” His expression hardens. “I deserve to know at least that much.”