Overdrive (14 page)

A fist squeezes my heart. “I'm sorry.”

The corners of his eyes crinkle. “Don't be. We've all got our shit. Done things we're not proud of.” He tosses some things into his knapsack and fake grins. “But we're screwed if I can't fix this program.”

I look away, afraid he'll see the doubt that's graffitied across my face. “You'll get it. Is there anything I can do?”

“Sure,” he says, nudging me with his shoulder. “Pray for
un milagro
.”

Mat's right–to pull off this boost is going to take one hell of a miracle.

The List

Jack–1970 Dodge Super Bee 426

José–1965 Corvette Mako Shark II

Reggie–1968 Chevy ZL1 Camaro

Adam–1970 Dodge Hemi Coronet R/T

George–1968 Corvette Cosma Ray

James–1964 Aston Martin DBS

Eleanor–1967 Mustang Shelby GT500

NICK CLEARLY ISN'T FIRING ON
all pistons.

Either that or he's actually crazy enough to believe we can pull off what he's proposed–two boosts in one night.

Using more traditional tracking methods–like hacking into the DMV and tapping car collector chat rooms–Mat has tracked down José and Reggie, the Mako Shark and the '68 Camaro.

Geography isn't the problem.

“Just hear me out,” Nick says. He worries his lip ring with his teeth. “We start with José. After we're in, Jules and I make the boost, while you”–he points to Mat–“and Chelsea head over to Reggie's. We'll meet you there, make that grab, and then follow you two to the Trophy Case.”

“You want to use a stolen car to boost another car–on the same night?” My jaw unhinges. “Are you a moron?”

The room goes silent. Anxiety builds in my chest like a volcano itching to blow. I flop into the oversize chair at the end of my bed and start working through the logistics.

It's impossible. Unless . . .

“What if we split up? Chelsea and Nick take one, Mat and I the other . . . ?”

Smaller teams decrease the risks, the potential for mistakes. Alone is better. That's where I'm most comfortable–calling my own shots, owning the consequences.
Not
having to lean on someone else. I guess working with Mat is the next best thing.

“I don't like it,” Chelsea says. “What if we run into unexpected security–something we need Mat for? Or maybe you guys hit a lock Mat can't pick? You and Nick have the same job, basically, but Mat and I can't double for each other.”

Still sounds like a bad idea. “Then convince me we need to do both in one night.”

“I could use the extra time.” All eyes land on Mat. He spreads his hands wide, palms up. “I might have a lead on the Aston Martin, but Eleanor? She's like a damn ghost.” He shoots me a wry grin and my cheeks go hot. “If we can pull off a twofer, it would buy me an extra week.”

I can't completely shake my sinking feeling about it, but Mat's logic is something I can get behind. “What kind of security are we looking at, Chelsea?”

She tosses her tablet onto the bed and calls up an album of photographs. I lean over the chair to get a better view. “This is where we'll find José. The garage door has a five-digit PIN which Mat has decoded using a simple–”

“Phishing scheme,” he says. His mouth curls into a crooked smile. “Turns out José's daddy enjoys playing online poker. I hacked into his profile and sent him a couple of”–he uses his fingers to make air quotes–“
important e-mails
to draw out the information I need. From there, I logged into his mail server. Found out the guy won almost ten grand on a full house not too long ago–nines and aces.”

“He's also a volunteer firefighter,” Chelsea says. “Mat figured nine-one-one would be part of the PIN.”

Mat clucks his tongue. “Nine-nine-nine-one-one, to be exact.” He holds up a rectangular device. “This is a remote PIN pad, which I've already precoded. Nick and I skipped out this morning and tested my theory. The garage opened. There's a gate, but the lock is fairly standard.”

Okay, so I'm impressed. “Cameras?”

Mat winks at me. “I hacked the server and downloaded twenty seconds of footage from last Wednesday. I'll disable the feed and set the canned film to loop.”

“Looks like you're off the hook on this one, Chelsea,” I tease.

“Don't worry, I'll earn my keep at Reggie's house.” She points to a second set of images. “If Mat cuts the alarm, I can pick the lock at the first gate here.” Her piercing knocks against her teeth. “But that's only the first line of defense. It's a hike up the driveway–which is lined with cameras and two roving spotlights–to a second gate. That lock has a Chubb detector on it.”

Nick snorts. “I doubt that means what I think.”

Chelsea rolls her eyes. “Easy, perv. It's a type of level tumbler lock with an integral security feature. The second it detects tampering, it relocks itself.”

My neck muscles tighten.

“I'll just have to figure out how to avoid triggering the automatic jamming mechanism,” she adds quickly.

I turn to Nick. “You're sure we can hot-wire these?”

He folds his arms across his chest and leans against my dresser. “Not the Mako Shark,” he says. “Even though the car proved unstable at high speeds–the nose is too low, the fenders too high–Chevy installed a sophisticated anti-theft system that we can't bypass. Not in this time frame.”

“Quit trying to impress her and tell her what we found.”

Nick flushes. “We zoomed in on the garage with Mat's binoculars . . . and the key for the 'Vette is hanging on a pegboard.”

I cough. “So José's almost in the bag. Tell me more about Reggie.”

He runs his hand over his face. “If Chelsea can get us in there, we should have no problem hot-wiring the Camaro. The trick will be getting it down the driveway without waking the owner. It's a long downhill, and this thing sounds like a jet plane taking off.”

“Didn't you say this Camaro was the fastest and most collectible muscle car ever made?”

“All things being equal.”

I grunt. “Guess we'll find out what she can do on a quarter mile.”

“How far's a quarter mile?”

The sound of Emma's voice startles me. I slap my hand against my chest. “You've got to quit scaring me like that.”

Emma smirks. “Maybe if you invited me I wouldn't have to sneak up on you.”

Nick reaches down and rubs the top of her head. “We're having adult talk.”

I bite my lip to stop from laughing. That tactic so isn't going to work on my sister. Her eyes narrow into thin slits. “Legal age in Vegas is twenty-one. Besides, I know you're talking about race cars. I like racing.”

Nick makes a face. “I've seen you drive.”

She crosses her arms. “Do you forget I beat you?” She spins around and points to me. “And you. Of course, you two were so busy trying to show each other up that my win was overshadowed.”

My voice cracks. “Emma!”

Nick doesn't flinch. “Are you saying I owe you a victory lap?”

“I'll take a ten-second car.”

My jaw drops. “Oh my God. You've been watching too many
Fast and the Furious
movies.”

“There's no such thing,” she says.

Chelsea pumps the heel of her hand upward. “Hell yeah, sister. That Vin Diesel . . .”

I shoot her a look. “Okay, okay. Now that we're all impressed with your racing skills, what's up, Ems?”

She lowers her eyes. “Can you spot me on the barre?”

My first instinct is to blow her off, until I realize how long it's been since we've spent time together. I've been so wrapped up in planning these boosts, I've almost forgotten the whole reason I took on the gig. One look at the ballet slippers dangling from her fingertips and a fresh wave of guilt floods through me.

“Just what this house needs, another diva,” Mat says. His dimples widen with his grin.

Emma's face brightens. “Someday, I hope.”

I stand and brush off my jeans, my thoughts conflicted. I'm happy Emma still wants to dance, that she's not too old to chase the dream. But being in that room–my reflection bouncing off the wall of mirrors–is a stark reminder of everything I've lost. The life I can't have.

For Emma's sake, I shake it off. “I think you were born a diva,” I tease. At the door, I turn back to the others. “I'll be back after I teach this kid how to pirouette.”

  •  •  •  

Emma bends into a perfect plié. Straight lines, impressive balance. I admit, I'm surprised. “Whoa, Ems, you've been practicing hard.”

Her cheeks turn pink. “Trying to.” She turns her head toward the wall of mirrors. “I know Roger built this room for you. . . .”

I shrug off discomfort, trying not to let her words affect me. “I don't mind sharing.”

“Especially since you're never here.”

There's an edge to her voice that makes me wary. No way she could know the real reason I haven't been at the mansion as much, but I don't like her guessing, either. Emma's insecurities always threaten to rise to the surface when she's in the dark.

Emma lifts her leg onto the barre and stretches. “Why don't you take me with you?” She bends forward, hand on her calf. “Like when you and Mat went to the library–you could have asked me to come too.”

The accusation threads into my bloodstream and quickens my pulse. “You put a tracker on me or something?”

“I hear stuff,” she says, and refocuses on her stretch.

“Because you eavesdrop.” Our eyes meet and I'm startled to see tears. A knot forms in my stomach. “That wasn't nice. . . .”

She shakes her head. “It's the truth.”

“You know you can ask me anything, right?”

I'm struck by how healthy she looks–thin but strong, her once gangly arms filling out with the kind of tone that will help her with dance. She pulls her leg down and shrugs.

The motion stings. Even with seven years between us, she's always been my best friend, the one person I could count on and trust. I thought she felt the same.

“Why don't you like Roger?”

I sigh. “He's just different.” The right words jumble around in my mouth like marbles. I can't lie to her–Ems and I don't do that, at least not outright. But telling her the truth isn't an option either. “I need more time to get to know him.”

Emma looks thoughtful. “He's good to me.”

That should be enough. Could have been if I didn't know there was more to the story.

“And sometimes I feel special. Important. Like royalty.”

I laugh. “That's good, right?”

“Yeah, but I want
you
to feel taken care of.”

I snort. “Don't need to be cared for.” Though a tiny part of me wonders if I do.

Why does it have to be so hard?

I reach forward and take her into my arms, run my fingers through her hair. It's been years since she let me touch her like this; lately she's been in that awkward preteen stage where too much affection isn't cool.

“I miss Mom,” she whispers.

Tears gather in the corners of my eyes as I fight to control the emotions. I want to tell her that our mother's not worth missing, that I'm doing the best that I can, that we don't need our parents, or anyone but each other. But I can't get the words out, because the truth of it is, I miss her too.

Emma breaks away and stands on her tiptoes to smooth away the tears running down my face. She kisses my forehead, like I used to do when she was upset. How did our roles get so reversed? “Everything's going to be okay, Julia. . . .”

I can't help but wonder if she believed me then any more than I do her now.

  •  •  •  

Chelsea's frustration fires through my Bluetooth earpiece like a series of short shotgun blasts. “Shit. Piss. Fuck.”

I'm not quite used to her alter ego, the rough and tough lock picker with a mouth like a truck driver jacked up on adrenaline. No wonder I don't trust people–is anyone who they seem anymore?

“This lock is being a real bitch.”

“And José was supposed to be an easy date,” I mutter.

I watch Chelsea and Nick from across the street, keeping an eye on the windows in the house for any sign of movement. We're already thirty seconds into this boost and not even through the first gate.

“Should we be worried?”

Mat slouches down farther in the passenger seat of the Civic, another of Roger's loaner cars. His laptop rests on his knees.

Annoyance chips away at me. “Hey. I'm serious.”

His voice drops to a whisper. “She'll get it.”

His laptop
pings
. I peer over the front seat for a closer look. Even dimmed, the screen's too bright and I squint to make out what the trawling program has dredged up. “James?”

“I wish.”

Movement across the street catches my attention.

“See,” he says. “Told you she'd get it.”

Chelsea swings open the gate. Nick sprints to the front of the garage. A motion sensor light freezes him midstep.

“Shit. Forgot to disable that.” Mat clicks on his Bluetooth. “You're good, Nick. There's no alarm. I'm looping the security footage now.” Under his breath, he mutters, “I hope.”

“You can't mess with me like that.”

Mat raises an eyebrow before entering the code into the remote PIN pad. The garage door slides open and Nick slips inside. My eyes flit from the front door to the garage, back to the house.

Sixty seconds.

Chelsea jogs across the street and hops into the driver's seat. She slams her head against the backrest. “Holy crap, I totally thought I was going to blow that.” She fist-bumps Mat and then twists around to me. “You good to go?”