Overdrive (16 page)

I tap the screen. “The tires on the BMW are pointing slightly to the left. What if you and Mat push the Beamer? I think you'd get two, three feet before the wheels turned in toward the trees, which would give us some extra room.”

“Smart thinking,” he says.

Chelsea shakes her head. “So now we've gone from boosting two cars tonight to four? Great. What the hell am I supposed to do?”

I squeeze her shoulder. “Make sure we don't get caught.”

“Jeez, why didn't I think of that?” She slings her backpack over her shoulder. “How about I get you in the garage?”

“Or do that,” I say.

With the plan set, Chelsea and I slink up one side of the driveway, while Mat and Nick take the other. As my feet navigate the steep slope, I note the potholes, any potential obstacles. With the Camaro's low front end, a fast getaway might not be an option.

The music grows louder on our approach. Voices carry from around the side of the house. With any luck, the party will stay contained in the backyard.

At the Camry, I fish around in my pack for a Slim Jim to pop the lock.

Nick and Mat move into position behind the Beamer.

“You call those muscles?” Nick harsh whispers to Mat. “Time to hit the weights, bro.”

“El tuyo,”
Mat says.

Nick grunts. “Yeah, up yours too.”

The car nudges forward.

I get to work popping the lock on the Toyota. Wedge open the door. As soon as my ass hits the seat, I start unscrewing the panels on the steering column. My internal clock is already out of whack.

The panel pops off and I fish around for the nest of wires, careful not to do too much damage. The Camry isn't part of the bigger picture; it's a necessary casualty, though I doubt the owner will see it that way.

My breathing steadies, heartbeat regulates. I'm on familiar ground here.

Chelsea's champagne voice bubbles into my earpiece and for the first time, I don't flinch. I think I'm getting used to her being in my head. “BMW's out of the way,” she says.

I'm up.

I twist the wires together. The engine fires up and in one fluid motion, I cut the automatic lights, sit up in the seat, and shift the car from neutral to first. Press a little on the gas. The Camry crawls forward.

Nick waves me to the other side of the driveway. I ease the Camry out of the way, turn off the car, and yank the e-brake.

Two down.

Chelsea's already at work on the garage door.

“Find me a drill,” she whispers.

I root around in her bag to dig out the small cordless drill and a selection of bits. She chooses the smallest and sticks it into the center of the doorknob. The drill bites into the metal with a soft whir.

“Bigger.”

I choose the next size up.

Sweat beads across my forehead. When she starts drilling again, I glance around, nervous some drunk might come out of the house and catch us. The music blares in the background. I smell campfire smoke and a hint of chlorine.

When the center of the lock finally pops out, Chelsea drops it like it's on fire. “Motherfucker, that's hot.”

We push open the door and I shine a flashlight into the room. A beam of light lands on the car. Jesus. It's emerald green with black detailing on the hood scoop and along the side panels. The polished chrome rims sparkle.

Reggie is breathtaking.

Chelsea whistles low. “Looks like we know who the real stud in this group of seven is.”

“It actually hurts to steal this car,” I say, deflecting the seed of guilt before it can take root. To pull this off, I need to stay focused. “Dude's going to be shattered.”

Chelsea heads for the door. “Meet you at the bottom of the hill.”

I barely hear her slip away as I get to work. The music from the party fades into the background. I focus on the tasks, grinding through the motions of finding and prepping the wires. My fingers tremble.

This is my first official boost from this heist without Nick.

It feels good.

Like I've got back some control.

I coil the wires and the engine engages with a roar. Tools clatter on the shelves. The garage door rattles. My whole body vibrates with the power. I fumble around in the glove box and grab the remote garage door opener. Hit the button.

My pulse skyrockets.

I buckle in and put the car in gear.

The headlights flick on. I look up–

And freeze.

A blond girl in a black bikini stands in the light, her mouth wide with shock, eyes the size of twin moons. Panicked, I rev the engine. She dodges out of the way as I stomp on the gas.

The tires spin a burnout and black smoke fills the back of the garage.

Reggie bucks forward and hits the gravel hard. Rocks spray in all directions. I shift to second and the back end swings out before the tires grab.

I'm so going to die.

I angle the car between the vehicles in the narrow driveway, praying I don't hit a big rock or something that will pitch the car sideways. By the time I clear the last of the cars, I'm in third.

“Take a sharp left at the pavement,” Chelsea shouts in my earpiece.

The car vibrates. Every bump, every rock, sends a shockwave through to my arms. My fingers go numb.

At the bottom of the driveway, I crank the wheel. The back tires spin, jolting the car left. I regain control and let out a high-pitched whoop. Reggie's a bucking bull and I totally just nailed this rodeo.

Up ahead, Nick pulls onto the road in the 'Vette and we race along the Boulder Highway.

His low voice worms in through the Bluetooth, curls right under my skin. “Think you'll be able to keep up?”

I smile at the challenge.

On the first corner, I pull out alongside Nick and slip into fourth gear. “You know why they call me the Ghost, right?” Our eyes connect through the glass that separates us, and I can see the surprise. I feel it too. I'm slowly sliding into my skin–even if it comes with its own nickname.

“Because of your haunting personality?”

I stifle a laugh. “Nope. It's because I can disappear.”

With a wink, I stomp on the gas.

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

CHELSEA CHEWS ON ONE FINGERNAIL
, pauses to inspect the chipped polish, nibbles again. The action goes against her near-perfect nature, which is my first clue something's off.

Four days have passed since we delivered José and Reggie. With the Coronet literally in our sights–we're across the street from the house–I thought we were in good shape. How naive.

She focuses on the iPad screen, her eyebrows knit with concern.

The silence is killing me. “What's up?”

Her eyes dim, and I get it.

Adam's place is buttoned up tighter than the infamous Bellagio vault. Thick fencing surrounds the property, which is locked by a keypad Mat can't crack the password on. None of the number and letter combinations are working.

He pounds at the keyboard with determination.

Nick shakes his head. “All this for a fucking Coronet?”

It's not the best-looking car on the list, but the fact that it makes the list at all means it's more than just a
fucking Coronet
. The owner obviously agrees. “What are our options?”

Mat shoves his laptop up onto the dash. “More time?”

“We don't have it,” Nick says.

I scan the surrounding landscape. It's a rich part of town, on a cul-de-sac peppered with enormous homes. Streetlights and small bushes line the streets–not enough coverage for anything significant. We're out in the open, which adds another layer of complexity.

Time for plan B.

“What if we wait for the car to leave?” I say. “Boost it from another location. It's clunky, but maybe more feasible than this?”

Nick's reflection shimmers in the car window. His eyebrows furrow. “It's a stretch.”

He's not wrong. For all we know, the Coronet's parked in the driveway because it doesn't run. And that five-car garage is bound to house more expensive cars.

“Wait, it could work,” Mat says. He snatches his laptop off the dash and rests it on his knees like a security blanket. “Let's look at our intel on the guy. Dominic Harris. Not much for social media.” He looks up from the screen. “Normally that would bug me–everyone's on something these days–but he's older, so it fits. Divorced.”

“That's a start,” I say. “He on any dating sites?”

“One,” Mat says. “His tastes run young and blond.”

“Good luck picking anyone up in that hideous purple thing,” Chelsea says.

Plum Crazy. The hoops Mat jumped through to find this car almost justify the name. Hours of weeding through data, sorting through fake leads and dead ends. There's no time to track down another purple Coronet.

“It's Friday,” I say. “With any luck, he'll have a date.”

“Or, we end up staking out the place all weekend,” Nick says. “Waste of fucking time.”

My skin bristles. “Unless you've got a better idea, this is the plan. Let's give it till Sunday.”

His eyes darken. “And if we're no further ahead?”

“We talk to Roger,” Mat says.

“And say what? That we can't do it?” Chelsea shakes her head. “No way, José.” She pivots toward Nick. “Jules has the right idea. We'll tag team it, take some of the pressure off. Mat and I will take first shift. You and Jules go get some rest. If something happens, we'll let you know.”

I chew on the inside of my cheek. “You're positive this is the only local Coronet?”

“They only made two hundred and ninety-six hardtop
R/Ts,” Nick says. “It's damn lucky Mat found this one.”

“What if we skip to the Cosma Ray?” My voice lifts with hope. “It's not like we have to follow any order, right?”

I recognize the issue before Mat even responds.

“I've got a couple of leads on George, but nothing solid,” he says. “Still working on James and Eleanor, though. These last three are a bitch. I've made some modifications to the trawler, but it will take some time to sift through the data.”

I pat Mat's shoulder. “You're doing great, Mat. We'll try this. In the meantime, maybe we'll run across another Adam. Keep looking?”

“Got it, Ghost.”

  •  •  •  

I'm too wired to relax.

I pass by Emma's room and peer inside. She's down at the pool, but something about being in her space gives me comfort. The ballet slippers Nick bought for her at the costume shop rest on the bed. I can't stop staring at them.

As I sit on the edge of the mattress, I pick up one of the shoes. Emma's feet are small for her age, a size three or something. The satin brushes against my fingertips, drawing out the memories I've struggled to forget.

Tchaikovsky flutes, violins, and triangles ding in my subconscious. I used to be good. Better than good. Talented enough to be Clara in
The Nutcracker
.

My heart picks up speed as I remember blistered toes and crippling tendinitis, fighting through the pain because I knew the practice, the determination, would culminate in one magical performance that would make my parents proud.

Emotion chokes me.

I can almost see them sitting in the front row. Proudly occupying those same two seats at every performance. Tears sting my eyes. Dad used to bring me roses–white to match the color of my hair–with a fiery red carnation in the center. The heart of the passion, he called it.

Mom never brought flowers after he left.

And eventually, she just stopped coming entirely.

I swipe at my tears with the back of my hand. Jesus, when did everything get so fucked up?

My chest fills with sadness, and still, this nostalgia leads me downstairs to the ballet barre in the basement. I pause at the games room to watch Nick work out his aggression with a loud round of Need for Speed. I consider joining him, but it's not the physical release I crave.

I flick on the lights in the fitness room. Open the door to my secret ballet studio. My heart pounds with indecision. It's been years since I've touched the barre.

The soft theater lights glow, like a beacon drawing me home.

I touch the smooth surface of the barre with tentative fingers. Kick off my shoes and remove my socks. My reluctance begins to fade, replaced with the anticipation and adrenaline rush I've come to associate with boosting cars.

My leg swings up onto the barre. I point my toe, bending into a deep stretch. Muscle memory kicks in and fire erupts along my calf. I flex in. Out. Point long and lean. I extend one arm outward and catch a glimpse of my reflection in the mirror. There's almost nothing of the former dancer left.

Fresh tears brim in the corners of my eyes. The destruction didn't happen at once. I transformed slowly, my legs and limbs growing heavier, moving from light and airy to something . . .

Dark and dangerous.

The dance steps once meant to impress an audience–my parents–became the foundation for a new set of skills. Stealth. Agility. Focus. Fundamental components of dance now adapted for something far less noble.

I switch legs, lengthening my spine and twisting my hips outward. The knots in my muscles begin to unwind.
You've got this.
I unzip my hoodie and toss it on the floor a few feet away. My pale arms look like sticks in the mirror. I've lost so much definition.

Moving away from the barre, I take hesitant steps across the floor, mimicking an old routine I'd once practiced until the veins in my arms swelled and my toes jammed. I jump lightly, performing the simple chase, then bravely take the transitional step, drawing one leg up, toes pointed to touch the back of my knee. The French names of the moves float into my mind, Ms. Griffin's voice calling out each move:
passé, retiré, pas de bourrée . . . Julia, point your toes more, chest up, arms back.
I pretend I'm light as air, but it's obvious I'm out of practice. My movements are clunky, out of sync.