I got back to work. One of the arms on the Gator had stopped spinning, so collecting the golf balls took longer, giving me even more time to think. All these months, I’d thought that Mr. Thurman was looking out for me and that Curtis didn’t care. Was it possible I had it backwards?
My eyes went to the back fence every time I made a turn. The area was deserted. I hated it when I saw Antonio with Garrett, waiting for customers, but I hated it when he wasn’t there, too. Because if Antonio wasn’t in Jet City, then where was he? And what was he doing?
I was nearly finished when a silver VW GTI came racing down Jet City’s main road, flying toward the back fence so fast that I was sure the car would crash right through and drive onto the range. Just in time, though, the driver slammed on the brakes. The car skidded across the gravel, sending up a cloud of dirt and dust.
Immediately four guys jumped out of the GTI. They fanned out, calling for someone, but the John Deere’s engine drowned out their words. One of them kicked open the shed door and pushed his way in. The others prowled the area, tossing the plastic chairs aside, tipping over the empty oil drums, eyes searching.
I knew in my gut that they were looking for Garrett. And looking wasn’t the right word. They were coming for Garrett. If Antonio were with him, they’d be coming for him, too.
I’d heard about the drug cartels down in Mexico, had seen on TV how brutal they were. I wanted to believe that stuff that bad didn’t happen in Seattle, but I couldn’t be sure. Antonio could be heading to the back fence right that minute. He didn’t know these guys were here, waiting. He’d walk right into their trap.
I flicked on the John Deere’s warning lights and drove to the back fence. When I neared it, I cut the engine, sounded my horn, and held my cell phone up so the gang guys could see it. “I’m c-calling the police,” I shouted through the metal cage that protected me from golf balls. “See. I’m c-calling them right now.”
They stared at me as if I was a lunatic. I didn’t care. I dialed 911 and put the phone to my ear.
Nothing.
Dead battery.
“Hello!” I screamed anyway. “I want to r-report—”
I didn’t have to fake anything more.
All four guys raced back to the VW. Doors opened; door slammed shut; the engine roared to life; dust and dirt rose for a second time. They were gone.