EIGHT MINUTES to find a needle in a haystack.
Car horns blared as Deondre steered the Vespa through another red light, swerving to avoid cross traffic.
“Slow down!” Strawberry shouted. She sat behind Deondre on the bike. “If we crash—”
“Go faster,” I said. Like before, I sat between Deondre’s legs in the front, my pack swiveled around in front of me, one hand on the handlebar and the other clinging to the tablet. I’d linked the device to my smartphone so I could continue to monitor the streaming feed from the auction site. My dad’s face stared back at me on the screen. “Faster!” I repeated.
Deondre gunned the engine, Strawberry squeaked, and Jazz and Simon pulled up alongside on their motorcycle. Jazz was eyes forward, all focus and intensity. Simon had a death grip around her waist.
Two blocks later we turned into the back end of the neighborhood near the park. There were commercial buildings on both sides of the street, and a few high-end villas. Most of the offices were closed at this hour, so traffic was light and there were only a few pedestrians.
Deondre slowed the bike. “Which way?”
I glanced at my dad on the screen but he wasn’t any help. At least not yet.
I looked around. The road we were on bisected the neighborhood, ending five or six blocks ahead at a T-intersection that fronted the park. The outdoor concert lighting shone brightly above the distant tree line and I could hear the music.
“Straight ahead,” I said, keeping an eye on the tablet.
Deondre and Jazz both slowed at the first intersection, looking left and right, checking for signs of the van or the cop’s car, or anything else suspicious. “Keep going,” I said.
Jazz gave me a curious glance, but then scooted ahead. She braked hard at the third intersection. We pulled up beside her, and she pointed to the third building down on the right. “That one looks pretty new.”
It also had large windows.
“Okay, I’ll check it out,” Deondre said, turning the bike before I could stop him. “But just us,” he said to Jazz. “Your bike is too loud.” She nodded and pulled to the side of the road.
Deondre drove a little ways. “Go back. That’s not it,” I said, my focus on the screen.
“The top-floor lights are on,” Strawberry said as we came abreast of the building.
Deondre said, “Yeah, there’s movement up there. I’m going to pull—”
“You’re wasting time!” I said. “It’s not the right one and we don’t have enough time to check every possible building.”
“How are you so damn sure?” Deondre asked.
“Just speed up and get back on the other street. And no slowing at intersections. Go fast. I’ll explain on the way.”
Deondre spun the bike around. He turned back up the main street, speeding past Jazz, and I cringed when she had to gun the loud motor of her dirt bike to catch up. But at this point, we had to throw stealth into the wind.
“So explain already,” Deondre said as we raced past buildings.
“I’m hoping my dad will sense when we get closer. He should feel the energy from the mini. I’ll see his reaction on the live feed and we’ll use that to home in on him.”
“What kind of harebrained scheme is that?” Deondre shouted.
And that’s why I hadn’t told him sooner. It was a long shot but our only chance and there was no time to debate it. “Shut up and drive,” I said, a part of me shocked at the realization it was my first time ever telling someone to shut up. I excused it as a side effect of my old-age disease.
“Trust him, Deondre,” Strawberry said. “If we’re going to save Ellie, we need to have faith.”
The words had an instant effect on Deondre, and he squeezed his legs into me. “Sorry, Alex. I’m with you. Keep your eyes peeled. I’ll get you down every street in this neighborhood as fast as I can.”
We sped through two more intersections, but my dad’s face remained impassive. I wished I could reach my thoughts into the tablet to let him know I was nearby, but with all the amazing things I could do with my brain, that wasn’t one of them.
We were half a block from the T-intersection when my dad’s expression shifted. His eyes went distant. “I got something,” I said, trying to ignore the fact the timer was down to 4 minutes and 48 seconds.
“Which way?” Deondre said, pulling to a stop at the T.
“No way to tell without trying both directions. Take a right.”
We turned, Jazz followed. Traffic was heavy on this four-lane road. It took only a few seconds for me to see it was the wrong way. My dad shook his head as if to clear it. His expression sagged, like he figured he’d imagined the brief contact with the mini’s energy.
“Back the other way,” I said.
Deondre swerved between cars to get in the left lane. He hesitated only a moment before revving the bike into a U-turn between oncoming traffic. Cars braked and horns blared as we sped off, Jazz and Simon right behind us.
The effect on Dad was immediate. His head snapped up, his eyes narrowed, and even though he might’ve been furious with me for disobeying his order, he couldn’t keep one corner of his mouth from ticking up.