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Things are never quite what I expect. I’ve been present in Lelani’s apartment for less than ten minutes and already I’m heading back out on my own.
“I thought the whole idea was being a team,” I say, pulling my hair up and tucking it under a black skull cap as the elevator whooshes downward.
“Precisely. We’re going to divide and conquer today. It’s the benefit of having two of us.”
I eye Lelani as the doors open. Everything about my gut says that she’s being honest about our plans for tonight. Our plan is to follow both ex-cons and watch—or interrogate—for any information about Pookie-Steve. Apparently while I’ve been gallivanting in and out of secret lairs and designing outfits, Lelani has been doing the real work and canvassing and watching the warehouse district every night. She says that they usually have a team meeting on Thursday nights, where new product is distributed and orders for the week are given. We’re going to see who attends.
We part ways at the main doors, she taking the door to the garage and me exiting out front. Good thing she didn’t ask if my car was fixed, because I’m pretty sure she’s not going to be happy that I have to call Lawrence to come pick me up. I don’t necessarily want to out that I have syndicated our crime fighting team yet.
I climb into L’s Challenger moments later, surprised at the chill in the air. I should have brought more black layers. Good thing we plan on doing most of our work from inside the car. Also a good thing Lawrence is sipping water and seems totally sober now.
“Didn’t think we’d be seeing you so soon, did you get fired again?”
“Har har, L,” I answer as I squeeze into the back seat and belt up. “Wait, is this Christmas music?”
L’s eyes flick to mine in the rearview mirror. “Yeah?”
I do the mental calculations. “But isn’t Christmas a month away?” Then my brain catches up. “Crap, that means Thanksgiving is next week?” Time just flies by when you’re having a wretched time, it seems.
L and Whalon exchange glances. “Where are we headed? Your place?”
“No, Operation Double-cross my boss and the Golden Arrow—” I pause, “that’s a mouthful. We should pick a name. Like the government does.”
“Petunia?” Whalon offers.
“No, definitely not. Project Hoodwink? No wait. Dragnet,” L responds.
I clap. “Yes perfect, project Dragnet goes into effect tonight. Ironically, we’re headed back to Yuletide Court. And while we’re driving, can you turn down that racket?”
I see Whalon’s manicured brows rise. “Racket?”
“The jingle stuff.”
“I told you she’s a grinch. The only thing she likes about Christmas is—”
“—artichoke dip,” I finish his sentence with a nod. “Damn skippy. Just call me Kazran Sardick.”
“Will that present a problem?” Whalon asks L, and I get some weird scary premonition.
“Wait you two aren’t planning some sort of corny Christmas wedding, are you? Because if I have to dress like an elf, I assure you—”
L laughs nervously, “MG calm down. That’s . . . we’re . . . that’s not it. Whalon is helping me plan a grand opening event for my new business.”
“Oh.” I sit back and watch a few streetlights flash past my tiny window. “Wait, why would me being a grinch bother a hair studio grand opening? I’ll just bring my own artichoke dip.”
“Well, I’m not just opening a salon.” He lets out a breath as we accelerate through a light and hit the onramp, all three hundred horses at full gallop beneath us. Once we’re merged onto the highway and cozily ensconced in traffic, he continues. “The space is so large I’m going to open a venue.”
“Like a bar?” Color me skeptical. I don’t quite see L as a bartender. “A salon with a . . . bar?”
“Well, more like a performance space. With a stage and a bar. We’ll be working in conjunction to host drag nights with Daniel’s dance studio as backup dancers.”
“That’s . . . that’s awesome.” Honestly, it sounds exactly like something L would love doing. Hosting elaborate drag nights at his own private venue? Perfection.
“Well, and not only that but during the week, I’m thinking about hosting an after-school program for anyone interested in drag. I’d like to host free classes on makeup, and costume design, comedy, acting . . . that sort of thing. I needed a community so much growing up, I wish there had been a safe and inclusive place to go. I’m being the change I want to see in the world.”
I’m shocked to find I’m tearing up. “I . . . L, that’s . . . it’s . . . it sounds perfect.”
Whalon reaches over and pats L’s knee. “He and Daniel have been working on developing an idea for the grand opening and they’ve decided to do a huge drag event with some big-name local queens. We’ll run it as a charity event and toy drive in conjunction with the Christmas Kid thing LA does every year. With that much good going on and some of our connections with the press, I am hoping the turnout will be star-studded.”
“It sounds amazing, but like a lot of work.”
“Yeah, your butt is going to be helping out.” L steers off the highway, and we descend into the residential area Frank LaPitez lives in. We hit a convenience store for a bathroom break and stakeout snacks, and then find ourselves outside Frank’s son’s house. The lights are on in the house, but no departure seems imminent so we settle in for a long wait.
An hour later—halfway through my making a big list of supplies to get for L’s dream grand opening—a sedan pulls up in front of the house.
We all sit up, me spilling candy all over the back seat. The sedan has an Uber light in the back window, and it’s not even a minute later when Frank exits the house and hurries down the twilight walkway.
Lawrence waits a moment after the car pulls out to turn on the Challenger and give chase. We actually lose them on the highway because of a construction zone and a moving truck, but I have a hunch where they’re going. I can’t explain it, but my stomach sinks. “Head to the warehouse district,” I say, and give the general cross streets where Lelani and I had tied up the dealer.
Frank, I really hope you’re not involved, I believed better of you. But when we pull up down the street from the same warehouse, we’re in time to see taillights leaving the scene and the Uber light lit up in the back—it means the passenger isn’t in the car anymore.
But there’s no one around, which begs the question . . . where did Frank go?
A moment later, a large plastic thing is shoved into my hands. It’s the listening device from the secret lair.
“You took this? How?” I ask Whalon who shushes me, and clamps a pair of hard foam-padded headphones over my ears and adjusts the uncomfortable metal strap over my head.
In a moment, I hear a click and then fuzz.
“Anything?” Whalon whispers, but it’s cacophonous in my head.
“Ow, no.”
“You’re going to have to be closer in, I think. Until I make the modifications.”
Deep breaths, MG. You can do this. Captain Janeway did away missions. Han Solo did the Kessel Run. You can do this. Since none of my cohorts are volunteering themselves, I let out the deep breath and pull on my beanie. “Okay.”
Feeling like a complete dork, I quasi crouch-run from where we’re parked, across the street, pausing to hide behind anything I can find—parked cars, street lamp poles—and then duck around the corner and head down the cross street until I’m even with the hulking building.
Quietly menacing, it sits like a mangy animal in wait for its next meal to stumble upon it—to take its dilapidated appearance for granted. But I see past its outward shabbiness and note the brand-new-looking rolling garage doors on the right half of the building, and the huge new-looking padlock system on the office part to the left. Someone wants the building to look dilapidated, but it’s really not.
A mostly washed out sign over the garage bays reads, “Al’s Garage”. One of the garage doors is rolled up a foot or two off the ground, and I creep down the street and set up camp behind a cardboard box full of Magneto-knows-what on the sidewalk. I flip the switch and aim the dish of the device toward the garage door.
Color me shocked when I hear voices over the clank and rustle of what must be people cleaning up the shop. It’s like they’re standing right in front of me. Impressive technology indeed.
“—$20 an hour is the best I can offer,” a gruff voice says. Then some coughing and what I presume is someone taking a drag off a cigarette. Classy and safe given his whereabouts.
“Is that in cash?” I think that’s Frank LaPitez.
“No, we have to operate above-board for this. The investors say that everything has to be legit. It’s not a lot, I get it but—” pause for more hacking and a cigarette break “—each service completed comes with a bonus. The more expensive the thing you deliver, the more money you get as a bonus. Plus, health and dental.”
Hell, I don’t know what job he’s applying for but I want full health and dental. If the Genius thing falls through, I can learn to fix cars.
There’s silence while Frank ponders what I assume is a job offer at the mechanic’s shop.
“Is my . . . er, background going to be a problem?”
Another voice cuts in, and it’s oddly familiar. I can’t place it. Not nearly as gruff as the first one, silkier. Kinder. More cultured and practiced, with a slightl southern drawl. Maybe what fancy aged whiskey would sound like poured into the air instead of into a glass? “We’ll be doing a background check, but Mr. Pender told us about your previous . . . residence . . . when he recommended you for the job. As long as nothing else comes up, we’re open to giving people a new chance.”
A loud exhale, then Frank’s voice. “Well, that sounds good. Not everyone is so . . . kind, or open-minded.”
Well, that’s sweet. Uriah Pender is looking out for his friend Frank, and helping get him a job. The world is just full of puppies and kittens and rainbows today, it seems.
There’s some mumbling and it’s several long minutes before I realize they’ve moved further into the garage, perhaps to look at paperwork.
I glance back at the corner, around which L and Whalon sit parked. Weighing my risks, I make the decision to get closer. Crossing the street quickly, I crouch next to the open door.
Still can’t hear anything.
Crap.
I eye the opening of the garage door, then pull out my phone. I text L that I’m going inside to look around, and then quickly put my phone on mute before he can remind me I have the stealth levels of a corgi and not a cat.
With only a minor scrape and scuffle, garage-door limbo goes better than I would have thought and I find myself in an almost-dark garage bay. Between the bays, hulking tool chests sit abandoned for the night. Across the huge space of the garage, past the rows of tires, a lone light shines along the back wall. The steady swish swish of a single broom from that corner is the only sound inside.
Okay, I’ve got this. I scurry across the floor to the wall where there’s a door and a rectangle of light spilling into the dark shop. I’m nestled between the only car still parked in the garage and the wall but I still can’t hear anything except the distant murmur of voices, so I fumble with my listening device.
“—we’re modifying the first few cars in the fleet to be able to carry dangerous goods, but we’ll inform you before you take a shipment that has them. You’ll get an additional 5% bonus for any shipment of dangerous goods—”
Frank responds, sounding alarmed, “Dangerous like . . . ?”
“Even perfume is considered a dangerous item because it’s flammable,” the smooth whiskey voice cuts in, and I can imagine Frank’s shoulders relaxing. “There are many items that are considered dangerous because they can’t be on airplanes and mail services won’t deliver them, so they hire us. We just delivered cleaning supplies to a Lake Tahoe hotel because the mail wouldn’t carry it, stuff like that.”
The talk about dangerous materials has my interest piqued . . . as does this garage’s proximity to the place I’d last seen a drug dealer. Lots of methamphetamines are made from dangerous household chemicals. Is it coincidence that they’re talking about shipping them? I don’t get my answers. They move on to what seems like more mundane matters of filling out paperwork and signing Frank up for some commercial driving test.
I’d probably better get back outside. I pivot on my foot and am about to stand up when I hear someone humming—close by. Like, just on the other side of the car. Their clean-up guy apparently uses this time and the acoustics to practice some of his TSwift songs. A laudable hobby, but it’s going to get me caught. While contemplating his proximity it dawns on me in horror that the talking from inside the office area is also getting louder.
My heartbeat accelerates, which makes it really hard to track the humming dude by sound. I’m pressed against the side of a blue sedan with blue writing across the side that says, “Carry Car — We Get Things Where They Need To Go”. And unfortunately, it has the front quarter-panel thingy pulled off and it’s laying directly in front of me. It’s not just some small car piece I can climb over silently, it looks like someone is welding it back together in piecemeal. A car version of Frankenstein.
I pat the car, thinking about my own Frankenstein that may not be able to be revived, but my sentiment is cut short when the voices get even louder. I have mere seconds before they open the door and find me kneeling there, weird listening thing in-hand. It’s going to be impossible to explain.
I scrunch my eyes up as if it will help and hazard a quick peek over the top of the car. Broom Dude is near the rear quarter panel of the car on the opposite side, headed for a broom rack along the wall of the office. Dammit.
I only have one choice, and I sure hope corgis can jump silently because I take three running steps and do my best Olympic-hurdler impression over the welding project which lands me among a stack of tires. Too bad I’m not an Olympic hurdler, and I catch the very end of the door with my heel, causing it to rock slightly on the rough concrete floor.
Three cha-cha steps, and I’m behind the rack, and pivot back just in time to see Broom Dude pivot, looking at the place I’d just vacated. He heard me hit the panel, and looks about ready to head over to investigate when a group of three people emerge from the office, effectively stopping his progress.
“Ah, Kevin. Thanks for finishing up. Are you ready to head out?”
Kevin shoots a look at the slightly rocking panel on the floor, and then at the tools scattered on the floor around it.
Please think it was a tool that fell please think it was a tool that fell. Then his eyes drift to where I’m standing and for one heart-stopping moment, I’m positive he sees me.
Do I dare ease my suitcase-sized spy gear further behind the tires and risk hitting something else?
At that very moment, another piece of welding equipment falls to the floor. The crash of metal on concrete hurts my ears and reverberates around in my skull while reverberating around the room.
“Jesus!” the older guy in oil-soaked coveralls says. Another older gentleman, but this one in a crisp suit that somehow reminds me of the KFC Colonel, looks around at the floor. “Did someone just . . . leave . . . this stuff here? OSHA would have a field day. We can’t have this—”
“I’m about to clean it up. Sir.” Kevin cuts in. I know he’s probably lying because there are tools lying out at every other station, but the suit-guy buys it.
“Good. We can’t have OSHA coming in every week, Al. We need this whole thing to run above-board. Pristine and untouchable.” I can barely hear him over the loud hum of the rising garage door.
Al nods, and ushers the men out. Kevin lowers the door to the ground, gives the panel one last look, then turns off the bay lights and heads into the office area, leaving me in the gathering darkness. I knew he wasn’t going to actually clean up, but more importantly, I am stuck.
It takes me more than twenty minutes to find a fire exit door from the garage, and then nearly ten more minutes to figure out how to unlock it.
I spill into a totally dark back alleyway, covered in nervous sweat and lugging a spy device that is about as subtle as a neon sign. Thankfully, no one seems to be around, so I start to head back toward the street, dodging squat garbage dumpsters full of shredded tires and rusted car parts.
I turn the corner and run right into the slender frame of a woman. She’s waiting at the curb, looking expectantly down the street, so it’s not a huge leap to figure she’s another dealer. We nearly fall to the ground, a tangle of spy devices and baggy T-shirts the source of our doom.
“Watch where the hell you’re going,” she growls, not without reason.
“Sorry,” I mutter, pushing back from her. As I do so, a baggy of pills falls from her hand to the ground. I stare. I’ve seen them before. Striped pills. Pills that look strikingly similar to the drugs DeWayne was developing.
The girl goes to scoop them up, but my reflexes are faster. All I know is I’m holding is proof that someone—somehow—is continuing the work of DeWayne’s ring.
“I don’t think so,” the woman growls before taking a menacing step toward me before freezing. It seems for the first time she really sees me. “Holy shit, I know who you are. You’re the Golden Arrow, and you’ve been shoving your nose where it doesn’t belong.”
I don’t know if she’s going for a gun or a cell phone at her waistband, but I really can’t deal with either option. She’s already heard my voice, and no telling what will happen if she manages to pull off my hat and see my hair. I only have one choice.
I make a wild karate chop to her hands, which are fumbling with something small and dark—a cellphone with a lit screen spins away across the concrete.
“That’s my phone, you bitch,” she growls. I can’t help but note that she seems more upset about her phone than the drugs.
I take her momentary distraction and use everything in my superhero arsenal to subdue her. Namely, I mean I’m using everything I learned in my freshman college self-defense class. So instead of some amazing hand-to-hand thing I won’t be able to pull off, I step on her feet. Hard.
She howls and starts to squat, hands reaching for her feet.
This was easier than I’d planned. Maybe I’ll just give her one more good stomp and—
There’s a small click, and I realize that she’s not grabbing for her feet, she’s undoing an ankle holster. Adrenaline surges through my system, making even my vision buzzy and erratic. My first instinct is to run away, but even I know that’ll create the perfect space for target practice.
Instead I do perhaps the stupidest thing I can think of, just to confuse her. I charge her like a raging bull. I hit her so hard, we both fly backward. I could play for the LA . . . whatever the LA football team is. The Hulk Smashers. I hit her like a ton of bricks, and we go down hard. Her butt hits the ground with a thump, and from the way she screams in real pain, I worry her tailbone may be broken. Better than me being shot.
As we fall, I fight the instinct to put my arms out to stop my own trajectory and instead use the moment to lift her hands above her head. When we finally crash down—me on my face, her shoulders smacking the concrete—her grip on the handgun loosens and I’m able to send it skittering into the street.
The fall dazes her and for the briefest of minutes, I’m in complete control. I’m wondering if I can get up and jet out of here.
Until she starts attempting to throw me off with some impressive alligator thrashing and rolling. I can’t hang on long, and I have the sense that this woman isn’t going to be looking to just tie me up once she finds her gun.
Hands come out from nowhere, shoving me roughly to the side.
Shit, shit, shit, her posse has arrived. I knew that phone looked like it might be calling someone.
But the hands don’t reach for me, they reach for the woman—and with a deft roll, turn her onto her stomach.
“A little help here?” L’s voice is muffled from underneath what looks like a T-shirt wrapped over his face.
He’s wrestling mightily with her, but in the end his six-foot-something frame is no match for her five-foot-something. Once her arms are in “handcuff” position, I jump in, doing my best to hold them together while L digs in his pockets for something.
This lady is tough, and she manages to scratch the hell out of my hands while she attempts to wrestle her arms away from me.
Luckily, L produces something useful. It’s the grappling hook from Casey Senior’s secret room. The boom of it firing off sounds like a rocket being launched, and the woman goes still beneath me—probably thinking she’s been shot. Instead, the grappling hook flies a good distance, landing with a thunk against the building. L draws the line in with impressive speed, and wraps two loops around the body before securing her hands.
We haul her into a sitting position, just as a distant sound echoes through my bones and down my spine. A door slamming shut, and is that the sound of running feet?
“I called them,” she laughs. “You’re done.”
L rapidly wraps the grappling line to its end and secures it with the hook near the small of her back. We haul her into the shadows, and before I can think about what to do to keep her quiet, L stands behind her and unwraps the T-shirt from his head. In one second, it’s ripped in half and a makeshift gag is placed.
The echo of running feet is definitely getting closer. We’ve got to go. Now.
L and I stand as one and beat it for the street. But as I’m about to make the turn to the car, L grabs me. “Remember, we don’t lead them to the car.”
Right.
So, we go the opposite way, up the sidewalk at a pretty good clip. It’s only seconds before there’s the pounding of feet behind us. Almost like he’s got instincts for the thing, L pulls us into an alleyway as the pop pop of gunshots rings out. Did that guy seriously just shoot at us?
Lawrence shoves me. “I don’t really feel like becoming a religious person today so run.”
“Religious person?” I’m puffing more than I’d like after such a short sprint.
“Holy, MG. Hole-y.”
Only L could be witty as we’re running for our lives.
We’re headed down the alley and through stinking oily puddles when L trips over something and I help him up from his knees. We burst through the end of the alley before pausing to listen. Splashing from behind us, so at least one person is following. That person also seems to be speaking to someone on his phone so I fear we’re about to have a whole horde of drug lords called down upon us.
We turn another corner, and I realize as we dash past the tied-up form that we’ve essentially done a loop around the block. In a moment of what I’d like to think of as sheer brilliance, but could also end up being stupidity, I scoop up the woman’s cell phone off the pavement as we pound past.
More sounds of running feet behind us.
Back down the alley we go. This time I’m the one that trips, because I’m trying to get to the phone function in her menu before the phone locks.
“What the hell could be so important?”
“Calling . . . the . . . police . . .”I pant.
I manage to dial 9-1-1 after the third attempt, and L drags me along by the hand as we zig and zag up alleys and streets.
“Yes, hello. I’m making an anonymous tip. Someone’s tied up a person behind a warehouse on Yuma Street, near Al’s Garage. Someone’s firing a gun.” I click off before the operator can ask me any questions.
“That was a terrible British accent,” Lawrence pants as we jog down behind some sort of light industrial building—this one nicer than some of the others we’ve passed. We’re making a bigger circle now, I intuit, taking the long way back to Al’s Garage.
“I lost my head,” I admit. “But I figured it’d make it more confusing and make it harder to link to me.” I toss the woman’s cell phone into the first dumpster we pass that will allow me to lift the lid even an inch, powering it off before I do. Even now in the distance, I hear a chorus of sirens wailing to life. Lawrence texts Whalon, presumably to have him meet us somewhere else, and we creep closer to Al’s Garage.
There are two guys standing in the middle of the street, pausing mid-flight to listen.
“Are those sirens?” one asks the other.
“Goddamned Golden Arrow. I’ll kill him if I ever find him,” the other one responds.
Chills race down my spine. Little does he know the Golden Arrow is mere feet away. What have I gotten myself into?
“We’ve got to go. Maybe three minutes before they’re here,” the first one says. And as he turns to go, I stifle a gasp of shock. These aren’t your normal drug dealers wearing jeans and T-shirts. These men are in suits, and they look capable.
“We’ll have to move everything. Call Steve.”
“What about the girl?”
“Leave her. She doesn’t know enough. Kill her if you have enough time.”
More chills, and truthfully, I feel like throwing up right there on Lawrence’s nice black sneakers.
The second guy is on the phone in less than thirty seconds. “This goddamned Casey reward is the cause of all of this, we’ve got to put an end to it. Come on, let’s go. Steve says they’re already cleaning up. He heard it over the scanner. We’ll go make a plan to go on the offensive.”
Lawrence and I sit until the police screech up, seven cars—one of which I recognize as Rideout’s.
“Time to go,” L says, melting back into the shadows. “We’ll meet Whalon and tell him what we just heard. Being the Golden Arrow just got more complicated.”