I hit the brakes and turn the wheel, hard. The truck fishtails again, and I hear a horn blare behind me, but I don’t care. The front tires hit the grassy median I just passed. The cab lurches from the impact and the tires rise into the air. Then the back tires hit and the front slams back down. I lose control for an instant. The truck veers to the left. But I correct just enough. The tires catch and the frame screams as my pickup rumbles down the road.
The light is red up ahead. I don’t wait for it to turn. Slowing down just enough, I inch into the intersection. More horns blare but I cut into traffic and speed up.
“Do you see it?” I ask, weaving around a slow-moving Chrysler.
She won’t answer me. I can’t say I mind, though. This silence is welcome after all her talking. I count on her shock from the accident to keep her from trying to jump out again, at least for a time.
I slam the brakes again and veer across oncoming traffic, bumping over another curb and into a shopping center parking lot. We skid as I try to slow down. I head toward the fire lane that runs behind the buildings.
“I see it,” she whispers.
I check the mirror and she’s right. Flashing lights appear down the street.
“Shit.”
I make it around the back of the shops just as the cruiser passes the stoplight I ran. I speed up, passing loading docks and dumpsters. Then I see an open bay up ahead. I don’t slow down to see what’s inside. Instead, I yank the wheel to the right. We fishtail again and dart into the garage. I see car stereo equipment and a sign for an electronics shop on the wall as we jerk to a stop.
“Jesus,” Lauren says.
I ignore her. Throwing open my door, I jump out of the truck and sprint to the garage door. It takes me a second to find the manual release. I yank the cord and jump up to grab the edge. The wheels cry out as I pull it down. It slams to the concrete, the panels rattling like a peel of thunder.
“Hey!” someone yells behind me.
I turn to see a young guy, maybe twenty. He’s wearing black pants and a black collared shirt with a logo that matches the sign on the wall—Electric Shack. He has sparse facial hair and gauges in his ears.
“Get out,” he says, taking a step toward me.
For a second, I find it funny. The guy’s half my size. I could barely fit my arms into his skinny jeans. I could handle him. It would take a minute. And make noise. Loud enough for anyone inside the store to hear. So I pull the pistol from behind my back instead. I take a step toward him, the barrel pointing in the direction of his forehead. I put a finger to my lips.
“Shhhh.”
The kid looks like he’s about to run. He could probably make it if he did. Even if I wanted to shoot him, I couldn’t with the police right behind me.
“You go back inside,” I say. “You’ll have to deal with my friends who are robbing the place. And they’re some dangerous guys.”
The kid freezes. He looks utterly confused. As what I said slowly dawns on him, he checks the door leading back into the store. Then looks at me.
“Come here, but stay quiet. I don’t want to hurt you. We just want to steal shit and get out. Easy as that.”
I know the stereo equipment filling the garage and the store means nothing to this kid. I doubt the job does. So I lower the gun, tucking it back into my waistband. Smiling, I wave the kid over.
He’s still not fully convinced, but then he takes the first step in my direction. That’s when I know I have him. The kid puts his hands up like he’s in some kind of movie.
“It’s cool,” he says.
Then a flash of blue light shines across the far wall. It turns red. The kid sees it. I see his thoughts in the sudden sharpness of his eyes.
“No,” I hiss, pulling the gun out again.
I move this time, taking long strides toward him. His eyes widen. He turns toward the door, but I catch the back of his shirt. I yank him back and he loses his balance. As he falls to the ground, I go down with him. My knee strikes him square in the chest and I lean down, my face close to his. I don’t say anything. I lower the gun until the tip presses into the crinkle of skin between his eyes.
The lights grow brighter as the cruiser nears. I press down on the kid, hard. Then the passenger-side door opens. Lauren steps out of the truck. She stands, looking from me to the bay door and back, the look in her eyes matching the kid’s almost exactly.
“No,” I say again.
And she takes a step toward the garage door.