Mike and Drew were on the pinsetter’s catwalk, not in the storage room where Ryan had first looked. Only after having a minor freak-out over them not being anywhere in the bowling alley did Ryan recall the existence of the catwalk and look there. Mike and Drew were huddled near the far wall, knees bent, walkie-talkie on the ground between them. The entire space just inside the door was crowded with what looked like all the remaining food from the fridge.
“We had to consolidate,” Mike said, waving for him to come toward them. “Heard over the walkie-talkie that crews were coming for our fridge, so we cleaned it out and took cover.”
Ryan sat opposite the two of them.
“Where you been all day?” Drew asked.
They were both staring at him, suspicious. “I had this stupid side thing going,” Ryan began, and told them about Jack and Ruthie. About finding them that first day in the car, how they were terrified and how he’d helped them, how in the end nothing he’d done had been enough. “Jack’s sick, flu I think, and Ruthie hates me.”
Drew shook his head. “Kids are such assholes.”
Mike tossed Ryan a can of tomato juice. “You should have told us.”
“I figured you didn’t need another person to take care of,” he said, cracking it open and chugging.
“How am I supposed to watch your ass if you hide crap like this from me? I could have helped you find food for them. We could have moved them someplace together. It’s this sneaking behind my back crap that pisses me off.”
“Like Marco?”
Mike pointed at Ryan’s heart. “Exactly.”
Ryan told them what he knew about Marco—that he had planned that first party on some level, and that steroid-pumped guys were threatening him. “I have no idea what he’s thinking. The guido guys looked like they wanted to kill him.”
“I know the feeling,” Drew grumbled.
“Marco has been a team player,” Mike said, cutting Drew off. “But he’s definitely running some scam on the side and he’d better be able to explain it to my satisfaction.” He stood, cracked his neck, and walked toward the door. “First, we put together another crap dinner.”
“If I eat another refried bean, I’m going to frickin’ puke.”
Ryan practically sprinted for the food. He hadn’t eaten all day and that tomato juice had only made him hungrier. He’d eat beans of any kind, maraschino cherries, whatever could be scrounged from the fridge of a bowling alley’s bar.
• • •
Marco let himself into the service halls and tracked his way toward the Sam’s Club as soon as he saw decent lines for dinner on the first floor. He knew from his work on construction that all the food in the mall was being consolidated there. He wasn’t sure why—maybe just to keep people from living off Jujubes instead of the freeze-dried camp food. Sam’s was a good place—fairly isolated from the rest of the mall, it had only one main entrance and exit point, which was gated off. But there were four exits into the service hallways, so he used one of those.
Marco had guessed right that the doors would not be patrolled during dinner—he’d seen guards in the service hallway during the “work day,” but none now blocked his path. He slid his card through the reader and pulled open a door.
The Sam’s Club was huge, like the HomeMart, only all white. The shelves had been rearranged, and any non-food items cleared and replaced with what could be scrounged from the rest of the mall. Refrigerators and freezers that had been rolled in from somewhere lined one wall. Their thrum filled the cavernous treasure trove.
Marco wanted to be in and out of there as quickly as possible. Not only because the place was like a tomb, but he still had three kegs to move, and a third party location to find, after which he had to get his butt out of everyone’s way so he didn’t end up serving as party bitch for another consecutive night.
He ran down the few steps and began scanning the aisles for bags of chips, anything that one might count as bar food. Just as he spotted giant bags of popcorn mere feet away, he heard a voice behind him.
“We have an intruder,” the voice said.
And then a lightning bolt struck him. Marco lost control of his muscles and hit the linoleum.
He regained his senses in a dark stockroom. He could not tell for what store. A lone light shone on him like this was some Nazi interrogation. “Where the hell am I?” he said, his voice sounding scratchy.
A large man with a gut sat in the chair opposite. “I believe we’ve had the pleasure, Mr. Carvajal. I’m Hank Goldman, head of security, and you’ve been a pain in my ass since day one.”
Marco vaguely recalled this man from one of his meetings with the senator; however, the guy seemed to have intimate knowledge of Marco.
He continued, “Rescue of prime targets Richter and Bonner, as well as an assault with fire extinguishers on my guards to rescue the kid on the wire, Murphy. Theft of a police access card key, and suspicion of having assaulted that officer to get it. Numerous absences from your work crew. Detainment every single evening after curfew.”
The guy looked up from the paper he was reading. “Quite an impressive list.” He shifted on his seat and leaned toward Marco. “What I want to know is why Ross’s little pet criminal is sneaking through the food storage center when I have received no clearance for your being there.”
Marco could see several shadows outside the aura of blinding light. This was some Gestapo bullcrap. He had freaking rights. “I want to see the senator. I can explain what I was doing.”
“Then you can explain it to me.” Goldman did not budge.
“I found the alcohol, just like she wanted. But the guy who’s holding it said I couldn’t have it unless I brought him food, so I was getting him some chips. I was trying to fix this whole party situation and the alcohol problem in one shot.” It was almost the truth. It was close enough to save his ass.
“Party situation,” Goldman said snidely. “I told the woman this was a mistake. You put criminals in jails, you don’t throw them friggin’ parties.”
“Look, I can explain everything to the senator.”
“I don’t want you to explain diddly crap to that woman.” Goldman stood and flipped off the light. “I’m glad we found you, Carvajal. You are going to be a useful member of our team. See, we needed someone to act as the fall guy to steal us some decent food. Now that the woman has secret cameras hidden everywhere in the service halls, we can’t remove merchandise without alerting her to our operations. But you,” he said, grabbing Marco’s arm. “You can do all that for us.”
Gooseflesh prickled from where Goldman held his arm and spread over Marco’s entire body. What the hell was going on in this mall? The head of security was running some scam behind the senator’s back? This was too much.
“So here’s the plan,” Goldman continued. “You finish your little shopping trip, roll your pallet of grub back to the Pancake Palace, and then be a good boy and wait for us to pick you up again and bring you to the senator.”
“No,” Marco whispered. “I won’t do it. Screw this, I’m out. Let the assholes find their own liquor.”
Goldman twisted Marco’s skin. “Buddy, you’re so far in, they’d need a friggin’ scalpel to get you out.”
“Screw you.”
Goldman let go. “Kinsey, I think our friend needs some more convincing.”
A woman stepped from the shadows, pressed a stun baton to Marco’s arm, and Marco lost some time to pain. When he came to, they were all still standing there, like they had watched. Had he peed his pants? His face felt numb, his lower lip, heavy. His thigh would not stop twitching.
For the first time in a very long time, Marco was petrified. There was no fighting these people, no running away. He was trapped in a mall with a head of security who endorsed torture for something so lame as stealing popcorn. What would he do for higher stakes? Now that he had Marco on his radar, what was the limit of his madness?
“F-fine,” Marco stammered. “Okay.”
Goldman slapped Marco’s shoulder. “Now, was that so hard?”
They shoved Marco’s head into a sack, half dragged him down the halls, and left him around the corner from where he’d started, in the service hall outside the Sam’s Club. When they were gone, Marco made a run for it. He was not falling victim to this crap scheme. He would come up with a plan—once he figured out what in the hell was going on in this fraked-up place.
Run, though, was an overstatement. His legs weren’t functioning at top capacity. His face throbbed and his lip felt like the blubbery appendage of a dying cetacean. He needed to regain control of his muscles, use of his face. He thought of the one place on earth he might feel safe and headed there.