Despite the blunt he’d smoked at 2:00 a.m., Eloy was wired and pacing his home in the dark. He wasn’t a regular user of weed, so he expected his fatty to relax him enough to get some sleep. It didn’t.
The heist the day before had been an utter disaster. He’d been stretched to the limit of his survivalist mode. Coming up with an alibi for both him and Chloe wore him out. Every time he felt confident he had things worked out, another potential obstacle came to mind.
He wished like hell he hadn’t mentioned having sex with her wasn’t legal. She could use that against him with the police. He hoped her stress level caused her to forget his comment.
She was terrified of getting caught. So much so that when the Glendale PD officer arrived, she’d done an admirable job of pretending her car had really been stolen.
The cop didn’t appear to be suspicious, although when they said they were just friends, he made a face indicating he knew they were lying.
Eloy turned on the early morning news. The death of the LAPD officer was the top story on every channel.
He watched as they showed the video taken from the mall. The stupid media was so dramatic.
“We must warn our viewers that the images you’re about to see are graphic. If you have small children in the vicinity of the screen, you may want to have them go to another room.”
It was a short clip. From the angle of the shot, the camera was likely mounted to a light pole in the parking lot.
The replay began with the getaway cars waiting in front of the east doors. Next, the crew came running from the store.
“The plan worked perfectly,” he whispered to himself.
Then the unmarked police car skidded into the frame.
“That’s the fucker that ruined everything!”
The crew’s sedans started to flee. An operator ran toward one of the rides when another bailing vehicle grazed his foot.
The guy fell to the ground, and a second getaway car, blocked in by another fleeing vehicle, had no options, and drove over the legs of the downed crew member.
In spite of the speeding vehicles, the officer sprinted toward the injured thief.
From the top of the screen, Chloe’s Toyota, at a breakneck speed, hurtled in the direction of the crewman and the cop.
There was no doubt hitting the cop had been intentional. The video wasn’t sharp enough or close enough to show who drove the car—or that there were two occupants.
The news made no mention of a red sports car being stolen, but once they found her ride, it would be a different story.
He itched to talk to Chloe but he’d told her not to call him—he’d reach out to her—and it might be a while.
There was still damage control to be done within his crew. He wasn’t sure which driver hit the operator, but whoever it was would be looking over his shoulder for cops.
Not for the first time did he rejoice in the fact Neema was the face of his organization. And as her baby-daddy, he knew she’d never turn on him.