Jobs like these don’t go through the shop. No, there’s an entirely different facility that we run those jobs through. I wasn’t privileged to that info until about a year ago. Cars are stolen and taken to a secured, very private facility on the outskirts of Vegas. There, we strip the cars of any identification and prepare them for sale. New identification numbers are issued, along with a purchase history that is completely bogus. I’ve discovered that Roman has a man on the inside of the DMV who is paid handsomely to change records. Very few cars are sold within the United States, but those that are, are given a makeover with new paint and accessories. Combined with the new identification, it makes them untraceable.
A year ago, I was presented with a new opportunity to help in the teardown facility. I had worked hard and proven myself loyal to the organization through the front shop, making myself available to work my way up. After a few months, my hard work started to pay off.
Six months ago, I was pulled further inside the organization. That’s when I had to cut off complete contact with my family. I attend meetings between Roman and his people, help complete illegal jobs, and even make deliveries to cargo containers. This shit is very real, and without being the guy sucking off the big boss, I’m in as deep as I can be.
I’m doing whatever I can to gather as much intel as possible, yet as I sit around the table with my special cell phone turned on, I can’t help but wonder which side of the law I’m really on anymore. Luke assures me that I’m still one of the good guys, but I just don’t fucking know any longer. I need this shit over, and I need it over fast before I completely forget what it’s like to be a respectable part of the community.
* * *
Gage is following behind me as I drive the pristine Jaguar towards the apartment for C. Mathewson. The neighborhood with nice houses and fancy apartment buildings looks vaguely familiar as the GPS directs me towards the building I’m looking for. As I pull up, I have this strange sense of déjà vu for the second time in less than twenty-four hours. I remember this building.
I climb out and grab the paperwork from the passenger seat. After making sure the vehicle is clean and ready for the client, I head towards the front stoop. I locate the button for C. Mathewson and engage the intercom.
“Yes?” comes over the small speaker.
“I have a delivery for C. Mathewson,” I say, taking note that C. sounds older than I was expecting. Especially for someone with a car seat in the back of the vehicle.
“We were just on our way out. I’ll be right down,” she says before turning off the intercom. I take the opportunity to scout the neighborhood. The building is red brick with thick, clean glass and well-manicured landscaping. I can tell the building is well maintained and probably costs a small fortune in rent. It fits in well with the rest of the single-family homes that litter the opposite side of the street.
Last time I was here, it was dark. Though I foolishly didn’t recall all the details of the building when I arrived that night, I definitely took in my surroundings when I left that morning. Carly was on the top floor, the penthouse. There was one other door on the opposite side of the hallway signifying a second apartment on the coveted top floor.
Just then, the front door opens and an older woman carrying a small child walks out. The brunette woman offers me a polite smile as she juggles the antsy child in her arms. The baby turns towards me, giving me my first real glimpse at the little one. The child is definitely a girl with the cutest black hair that holds just a little curl to it. Her complexion offers a hint of a mixed race, and her eyes are the greenest I’ve ever seen. When she gives me a huge, toothy smile complete with drool hanging off her lower lip, my heart slams against my chest.
What the hell?
“I have some paperwork for you to sign,” I tell the woman as I pass the clipboard.
She quickly takes it in her available hand and struggles to balance the clipboard and the baby who is doing everything she can to get her little hands on the ink pen. Trying to hold them both, every time she brings the pen up to sign her name, the child in her arm makes a grab for it. Sure, I could offer to hold the clipboard for her while she signs the documentation I need to release the car, but I don’t. Instead I reach for the baby.
“Oh,” she says with a surprised look. “Thank you,” she adds with a small smile.
I watch for a moment as she signs several places on the indicated lines, but then my attention falls to the child. I’ve never held a baby. Well, I’m sure I held my brother when I was younger, but not as an adult. None of my friends have kids yet, and the job hasn’t exactly given me enough free time to enjoy anything other than car heists.