My job tonight is to boost the first car and then wait at the facility for the rest to come rolling in. I will catalog and make notes on what fixes are to be done to each car while Styx gets the VIN numbers replaced with the new ones from our contact with the DMV. So easy we could do this shit in our sleep.
We meet up at the facility at six p.m. to get our orders. With the absence of Jimmy Mo, Styx brought in Gage from the shop to fill the hole. Definitely not my decision, that’s for sure. As soon as I spot him when I walk through the door, I don’t fucking want him here. He’s smiling like the cat that caught the damn canary, practically bouncing up and down like a two-year-old. He screams “loose cannon,” and I just pray he’s not as sloppy as he is at the shop or we’ll be cleaning up his messes soon enough.
The car I’m swiping is a new BMW X5 series M. The basic package on this sport activity vehicle starts at one hundred grand, but this one is decked to the nines; easily one hundred and twenty-five grand. It’s an easy grab, kept inside of a standard attached garage without an extra security system. Getting this car is as easy as taking candy from a baby. This couple isn’t going to know what hit them until they get up in the morning and find their precious BMW MIA. By the time they make the call, we’ll already have it stripped and re-registered. They’ll never see their baby again.
“You ready?” Styx asks with his trademark frown firmly in place like a plastic mask. It doesn’t move. If I didn’t know the history of this organization, I’d probably be a little intimidated by Styx. He takes no shit from anyone, including the big bosses. While he’d never disrespect them, Roman and Mattias have him as their number one for a reason. He gets shit done. Bottom line.
“Yep. I’ll have that BMW back here by eleven-twenty and ready to go with everything else by eleven-thirty. Cars should start rolling in shortly after that,” I say relaxing a few minutes on the old, brown sofa in the room we call the “office.”
“Gage is gonna be with me. We’ll take three cars tonight with Hugh taking the other two.” Six cars are all we have on the list for tonight, and we’re spread out from one end of Vegas to the other. Styx generally only takes the hard-to-boost cars. He’s the man when it comes to boosting any vehicle since he can pretty much drive anything with wheels and a lot of things without. With the disappearance of Johnny Mo, he’s taking those extra two cars to show Gage the ropes. By the time our next scheduled boost comes around in a few months, he should be ready to go solo.
Hopefully.
“We got this,” I say, reaching my fist forward for the standard fist-bump.
“Fuck yeah, we do,” Styx responds before taking a long drag of his cigarette.
Over the next hour, our three drivers arrive. They’ll be dropping us off at the designated spots close to the heist location. Their job is to watch us as we approach the job and make sure that everything goes off without a fucking hitch. If the shit does hit the fan, they have the option to engage or to get the hell out of dodge. Most of them get the hell out of there. If the cops are coming, they don’t want to be anywhere near the action. Case in point: Jimmy Mo. When the shit hit the fan with his boost, Crazy K didn’t stick around to watch it go down. He was already on the phone to Styx, reporting the issue before he was even a block away.
We all relax in different ways to get ourselves ready for tonight’s boosts. Pizzas were brought in by the last man to arrive, but I never want to eat before a heist. This isn’t my thing and my stomach can’t handle the bullshit that goes with it. Several of the guys pass around joints and bottles of whiskey, while I prefer to sit all by my lonesome and go over the details of the job. The phone in my pocket has been active since I arrived tonight so everything around us is being transmitted and recorded.
When the clock strikes quarter ‘til eleven, it’s go time. I slip into the front passenger seat of Crazy K’s Mustang, and we head towards Vegas. The drive back to town only takes a few minutes, but I always use that time to get myself in the right frame of mind. I spent years programming my brain to react and take down the bad guy. For two years, I’ve been the bad guy. Sure, for the greater good of the case, but still. It’s those damned blurred lines, again.
“I’m droppin’ you down at the end of the block. You know the code?” Crazy K asks without taking his eyes off the road, searching the streets and houses as we pass by. The houses are immaculate with brick exteriors, fancy shutters, and yards cared for by a gardener. Definitely above my pay grade.