Submerged(Bound Together Book 1)(27)
“Got it,” I tell him, searching the shadows and making note of all the vehicles we pass. Two on the side street immediately catch my attention. One had someone sitting in the driver’s seat, and the other might as well have had COPS painted across the side in bright pink paint. Fortunately, Crazy K doesn’t notice one bit.
Crazy K rolls slowly towards the stop sign, and I get myself into position, donning my thick pair of leather gloves. As soon as we stop, I open the passenger door and slip out into the night. I keep to the shadows of the street before I reach the house directly to the left of the one I’m after. Checking the street one more time for any sign of life, I slip into the shadows of the house.
Once I reach the back, two quick fence-hops and I’m in the backyard of the house I’m looking for. Two-Six-Six-Four. I quickly enter the code into the security keypad on the garage backdoor and am instantly granted access. As soon as the door is securely relocked behind me, I engage the BMW. The silver SAV is parked right where it’s supposed to be. The driver’s door isn’t locked so I slip inside the soft black leather interior and get to work at starting the car. After inserting the dummy key into the ignition and a few swipes on the keypad of the fancy gizmo, I’m overriding the ignition code that starts the vehicle. Twenty long seconds later, the light turns green, signaling that I can now start the car with the dummy key.
Piece of cake.
When the garage door is fully up, I slowly back the BMW out. Peering from my left and my right incisively, I maneuver the vehicle onto the street and away from Wisteria. Crazy K waits down the block, and as soon as I pass and he is certain I’m not being tailed, he pulls out to trail behind at a safe distance.
On the open road, I finally take in the vehicle I just successfully swiped. It’s definitely a family car dripping in luxury. I don’t even want to think of how many Bureau paychecks it would take to afford this baby. The monthly payments alone would probably be as much as my rent. The dash is lit up with a soft, iridescent glow and reflects off the angel hanging from the rearview mirror. The crystal draws my attention, slightly swaying back and forth, as if taunting me. As if it knows that I’m no angel. Not anymore.
Arriving back at the facility, I pull into the large bay and park the car in its designated spot. I don’t have much time before the next car arrives, so I get to work on cataloging the changes I’m making. Cataloging them first for the sake of the organization, but also with my handy camera. I snap quick pictures of the real VIN numbers before we remove and replace them with their new identification. Not that the bureau really cares about getting these cars back. Hell, that’s what you have insurance for. No, we need them as a stepping-stone for the ironclad case we’re building against Roman and this entire organization.
The bay opens just as I’m slipping my phone back in my pocket. Styx and Gage pull in, driving a newer Jaguar. They hop out, quietly discussing something that I don’t really give a shit about so I continue to tune them out. I don’t really know what my problem is with Gage other than he’s just a fuckwad with a capital F. He hasn’t really done anything to me. He just always seems to rub me the wrong way. Maybe it’s the way he’s so casual and clueless all at the same time. Whether we’re fixing cars or boosting them, it’s like his head isn’t quite wrapping around the task at hand. Throw in the fact that he brags constantly about all the girls he bags, and you’ve got one hell of a cocky bastard. I’m surprised he’s able to lug around that ego as well as he does. And I’m not quite sure how he bags half the chicks he’s always bragging about cause the guy stinks like diesel fuel and pot half the damn time. Must be some high-class ladies he’s hooking up with.
Styx throws me the keys before they slip into the back of the driver’s car and head off into the night for the next boost. I get to work and removing the documentation from the vehicle. As if on autopilot, I roll through the motions of stripping the car and getting it ready for what’s next. For this one, it’s a fresh coat of paint before she’s off to Mexico on the next cargo container at McCarran. As I’m making sure all of the personal effects are removed, I come across a bright pink car seat in the backseat.
What the hell?
I know this car. It was in the shop recently for repairs, and I delivered it to the owner only two days ago. I stand there, really taking in the car for the first time since it arrived a handful of minutes ago. My gut churns and rolls as the realization settles in. We’ve swiped the car of the woman with the baby that I met on Friday. No, not that woman. Her daughter’s. C. Mathewson. The paperwork never did say what her first name was, but uneasiness races through me.