Dead Run (3 page)

“Okay, Hub, give him his gear.”

Baseball-cap guy hands me a messenger bag with the Champion Courier logo on it. There's something inside, so I lift the flap and feel around. It's a beaten-up cell phone with the number 13 written in marker on the back. There's also a pad of forms, packed with dense text. Robin sees me staring at the pieces of paper, trying to figure them out.

“This is all your stuff now. You'll get your orders from Hub.” She tilts her head toward the guy with the green ballcap. “He'll text you with an address and the code P-U for pickup, or D-O for drop off. When you do a pickup, you get whoever's there to sign the blue sheet. When you drop, you get them to sign the red. You never, ever leave without a signature.”

“So what happens if I don't get a signature?”

“That's what I'm saying. You never let it happen. Unless there's nobody home for the D-O—then it's a dead run.” She shrugs. “Not your fault, but you'll still probably catch shit from the client for it. You got all that?”

“Easy,” I say. Hub raises his eyebrows—pretty obvious he doesn't believe me. Robin reaches over and ruffles my hair, like I'm a little kid.

“Aww, check out the new guy, Hub. All balls, no brains. Adorable. C'mon. Let's go.”

Riding with Robin is like nothing I've done before. I'm used to acting like cars and trucks are things to be avoided. Hazards. But Robin gets up close, sliding through spaces between cars with barely an inch to spare. It's like the street is a river and she's swimming with the current, smooth and powerful. She doesn't have any fear. She doesn't ever stop.

Me, it's more like I'm drowning. I'm jerking the handlebars around, slamming on my brakes, stuttering through the street. And barely keeping Robin in sight.

Then Robin breaks hard right, swerving across two lanes to dive into an underground parking lot entrance. I try to follow and hear a horn blast and squeal of brakes behind me.

Oh crap.

I don't need to look over my shoulder to know that I'm about to become part of a dump truck's grille. I swerve hard, desperate. I can feel the air as the truck slices by me, barely missing my rear tire. I finally skid to a stop next to Robin in the parking lot. Sweat prickles all over my body. That was close.

“Wow,” she says. Underneath her black helmet, her eyes are wide.

“What?” I grunt, panting.

“Never saw fresh meat nearly become hamburger on day one. Usually takes a little longer.”

Not cool. I am not impressing her. I can't think of anything smart to say. Can't even catch my breath.

“Listen, I've got these extra wheels in my bag if you want them,” she says.

“Wheels?” I say, still wheezing.

“Training wheels, little cute ones.” She's smiling now, enjoying the teasing. Seeing if I'll lose it.

“Screw you, Robin.” Tough words, but I'm trying to keep my smile down. Maybe it is a little funny, in a sick near-death kind of way. And I figure that if I want to make it with her, I'd better act like I can handle this. Handle her. Still, my arms are shaking as we get going again. We spin right through the orange-lit underground parking lot, emerging out the other side on a different street. A couple of minutes later, we lock up our bikes at the base of a massive metal-and-glass tower. Sliding doors hiss open, and we walk into a herd of business suits. When we reach the receptionist, Robin becomes all professional and polite. She takes two big plastic tubes from the receptionist and stuffs one into her bag. She hands the other one to me. “Here we go. Your first D-O.”

Chapter Six

Robin and I stay together for about three blocks. Then she pulls over onto the sidewalk.

“Cut down this alley. There's a loading dock with a freight elevator. The crew there don't mind if you use it—just take your bike up on the elevator with you. I'll make my drop, then meet you back here.”

I do what she says. Sure enough, I just wave to the two men in blue overalls who are working the loading dock. They barely look at me. Then I walk my bike into the big cage of the freight elevator and punch the button marked 14. The gates grind shut, and the elevator jerks upward. When it stops, I roll my bike out into a storage area. This feels a little weird, like I'm trespassing. I lean the bike against the wall and head out an open door into a corridor. All of a sudden, I've gone from dirty backrooms and cleaning supplies to carpeted hallways and power suits. I'm totally out of place. And totally lost. A woman with expensive-looking clothes and perfect blond hair nearly walks into me. She looks up from her phone, startled.

“You don't belong here,” she says, pointing a shiny red fingernail down the hall toward a high desk.

Finally—the receptionist. When I reach her and hand over the tube, she holds up a hand to keep me quiet. She's talking into her headset phone with a chirpy voice, something about calendars and schedules. Without stopping her chatter, she opens the top of the tube and unrolls a set of blueprints. Satisfied, she signs my pad. I start to thank her, but she holds up her finger again to shut me up. Whatever. The looks I'm getting, these people clearly think I'm one step up from dirt.

Then I happen to glance up, over her shoulder. Holy crap—the view of the city from up here is amazing! The office has enormous floor-to-ceiling windows. As I walk toward the glass, I can see the streets laid out in a huge grid. Canyons of buildings that seem to go on forever. Streams of multicolored cars, inching along. Wow. I've never been this high up before. Then my phone vibrates. It's a text from Robin.

Where r u? 2 slo!

I hustle back, collect my bike and ride the elevator down again. I see her at the end of the loading dock, drumming one finger against the handlebars.

“Finally!” She pulls on her helmet and tightens a strap. “What took you so long? Decided to make a few investments? Chat up a sexy secretary?”

“The secretary was hot,” I say. “Naw, I just got lost. Distracted. Sorry.”

She rolls her eyes. “Distracted? What are you, a puppy? All right, we've got to make up some time.”

“No prob. I'll just push it. Sprint through the next drop. I'm fast.”

“I'm sure you are. But let me tell you a secret.” She leans across her bike, serious. “It's not enough to be fast in the city. You have to be smart.” She taps my helmet. “Use your head, not your legs. Plan your route, know the traffic, take shortcuts.” She sees the puzzled look in my eyes and then sighs. “Just keep up and learn.”

We go. At the next intersection, Robin pulls up on the left side of a delivery truck that's waiting at the light.

“Grab on,” she calls out. “We're skitching. Stay low.” What the hell? I watch as the truck starts to pull away. Robin is crouched over, trying to stay out of sight of the driver as she hangs on to the truck with one hand and steers her bike with the other. I reach out too slowly, scraping my fingers over the paint as the truck pulls away.

“Robin!” I yell. But she's gone.

Chapter Seven

I watch her and the truck speed away. Keep up and learn. Not as easy as I thought. I finally find Robin at the next drop. From there on in, the rest of the day is a blur of offices, cars, pavement, crowds. And Robin, her black T-shirt and helmet always half a block ahead.

Hours later, the streets start to fill up with a warm orange glow as the setting sun reflects off all the glass buildings. The suits are pouring out of their offices into the street, headed home. I'm waiting outside a bank for Robin to finish her last drop of the day. The hot-dog cart next to me smells way too good, and my stomach grumbles. I realize I never stopped for lunch. Just pounded a couple of energy drinks along the way.

When Robin emerges, I'm holding two hot dogs and two cans of cola.

“Listen, I know we've just met,” I say seriously, “but can I invite you to dinner?”

I see her trying to contain a smile. She takes off her helmet, running a hand through her spiky red hair.

“You've got zero class, Sam. But you work fast, I'll give you that.”

We sit on the steps of the city library, right beside one of the big stone lions. After the rush of the day, it's awesome to just stop and sit. Especially with Robin. Despite a hard day of riding, she's still got this energy, this edge. I also get the feeling she isn't impressed easily. I kind of like that challenge. The fact that she has a killer bod doesn't hurt either. I'm trying not to stare at her tight T-shirt and cycling shorts.

“Congratulations on surviving your first day,” she says. We toast with our cans.

“Almost didn't make it,” I say. “Thanks for dragging me along.”

“Not a problem. Actually, you weren't as bad as most of the new guys. They last a day, then decide that looking cool as a courier is more fun than doing the work.”

“I understand that,” I say. “It is way harder than I thought it would be.”

“So why are you doing this?” she asks, dabbing at some ketchup on her chin. “It's kind of a shitty job.” I notice that her fingernails have black polish on them, chipped on the edges.

“It's complicated,” I say. “I need some money.”

She snorts. “Except the pay is crap.”

“Yeah, there are some other reasons as well.”

“Ooh, sounds mysterious. Are you on the run? In trouble with the law?” she says, raising one eyebrow. “Are you a spy?”

I laugh. “No, nothing like that. It's just…kind of stupid.”

“I'm good with stupid.” She points a finger at herself. “Check it out—I dropped out of high school to be a courier, which means I get first dibs on stupid. So what is it?”

“I want Viktor to be my coach. For cycling. I race.”

“I saw that conversation in the garage today,” she says, nodding. Robin leans in toward me. “You came off as a bit desperate.”

“I wasn't exactly desperate—” I start to say, but Robin cuts me off.

“Naw, you totally were. So you think Viktor's that great? Isn't he kind of… old?”

“He is now. But he used to be great. Have you looked at some of the stuff in his office? He was the best. And I want to be as good as he was.”

Robin stretches. Thinking. Then stops and looks at me, head tilted to one side like a bird. “I bet you don't need him to be great.”

Before I can answer, her phone rings. She digs it out of her messenger bag and looks at the screen. “Speak of the devil. It's the man himself. Viktor.” She answers it, listens, then hangs up without saying anything. Her face is serious.

“I've got to go.”

“You've got a run? Now?” I look at my watch. “Isn't everything closed up?”

“My turn to be mysterious. I can't explain,” she says. She straps her helmet on. “It's a special delivery.”

“Okay. I'll see you tomorrow?” I try not to sound too eager. Too desperate. But it doesn't work. Robin laughs and nods.

“Good night, Sam. Thanks for dinner.” She looks at me for a moment. Then she's gone, back into the dark streets.

But that final look she gave me is all it takes. It makes me feel awesome, amazing. I ride home in the dark thinking about her. I'm a jet fighter, ripping through the canyons of the street. Nothing can stop me.

Chapter Eight

A couple of weeks later, things have changed. And it's driving me nuts. Robin and I keep flirting. But we don't get to see much of each other. Robin and I are somehow always assigned to different sections of the city. I'm not sure if Viktor is trying to screw with us by keeping Robin and me apart. I wouldn't put it past him. The old man is truly starting to piss me off. Mainly because of the so-called training sessions.

This morning is no different from the others. It's five in the morning. I'm fully soaked from the rain when I meet Viktor at the warehouse next to Champion Couriers. I'm pretty sure that we're not supposed to be here. When it rains, we always use the same abandoned warehouse. I don't think anyone cares about the place—it's basically a big empty box with a bunch of broken windows. But we have to slide through a chained door that Viktor had me force open.

Viktor flicks some heavy switches. Pools of light flicker on down the length of the warehouse. There are big concrete columns marching away into the distance. The floor is dry, but the air is still damp. I'm shivering, even in my hoodie. Viktor slaps his hands together.

“Cold, heh? Let's get you moving. Today we practice cornering again. I want you to go in between the columns, like we did before. Remember, no brakes. Just balance.”

Aw, crap. Not this again. The last few times we've been here, Viktor has had me weave in between these stupid columns. Thing is, I'm supposed to do it as fast as possible. No brakes, no turning the handlebars. I need to steer just by shifting my weight, leaning into and away from the columns. It's tricky, and I'm not getting any better at it. I hate it.

But what bugs me is that I'm starting to think Viktor is just making this stuff up. That maybe he's not the coach I thought he was. When I imagined getting trained by an Olympic winner, I kind of thought it would be hard-core, professional. By having a coach like him, I thought I'd made it to the big time.

Viktor waits impatiently for me to get going, a pudgy lump in his old gray sweater and faded jeans. There's a fresh wave of rain against the roof, and I feel a drop hit my shoulder. None of this feels like the big time.

I saddle up and push off. Gaining speed, I make one full circuit of the warehouse, dodging back and forth around the concrete columns. Left, right. The flickering fluorescent lights make it hard to judge distance. Left, right. Then I cut a corner too close, clipping the base of a column. I spill, hitting the floor hard. My crash echoes around the huge building and dies away. Silence. Then the sound of Viktor laughing.

I pick myself up and stomp toward him.