Overdrive (20 page)

I flag Nick over. “Sure, I'll just make a quick pit stop for a paper towel.”

Nick raises an eyebrow. “What for?”

I grab his hand. “To mop up your drool when you see where we're going.”

  •  •  •  

A picture of the Cosma Ray features prominently on the banner that stretches across the entrance to the Barris exhibit. The line is about fifty people deep. I stand on tiptoes to peer over the crowd, but there's no point. The showroom is jam-packed with gawkers.

Nick waves me over. “Check this out.”

It's the tenth time I've heard this since we hit up the Mustang exhibit more than half an hour ago. He's a kid in a candy store, drooling over every make and model like a salivating English Mastiff. Every few minutes he checks in to show off a picture or fire off a statistic. No, I had
no idea
that the first Mustang was unveiled in 1964.
Fascinating.

“You might want to go see what your boyfriend wants,” Chelsea says. “He's got that puppy dog eye thing going on.”

“He's not my–”

She nudges my shoulder with enough force to knock me out of line. “Teasing would be so much easier if you dropped the denials.”

Solid point, except I'm in full-on avoidance mode. No question the tension between us has shifted from animosity to that awkward flirty stage. I'm trying to ignore it, but it's impossible when we're always together. His essence is everywhere.

I elbow my way to him through a crowd gathered at the other end of the room. I'm a hot sweaty mess when I finally catch up to him. I don't even know if my wig's on straight. “This better be worth it.”

It totally is.

“Eleanor,” he says.

Not
our
Eleanor–the movie version from
Gone in Sixty Seconds
. The film that vaulted the Mustang back into the spotlight. Even a nonbeliever can understand her appeal–that shiny Gunmetal Gray body, the twin racing stripes that cut through the center of the hood. This car . . . it single-handedly has the power to make me rethink every negative thing I've ever said about Mustangs.

“Jesus.”

Nick rubs the back of his neck. “She's a beauty, all right. I could stand here all day.”

Me too, but the universe has other plans. Mat's voice pings through the earpiece. “We're moving.”

I tug on Nick's sleeve. “Time to go. We have a date with George.”

  •  •  •  

The brochures don't do it justice.

That's my first thought when we muscle our way for a close-up view of the Cosma Ray.

My second is that there's no way in hell we're getting out of here with this car. Forget the live–as in, it will
zap
you–security fencing and the excessive, borderline obsessive, cameras. That's bad enough. But the Barris exhibit is at the far end of the museum, and several cars block the closest exit. For a clean break, we'd have to hot-wire all of them–and we're not talking Camrys–without tripping a single alarm.

Things are about to get messy.

Mat leans close. “We need to find a security flaw.”

“Look at this place,” I say. “It was built not to have any.”

Cameras flash-blink-flash all around us. Voices rise and fall with various degrees of awe. I hate to admit it, but for a Corvette, George is making all the right moves. “Can you hack the system?”

Mat adjusts his fake glasses. “The renovations aren't totally finished, which might leave a few gaps in their technology. I'll take a look.”

An exuberant fan jostles me from behind and I pitch forward into the perimeter fence. I twist to avoid hitting the wire, but my shirt rides up, leaving the side of my stomach exposed. My skin connects and–

Nothing.

Steadying myself, I raise an eyebrow.

“Maybe they're not live during the day?” he says.

Good thing. “But they will be tonight?”

“I'd be shocked if they weren't.” He grins, clearly pleased with himself.

It takes me a second to catch the pun. “Good one.”

I snap off a couple of pictures while Mat keeps an eye out for Chelsea and Nick, who have wandered off to see where the Barris cars will be held overnight. I zoom in on everything from George's tires to his door handles. They're keyless.

Mat touches my shoulder. “We should go.”

I follow his gaze to where two security cops have begun weaving through the crowd toward us. They're big, burly, and determined. My pulse speeds up. “You think they made us?”

Mat lets out a breath as they pass. “Not yet. I don't know how long our luck will hold, though.”

I check the time on my cell. “At least six hours. Because that's the soonest we're getting back into this building.”

IT'S GO TIME.

Not that we can
go
far until Mat gets us inside the Petersen.

Moonlight reflects off the silver crisscrossing ribbons of steel that frame the museum's futuristic architecture. The surrounding LED lights are supposed to suggest the speed of an automobile ripping through the wind, but right now, everything moves in slow motion. My body hums with restless energy.

Nick's boot snaps a twig, causing me to jump.

He puts his hand on my back. “Deep breath.”

Any second, the roving camera outside the front entrance will rotate toward us, where we'll be smack dab in the center of its lens. Busted.

“Hang tight.” Mat's low murmur hums through the earpiece. “Almost there.”

Move too far left or right, and we risk triggering the motion sensor alarms that dot the perimeter. I shuffle closer to Nick. His ragged breathing whispers across the top of my head. There's mere inches between us.

“Camera one, moving,” Nick says.

Air traps in my lungs.

“Got it,” Mat says. “You're clear.”

Relief flickers over me like warm rain. “Chelsea, you're up.”

Nick presses up against me to let Chelsea pass. His heartbeat pulses through our clothes. He pulls me close. It feels so good to be wrapped in his embrace that I almost forget where we are.

I put some distance between us.

The surrounding streets go quiet but I'm still uneasy. This kind of boost should take weeks, maybe months to pull off. One hour staking out the place–that's the extent of our physical recon. We did everything else online.

“I'll need more than a standard torsion wrench,” Chelsea mutters. “Dammit, I forgot my ball pick.”

“Men around the world are saying a prayer in thanks right now,” Nick says.

“Aren't you a fucking comedian?” Before he can respond, Chelsea adds, “That was rhetorical. Jules, stop groping your boyfriend and find my Slagel pick.”

I'm stunned frozen.

She sighs. “
That
wasn't rhetorical.”

I grab her pack and start fishing around for what I can only assume are special lock-picking tools. They all look the same. I hold one outright but she shakes her head. “That's the half-diamond.”

Of course it is.

I gather all the tools in my hand like straws. “Pick a pick, any pick.”

Chelsea stares at me like I'm a moron, rolls her eyes, and then yanks one of them from the bunch. “You two are meant for each other. Seriously.”

Heat flushes up my neck. Embarrassed, I force myself not to look at Nick.

“No pressure guys, but we've got about twenty seconds of loop before the feed repeats,” Mat says. “No guarantees it's a smooth transition.”

Which means Chelsea should pick up the pace.

She fiddles with the pick, bites off a string of serious curses, and then pops off the lock. Her relief comes out in a loud
whoosh.
“We're in.”

My stomach does a slow roll.

“Five seconds,” Mat warns.

Nick pushes open the door and we all file through. It takes a second for my eyes to adjust to the lighting. The entire lobby is bathed in a warm blue glow. A red
EXIT
sign blinks in the far corner.

An army of ants scampers along my skin. I can't shake the feeling we're under surveillance, that there's something Mat missed.

The scooped overhead ceiling and rounded walls give off the illusion that you're standing under a giant dome. On the other side of the entrance, shadowed vehicle outlines begin to take shape.

Nick guides us through the virtual blueprints we've committed to memory. “Fifty paces forward.”

We need to find the exhibit showroom again to make sure the car's been moved. Our best guess is that the Cosma Ray will be stored in the loading docks at the back of the building.

The Barris exhibit leaves at first light, en route to a car show on the other end of the country. This is our only opportunity to make the grab before George gets too far out of range.

Chelsea puts one hand on my shoulder and counts our steps as I follow behind Nick.

At fifty paces, we pivot right, walk thirty steps, and turn left. I shine a small flashlight on a familiar door and make like I'm about to twist the knob.

Chelsea grabs my wrist. “Wait. You're not wearing gloves.”

Shit.
I sling my pack off my shoulder and dig around until I find them. Amateur move.

“It's locked,” Chelsea says. She quickly sets to work on the lock and seconds later, we're through.

I'm impressed. “You are a Jedi.”

“Wait until you see what I can do with my ball pick.”

The easy laughter fades to disappointment when my quick flashlight pass over the room reveals nothing but air.

“Empty,” Nick says. “Thought maybe we'd get lucky and the car would still be here.”

Too easy. “It's got to be on the loading dock.”

We retrace our steps, turning left, right. A second corridor up ahead steers us around a corner. The synchronized
thunk
of our footsteps echoes through the halls.

At another locked door, Nick pulls out his cell and checks the blueprints. “After this, we're home free.”

Chelsea examines the lock. “It's electronic.” She lowers her lips to the Bluetooth mic clipped to the collar of her jacket. “Sending you the specs now, Mat.”

“On it,” Mat says.

“I'm heading back,” Chelsea says. I swallow hard and give her a quick hug. She braces my shoulders, holds my gaze. “You've got this.”

My heart jackhammers. “We don't have a choice.”

Nick and I slide through the door and aim our flashlights at the warehouse-style space. Cars are lined up on the cement floor, strategically parked in rows of eight. If the Cosma Ray is somewhere in the middle, we're screwed.

“George isn't here,” Nick says.

“He has to be.”

His flashlight beam bounces off the walls, reflecting off windshields and side mirrors. He's right. There's no sign of the Cosma Ray.

“The rest of the Barris cars are . . .” I pause as his flashlight beam catches a glint of orange. “Wait. Go back.” The light hovers over a Stingray hood. “There you are.”

Tucked behind an oversize storage crate.

We almost missed it.

I hit my mic. “Eyes on George.”

“But there's no available exit,” Nick says.

All hope deflates when I spot the issues. Heavy crates block the bay doors. There's only one other exit, and it leads straight to the main artery of the museum. If we can fit George through–and it's a big if–we'll have to drive through the maze of corridors to find an exit.

My limbs go limp. “It's impossible.”

“Oh ye of little faith,” he jokes. “Tight, yes. But doable.”

He's fucking crazy.

But we've run out of options. Nick yanks the Slim Jim out of my pack, pops the lock, and motions for me to get in the car. “This is your domain.”

“Hold up, are you saying I'm better at this than you?”

He winks. “Let's not push it.”

I slide into the car before he can see the blush that creeps up my neck. George has one seriously tricked out interior. Walnut finish coats the steering wheel and side panels. Leather covers the seats. The upgraded, obviously modern entertainment console even has a–

Nick taps the roof. “I'm not seeing any action.”

“There's a fucking TV in here.”

He leans in through the window. “Huh. Well, how about you catch up on your soaps a little later?”

“Screw you, dick.”

He flips me the bird but it's all in jest–which makes me think about how far we've come.

I duck under the steering wheel and start disassembling the paneling. The routine comes second nature, but I hesitate. Jesus. It almost
hurts
to take apart this car.

Shaking it off, I focus on grabbing the wires, stripping and twisting them until I feel the connection. The engine sparks before it engages, and then George roars to life.

Vibrations ricochet off the walls.

Nick gives me an enthusiastic thumbs-up and my heart skips with pride. I slide up in the seat and give the 'Vette a little gas. My adrenaline jacks.

Chelsea's
whoop!
blasts into my eardrum. “Sounds good, girl.”

Nick waves me in the direction of the exit.

I inch toward him, careful not to give the car too much gas. As I creep closer, I realize we can't do it. The throughway's too small. I'm just about to give up when I hear Chelsea again. Her voice is high and panic-stricken. “Company. You guys, you've got . . . oh crap. Cops!”

My heart drops like it's falling into my chest.

Nick jogs over to the window and leans in. “You good?”

I can't even see straight through the blinding fog of fear. Emma's face comes into focus. I gasp and press my back into the seat, my fingers wrapped tightly around the steering wheel. “This is it. We're finished.”

“No, I believe in you.” Nick snaps his fingers, forcing me to look at him. “You're the best at this.” He tries to lighten the mood. “You've even got a nickname.”