Overdrive (29 page)

I spread it across the top of the cabinet.

The plans are hardly detailed, with only the key rooms identified. I'm no engineer, but it doesn't look to me like the Trophy Case even has a basement level, let alone a secret room. “Damn it. Anything else in there?”

“Empty.”

Is it possible we're wrong? That Roger doesn't have Eleanor at all?

No. Mat tracked the VIN number.

But if not in the warehouse with the other three Shelbys–

Three.

Identical except for color.

Switch the paint and–

My heart starts picking up speed. I hold on to Chelsea for balance. “This is going to sound crazy, but I think Eleanor is
at
the warehouse. She's been hiding in plain sight.”

The List

Jack–1970 Dodge Super Bee 426

José–1965 Corvette Mako Shark II

Reggie–1968 Chevy ZL1 Camaro

Adam–1970 Dodge Hemi Coronet R/T

George–1968 Corvette Cosma Ray

James–1964 Aston Martin DBS

Eleanor–1967 Mustang Shelby GT500

I'VE CHEWED MY FINGERNAILS TO
the quick and turned the inside of my cheek into raw hamburger. Adrenaline pumps through my veins.

Everything
rests on tonight.

At any other time, the steady rumble of Nick's Mustang would provide comfort. Now it just heightens my anxiety. I can't shake the feeling that Roger's onto us, that this is all going to blow up in our faces.

Nick shines the headlights on the first gate of the Trophy Case. Chelsea has already started working on picking the lock.

“I can't do it.” Her voice is pained, like she's teetering on tears.

If she cries, I'm done too. It's building up, the weariness in my muscles, the monotonous pounding of a never-ending migraine. I'm now almost thirty-six hours without sleep and I still have no idea if Emma's alive. Hurt.

Dead.

“I know I said there wasn't a lock I couldn't pick . . .” Chelsea breaks off with a string of curses. “But fuck, you guys, I think this is it.”

“You can do it,” I croak out.

Behind us, Mat has abandoned trying to disarm the alarms and moved on to disabling the cameras. The plan must be executed with pinpoint precision–one slipup and the domino effect will be catastrophic.

Nick takes my hand.

The warmth helps, but my entire body still trembles. “What if we can't get Emma?”

He squeezes.

A single tear burns a trail down my cheek.

Even he'd admit our plan's shaky at best. Roger will head to the warehouse when we tell him we've got the Aston Martin. But getting Riley there before Roger realizes we've duped him is going to take a timing miracle. And perhaps the scariest part is convincing Riley to let Emma go before things get crazy.

Unless Mat and Chelsea find her first–which is the plan.

Mat has hacked into Kevin's cell phone and downloaded his GPS coordinates–we tracked him to a small house owned by Riley's cousin on the outskirts of town. Nick says the guy is a long-haul trucker and isn't home much. It's a stretch, but Mat figures Riley is keeping Emma there with Kevin. Riley will bring reinforcements to the warehouse and Kevin won't expect Mat to have found him. Kevin doesn't do well with surprises.

Nick takes my chin in his fingertips and gently turns my face to his. For one perfect moment, I almost believe everything can be okay. He touches my cheekbone, my jawline, studying me like this is our last moment together. As though somehow, tonight marks the end. I don't know, maybe it does.

“We can do this, Jules.”

I'm not convinced. Breaking into the Trophy Case is our biggest challenge yet.

He leans forward and brushes his lips against mine. They're sweet like cotton candy, feather-soft. “Nick . . .”

Chelsea's voice breaks through the moment. “Holy fuck, you guys, I did it!”

I shake it off. “We're up.”

Nick kisses me again. “Good luck.”

I slide into the driver's seat and wait while Nick and Mat cut the perimeter alarms. Listen for anything unusual. I keep my eyes trained to the rearview, watching for headlights, surprise guests. There's no real reason Roger should suspect anything, except, as we've already figured out, he's a crafty SOB.

Chelsea unlocks the second gate and I drive through. Mat takes the second car and parks it around the corner by the Dumpster outside the fence. Hidden, but not camouflaged.

I meet Chelsea at the front door.

She digs a pick out of her pack and holds it up into the light. “Behold, the Slagel.”

It looks the same as the rest of her tools, a slender metal rod with a jagged-edged tip. “Sounds like something out of
Lord of the Rings
.”

“That's Smeagol.” She gives me a look that suggests I'm an idiot for not knowing the difference. “This is for electronic locks–designed by James Slagel, a security guru for IBM.”

“Still lost.”

Chelsea inserts the tool into the keyhole and grunts. “It works by . . . shit . . . by selectively pulling internal parts of the . . .” There's a loud snap. “Fuck.”

The hair on the back of my neck stands on end. “Tell me you didn't break it.”

“Of course I broke it,” she says. “And I just fixed this stupid nail.”

The tension bunched between my shoulder blades loosens a bit.

Seconds later, the lock disengages.

“Holy crap, Chelsea, it worked!”

She blows on the end of the Slagel like it's a loaded pistol and strikes a pose. “I am totally rocking this lock picker shit.”

From the corner of my eye, I catch Nick and Mat jogging toward us. “Yeah, you are.” My voice goes soft and I work hard not to cry. “Find Emma, okay?”

She pulls me into a hug. “Be safe.”

I hang on a little longer, seeking assurance, comfort, a sign that this is all going to work out. It means trusting everyone to do their part–and I've never been very good at that.

“You're set,” Mat says, as Chelsea and I break apart. “Alarms are down. Cameras too.”

I press my hand against his cheek. “You're a genius.”

He tries to shrug it away, but I can see the emotion trapped behind his dark eyes. They shimmer just like mine. I look away to chase the tears.

“This is it, guys,” I say. “No turning back from here.”

Mat squeezes my hand. “I should stay.”

“No. You and Chelsea need to find Emma.” I inhale a shaky breath. “Please, bring my sister home.”

“We'll bring
our
sister home,” Mat says. He pushes a piece of paper into the palm of my hand. “This is the VIN number for Eleanor. You know where to find the VIN, right?”

I must look annoyed because he rolls his eyes. “Jesus. Of course you do.”

“It won't matter,” Nick says. “Riley doesn't know anything about the Morrison angle. Any of those Shelbys will work.”

He's right, but stealing the Morrison car from right under Roger's nose feels justified, a little payback for betraying us, for having the car all along. If I have time, that's the one I'll take.

We gather in a circle for a moment of silence. A chance to think, plan, pray . . . to believe. I don't know what happens next, whether we can pull off what needs to be done, but I'm struck by the overwhelming sense that after so many years chasing the ghosts of my past, I'm finally right where I belong.

I bounce on the tips of my toes and shake out the nerves.

Blood rushes through my veins.

“It's go time,” I say.

  •  •  •  

When they're back in a cell reception zone, Chelsea will call Roger and say we've recovered the Aston Martin. Three minutes after that, Mat will message Riley and confirm that we have the Shelby, and that we've arranged a meeting with our buyer–at a secret location we'll reveal only
when
he releases Emma.

Mat has Photoshopped a series of pictures showing Nick with one of the Shelbys to show to Riley as proof. If I hadn't seen him do it, I would have thought them real.

Finally, Chelsea will call the police.

It's this last part that makes me the most nervous, and the reason the timing must be in sync. For it to work, everyone–including the cops–must converge at the Trophy Case around roughly the same time. Hopefully, the police will provide enough of a distraction for Nick and me to make a clean getaway, while still bringing both Riley and Roger to justice.

Nick and I run through the hallways, yanking open doors that have been disarmed thanks to Mat's mad hacking skills. I'm nervous and scared, but there's something else too. The rush of adrenaline that makes me wonder if, when this is all over, I can truly give it up.

We push through the last door and flick on the main lights. The overhead fluorescents flicker and buzz to life. As soon as my eyes adjust, I spot the three Mustangs.

My heart feels like it's falling into my stomach.

“I can't believe he painted it,” I say, running my hand along the hood of the first car. It's not Eleanor.

“Over here,” Nick says. “The numbers match.”

The real Eleanor is a magnet, pulling me to her. I touch the doors, the headlights, the bumper, the tires. My fingers trail along the twin racing stripes up the center of the hood, and then the single line of white along the side.

My pulse thrums with the need to drive her.

To hear the roar of the engine and feel the torque from three hundred twenty solid pounds of horse.

Nick twirls me around and kisses me hard on the lips. “Stay in one piece.”

I hate that we have to separate, but one of us has to keep watch. If Riley arrives with the Aston Martin first, Nick will lead him to me and the car to negotiate a trade-off. If it's Roger, he'll distract him. Somehow. And if, by some terrible turn of events, the police are first to arrive on the scene . . .

We're screwed.

Without working cell phones, there's no logical way to manage the timing.

“Go,” I say, pushing him toward the door. It's too hard to think with him around anyway.

He nods. “If anything happens . . .”

I blink to stop the tears. “I know.”

  •  •  •  

The alarm on my stopwatch beeps three times. Any minute now, Roger, Riley, maybe both, should arrive. I listen for sounds, but the only thing I hear is the
thump-thump-thump
of my heart.

My walkie-talkie crackles to life. “Jules, someone's here.”

I start to pace.

The countdown begins in my head. I estimate less than a minute from where Nick would have seen the car approach to the gates. Everything's unlocked, which Mat says will “look” like a malfunction. He'll be so pissed–panicked?–he won't bother to lock the gates behind him.

The walkie-talkie sizzles again, but Nick's voice cuts in and out. I can't make out anything he's saying. I push the talk button and hold the device close to my lips. “Nick? I can't hear you. Is it Riley?”

No answer.

“Nick? Are the police here?”

Still nothing. I pound on the front of the walkie-talkie, like I can beat it into working properly. Try again. “Tell me it's Roger.”

The hairs on the back of my neck stand on end as I sense a presence behind me.

I turn slowly and my stomach bottoms out.

“It's Roger,” Roger says.

I HOLD MY HANDS UP
and take three giant steps back, aware I have nothing to protect myself with. I don't have a weapon, no source of communication. It's just me and Roger.

“I really thought we had a deal,” he says.

“Funny, me too.” Fear makes me cocky, so I straighten my spine and lift my chin with false defiance. “But then you lied.” He takes a step forward. I move back and hold up one hand. “Stop right there.”

Roger stills. “I never lied to you, Julia. I had planned to honor all of your requests. Chelsea's Harvard application is already in progress. Nick's money. Finding Mat's family.” He raises his hands. “All to be yours, when the four of you finished the job.”

“Except you set us up to fail.”

His eyebrows knit. “I gave you everything you asked for.”

“Stop playing games.” Exasperation makes my voice lift. “The car. Eleanor. She was here all along.”

His face blanks and that's when I realize he doesn't know. It's the only explanation that makes sense. Roger was collecting Shelbys in search of Morrison's ride, but never knew he'd been in possession of the original vehicle all along. But how could he not?

Roger shakes his head. “It can't be. . . . Eloise would have known.” His skin pales. “Dear God . . . before she died, there was a secret . . . something about ‘the perfect anniversary gift.' I never gave it another thought. But now . . . this must have been her secret, the gift she never had a chance to give me.”

My heart softens at his sheer look of defeat and loss. I can't help it–I care. “We know why the Bond car was so important.” His eyes lift to meet mine and I swear I see tears. “And I get the deadline now.” A pained expression flashes across his face. “But Jim's car . . .”

“My wife was always such a fan of his,” he says. “We met through him at a concert, had our first date in a replica Shelby. The Doors played on the radio. It was so important to both of us.” His voice trails off. “When she opened this place, she said it felt empty without that car. So much I couldn't give her. . . .” His bottom lip trembles. “And I couldn't even give her that.”

Instead, she found it herself.

I gather my hair into a ponytail and squeeze the back of my neck. Of course his confession touches me; I'm not a monster.