Payback, page 31
This is my entry point.
Hugging Henry’s coat tight to my body, I run from the safety of the car, parked at the apartment complex across the street, to the ditch. It’s dark already, but my path falls under the dull glow of Wednesday’s floodlights, positioned on the top corners of the building. I keep the hat pulled low over my eyes, slowing once I reach the weeds that consume the land up to the parking lot on the opposite side of the fence.
My blood is pumping as I pause to catch my breath.
Why didn’t you pay off the gate guard?
Can’t erase the video footage, Pete had said with a grimy smirk. This isn’t the movies.
I stare into the dark at the cement tube ahead, probably filled with black widow spiders and rats and who knows what else.
One more breath, and I run for it.
I’m aware of every crunch my shoes make over the snow and frozen weeds. Of the growing darkness as the ditch deepens. The cement circle rises before me, and I’m struck by a sudden, suffocating claustrophobia.
Don’t feel. Don’t fail.
I chant this in my head as my steps drive me forward, and I have to crouch through the tight space.
Don’t feel. Don’t fail.
I feel down the cold cement wall, one hand stretched before me. I bump the grate hard enough to bruise my knuckles and feel for the gap.
Be here. Be here. Be here.
The rough edge of the metal dips beneath my palm. It’s lower than I thought. I squeeze through. How did Pete, short, but thicker than me, manage this with bags full of pills?
Once I’ve cleared the grate, I’m running toward the light. With a huge gasp, I erupt from the other side, nearly colliding with a dumpster. Sneaking around it, I take a moment to get my bearings.
Front entrance to my left. Loading dock to the right.
Hunching low, I make for the loading dock, running alongside the brick exterior. My thoughts turn to Caleb, and Geri, and Moore. The party will be beginning soon. Geri can only cover for me for so long before Paz and Bea get suspicious.
They’re already suspicious.
I can’t worry about that now.
At the edge of the building, I pause, peering around the corner to the cement lot, and the line of pull-down doors, all shut for the night.
The second garage is the one you want. It’s between two video feeds.
Keeping my burner phone, the one I save to contact Caleb, tucked close against my side, I check the time. 6:17 P.M. Guests will be entering the party now—officials from all over the city. Lawmakers, wealthy business owners, unsuspecting friends of the master con himself. The students will be escorting them to their tables. Camille Santos would have seen Caleb at the swearing-in ceremony. Will she try to confront him? Blow his cover?
He knows to keep off the radar.
My fingers drum a pattern against my thigh.
6:20.
6:21.
“Come on,” I whisper.
On cue, one of the motion sensor lights far down the fence, beside the back exit, snaps on. My breath catches. I wait.
A guard in a blue uniform exits the back door on the opposite side of the docks, fifty feet away. In his hand is a black walkie-talkie. His bald head is illuminated by the floodlight directly overhead.
It’s time.
As he makes his way toward the light on the fence, I stride quickly through the shadows toward the second dock. The door is sealed with an electronic lockbox. I type in the code: 1111.
They always keep it the same, Pete said. Changing guards can never remember what it is otherwise. That’s what my buddy always said.
Pete’s buddy—an old guard here that’s since been fired.
Let’s hope the current staff can stay distracted until I get inside.
The numbers light up red.
Teeth grinding together, I try it again: 1111.
Red.
“No.” Pete did not get me this far just to screw me over.
I try it again, but nothing.
Sweat breaks out on my hairline, dripping down the back of my neck. 2222, I try. 3333. I keep going, checking every few seconds for the guard.
“Work,” I demand. “Work.”
9999.
The box clicks. I can hear the guard talking. The hiss of a radio, too close for comfort. I yank open the garage door with all my might, cringing at the metallic groan it makes, and roll into the warehouse. The door settles with what must be a deafening thud behind me. I’m bathed in darkness.
Up. Get up!
I jolt to a crouch, Pete’s directions roaring through my mind.
Straight shot to the first row. Don’t step off the line on the floor. You’ll be between two camera feeds.
The door on the opposite side of the dock clicks. I don’t have time to whip out the burner phone for light—I can’t risk drawing the attention anyway. I race down the pale line on the floor into the black void ahead, hands outstretched, until I collide with a metal shelf.
As the lights turn on, I cut to the side and dive into an aisle.
The harsh overheads bring spots to my vision. I force my eyes open, cramming myself into the smallest compartment at the bottom shelf. Frantically, I take in the sights around me. Shelves, twenty feet high. Boxes—some small enough to carry, others packed in wooden planked crates. A forklift sits to my left.
A W for Wednesday is stamped onto every cardboard surface.
Footsteps squeak across the cement ground. I hold my breath.
Static hisses from a radio. “You see anything?” comes a voice from the other end of the line.
The boots stop.
My chest feels like it’s about to explode.
“Nah. Must have just been animals out by light thirty-seven. I didn’t see anyone.”
Another hiss of static.
“Roger that.”
The boots roll away.
I wait until a door squeaks open, and shut, and the lights overhead go dark again. And then I exhale hard.
On shaky legs, I stand, the blood pounding in my ears as I strain to hear anyone coming. I can’t believe Pete did this so many times. He had help—someone to turn off the cameras. He was arrogant enough to think he couldn’t still get caught.
I am not so delusional.
Using the light from my phone, I crawl from my hiding place and begin searching the boxes.
Blue label, Pete said. Those are the narcotics. Aisle four.
Red labels. Yellow labels. More white than anything. I run around the end of the shelf to the next aisle. Panic brings the bile up my throat.
Finally, blue.
My phone begins to buzz in my pocket. I’m out of time. I need to get out.
I jerk back the line of tape over the top and peel back the cardboard. Inside, heavy plastic surrounds thick bags of pills.
I just need one, but I grab the whole box, just to be sure.
Without delay, I run toward the second garage door, the heavy box clutched to my chest. I’m careful to keep to the line on the floor that the forklifts follow when they load the trucks, the line between the camera feeds, but my phone is buzzing again. Two calls is urgent. Two calls means there’s trouble.
When I’m pressed against the garage door, I hit the button to open it.
This time, I don’t bother waiting, or closing it after me.
I jump down from the loading dock and run toward the nearest gate—the back gate, now open, a black car parked halfway through. Its lights are bright, making silhouettes of the two men striding toward me.
One is a guard.
The other is Min Belk.
“There she is!” Belk shouts, and begins sprinting toward me.
Panicking, I drop the box and run in the opposite direction, toward the dumpster and the drainage ditch. My legs pump beneath me. A yellow flashlight cuts across the ground, across my eyes as I turn back.
With a cry, I trip on the embankment of weeds and go sprawling forward. The cold graveled ground bites into my palms. My knees crack against the dirt, sending bolts of pain up my legs.
Belk is on me in seconds.
“Get up,” he growls. His giant hands grip me roughly around the shoulder and the side of my waist.
This is too soon. I needed more time. How long was I inside the warehouse? How did he get here so fast? He must have left Vale Hall as soon as Moore called him and told him I was missing.
Frantic thoughts beat against my skull. Get away, they scream. Fight. Run. I have the knife. I feel it in my pocket. Not yet. Not yet.
I go limp in his hold. I make him carry me like a rag doll.
It takes time. A few more precious minutes. I hope it’s enough.
The guard is yelling at him. Another is outside running toward us. Belk is explaining it’s not their problem. He tells them not to call the police. He says he’s private security for the company’s owner.
He throws me into the front seat of the car and before he closes the door, whispers, “Run. I dare you.”
I don’t run.
The two guards look at each other blankly. They don’t even look at the open garage behind them.
They don’t realize how long they’ve left the back gate unattended.
“Did you think I wouldn’t find you here?” He berates me as we back out of the entrance to the warehouse and onto the dark street. “I told you before. I tracked that Jeep. Teenagers never lis—”
As he turns the car, the movement ahead cuts his tirade short. The Jeep is parked on the road facing the opposite direction. Sam is standing by the headlights, a box with a blue W stamped on the cardboard siding, clear as day.
“Where did they—”
“Get in!” Charlotte’s shriek cuts through the windows of Belk’s car.
Sam throws the box into the back, slams the door, and jumps into the open passenger side.
“Did you think I was stupid enough to come here alone?” I ask as the Jeep speeds away.
Belk doesn’t answer. His teeth flash in the dark as his lips curl back in a tight grimace.
My head smashes against the back of the seat as he slams his foot down on the gas, and we race after my friends.
CHAPTER 32
I’m supposed to be in that car, I think as Charlotte’s red lights swing around the bend in the road. We were supposed to be together.
Plans have changed.
I glance at Belk, finding glistening beads of sweat now clinging to the stray hairs of his blunt ponytail and the wisp of his mustache.
I slide my hand into my hip pocket, my fingers closing around the folded knife Moore passed me in the Rosalind hallway. My heart is tripping in my chest. I’m not going to die tonight. I’m not. I refuse.
The Jeep swerves around another turn, and a small cry bursts from my throat. Charlotte’s driving recklessly. We’re close enough that I can see the boxes in the back of the Jeep slide to the opposite side.
“Where is she going?” Belk demands.
“How am I supposed to know?”
He’s going too fast for me to jump out—not that I would now. I won’t leave my friends behind.
Each second measures my pulse. Shops with barred windows flash by—a quick cash lender, a pawnshop, a gas station. People on the sidewalk stare at us without surprise. A car chase is just another night in White Bank.
“Slow down! You’re going to run them over!” I press back against the seat as if that will put more distance between the Jeep and Belk’s car.
Belk ignores me, his eyes trained on the road.
The road Charlotte takes tears away into the dead area of town. Abandoned warehouses tagged with graffiti give way to glassy black river and patches of dirty snow, dull in the moonlight.
Just a little farther. We can make it.
My eyes dart to the clock on the dash: 6:48 P.M. At the party, appetizers are being served. Mayor Santos will be preparing her welcome remarks.
A little farther.
An upside-down speed limit sign on the right side of the road flashes white as Charlotte’s lights hit it. The Jeep jerks left, then barrels off the asphalt, as if she’s trying to avoid something in the street. Gravel sprays behind the tires as she slams to a halt.
“Something’s wrong,” I say as Belk pulls off behind her.
“Yes, it is.” He pulls the keys from the ignition. A gun flashes in his waistband as he opens his door, turning my blood cold. “Get out.”
Frantically, I search for movement through the window, but there is no one around. No people. No lights. This area is deserted.
If Belk kills us, no one will know.
I reach for the handle, cold beneath my clammy hand. The clock on the dash says 6:54. Is this the last minute of my life?
I force myself to exit the car. Ahead, Sam gets out of the passenger side, closest to us. His hands are raised above his head.
“We just want to talk,” he says.
“Everyone in the car, get out!” barks Belk.
The frigid air scrapes against my face, my neck. I grip the knife in my pocket, sliding it down to my side. I open it, feeling the cold, thin blade against my palm. Ten feet stand between me and Belk. I edge closer.
Out of view, the driver’s side door clicks open.
“Stay in the car!” Sam shouts at Charlotte.
“That’s not what I said.” Belk opens his coat. Flashes his gun.
I step closer.
“Go, Charlotte,” Sam pleads, quietly enough to make my hair stand on end.
From the distance comes a rumble, like thunder.
Belk removes the weapon, aiming it toward the ground as casually as if he were holding a cooking spoon. Sam’s hands stretch higher.
“If she goes anywhere, it’s on you,” Belk says. “You ready for that, Sam?”
The rumble grows louder. From behind Belk’s car comes a pinprick of light.
“Are you?” I ask Belk, as the dot of light broadens, then doubles. “How are you going to explain what’s happening here to witnesses?”
Belk glances back, a sneer pulling at his lips. The roar is deafening now. I can barely hear myself think.
The two lights aren’t headlights; they’re too widely spaced. Behind them, more single lights brighten the gloom. A dozen, at least, with others adding to the pack.
Belk quickly tucks the gun away as the lead motorcycle slows. His arm waves in a wide circle as he ushers the rider forward.
The rider pulls off.
“Car trouble?” a man asks. His face is obscured by the bright light as he props his bike onto a kickstand.
“Nothing to concern yourself with,” Belk calls back. “Just dealing with some troublesome teenagers.”
One by one, the bikes stop. They don’t bother pulling off the road. They block the street, the pop and grumble of their engines filling the night.
I raise a hand to deflect the glare as the front rider steps forward.
“Nothing worse than troublesome teenagers,” he says. As he moves around the bike, a dangerous smirk carves into the shadows across his face.
“Hi, Charlie,” I say. Sam approaches beside me, blowing out a hard sigh.
“A little close, don’t you think?” he mutters.
We’re all ahead of schedule. I don’t find this necessary to mention to Charlie.
“Brynn,” says Charlie, his hair windblown and wild. His black leather cut bears his name on the right corner. I don’t have to see the back to know the wolf will be there, howling at the moon. “Mr. Belk. It’s been a while.”
“Dylan Prescott?” Belk asks incredulously.
“He has a gun,” I inform Charlie.
“So do I,” says Charlie. He tilts his head. “So do they. I’d say he’s outnumbered.”
“What is this?” Belk says. “What do you want, Dylan?”
“It’s Charlie now,” I offer.
“I’ll start with that weapon,” says Charlie. “And your phone. I know how you like keeping track of folks with it.”
The security guard’s eyes bulge. He glances at me. I shrug.
“The Wolves?” he says to Charlie. “You joined a gang?”
Charlie smiles as laughter erupts behind him. “It’s not like I wasn’t in one before.”
Belk goes stone still.
“I’m not going to ask again,” Charlie says.
Another moment’s hesitation, and Belk lays his gun on the ground. The new phone he got this week follows. He’s flustered now, his hands up in surrender, his breath coming in heaves.
“We ended in a rough way,” Belk says. “I understand that. I had a job to do. Surely you understand.”
“Oh, I understand,” says Charlie, retrieving the items off the ground. He passes them to a shadowed figure behind them.
“I can fix this,” Belk says. “What do you want? Money?” He reaches for his wallet in his back pocket.
From the darkness comes the telltale click of at least three guns.
Sam and I ease farther off the road, putting more distance between us and Belk.
“Easy,” Charlie warns. “No sudden movements.”
“It’s just my wallet. I can pay you whatever you want!”
“I don’t want your money,” Charlie says.
“Then what … Drugs! Pills!” Belk’s nodding rapidly now. He points to the Jeep. “The back’s filled with Wednesday narcotics. Use them. Sell them. Whatever you want.”
My teeth clench tighter.
“Really?” says Charlie. “Let’s go see.”
They stride toward the back of the Jeep. Charlotte jumps out the front, circling around to Sam and me. As her hands grip her stomach protectively, angry whispers rise from the dark.
“You all right, sweetheart?” a man calls.
Charlotte nods.
Belk pops open the back trunk of the car. Four boxes are stacked there, all with blue W’s on the side.
“Ah. This just got interesting.” Charlie reaches for the top box and pulls open the lid. He scoffs. “Is this a joke? You always did have a terrible sense of humor, Belk.”
“What? There’s no joke!” Belk scrambles for the box, pulling open the flaps so hard the cardboard rips. “No. This isn’t right … this was … I saw…”
A dark smile pulls at my lips.
For Caleb, I think. For Margot. For Jimmy.
