18
Ted
By the time I finished positioning the thick slab of plywood over the hole in the roof of the shipping container, and lugging the heavy excavator battery on top of that, I was sweating so bad that my whole head was soaked through the pantyhose.
We probably didn ’ t need the extra layer of security. The kids were twelve feet beneath the ceiling of the bunker. It wasn ’ t like they could fly. But why risk it?
I blew out a breath and tried to ignore the churning in my gut.
Getting the kids into the van had been bad, but this was a thousand times worse. It felt like kicking puppies. I ’ d tried not to look in their eyes while we led them to the hole in the earth, but there were so fucking many of them I couldn ’ t help it.
They ’ ll be fine. They ’ ll bounce back. They ’ ll have a crazy story to tell when they ’ re older , I reminded myself for the hundredth time. Other people had it way worse. Their parents cared enough about them to send them to after-school care instead of leaving them to fend for themselves in a trailer park every day, like mine had. On good days, Mom left the double-wide ’ s door open so I could come inside and watch TV. On bad days, she locked it and refused to wake up.
So yeah, I ’ d never been shoved into a dirty van, or kidnapped for ransom, or forced into a hole in the ground, but these kids would be down there for a couple days, max. I ’ d survived my shit, and so would they. And if I could, I ’ d trade my crappy memories of growing up for that experience in a heartbeat.
“ For shit ’ s sake,” I mumbled, bracing my hands against the excavator battery and managing to nudge it a few more inches. It wasn ’ t quite in the middle of the thick plywood slab, but I figured it didn ’ t matter. The battery was plenty heavy, and the effort of moving it around in this confined space had me breathing hard. It was almost impossible to lift. Getting that battery positioned at the edge of the shaft a few days ago had been one of the hardest parts of the whole setup.
I hadn ’ t weighed the battery, but I could tell from how hard it was to lift that it weighed nearly a hundred pounds. Besides, the ladder was pulled up. And even if the kids—or the bus driver—could somehow get to the plywood, twelve feet above them, without a ladder, they wouldn ’ t be able to push that battery away from the opening.
I kicked at it, just for good measure … and because I wanted to kick something.
It didn ’ t budge, but the shipping container made another groaning sound and shifted slightly beneath my feet. I froze. The shipping container was solid, reinforced by metal rods running along the sides, but the pressure from all the dirt was more intense than I ’ d expected. The metal kept making that pained creaking sound. The plywood sheets we ’ d used to reinforce the shaft were buckling in a little, but no worse than when I ’ d checked them yesterday.
They would hold for a few days.
They had to hold.
“ Dude, hurry the fuck up. My boss is going to rip me a new one,” Andy whined. “ I ’ m already late. He just texted. My pickups are wondering where the hell I am.”
I gritted my teeth and finally gave in to the urge to tear the pantyhose off my head. The kids couldn ’ t see either of us now. “ Almost done,” I growled. What I wanted to say was that he ’ d given me the worst jobs, but I knew he couldn ’ t wait any longer to get to his shuttle pickup.
Working quickly, I double-checked to make sure the air hoses tucked against one side of the plywood were in place—and not smashed up too much. They snaked upward, through the shaft, poking out a few inches aboveground near the hole entrance.
Andy insisted we didn ’ t need the air tubes. ‘There ’ s a ton of air down there, Teddy Bear,’ he ’ d said, as if it barely mattered. ‘And they don ’ t need food. Just water. People can go weeks without food. We aren ’ t trying to build a daycare down there.’
“ Let ’ s gooooo,” Andy snapped, peering down at me. He was getting mad now, but he had to wait a few more minutes. I could get out of the shaft by myself, using the ladder. But the metal excavator door was heavy enough, it needed two people to lift back into place to cover the hole in the earth.
I finished inspecting the battery’s position on top of the plywood, hurried up the ladder and out of the hole, and dusted off my hands.
Part two of the plan had gone off without a hitch.
The kids were secure. They weren ’ t happy down there, but they were safe. And nobody had any idea where they were—or who we were. If they did, the quarry would be swarming with police by now.
I grinned at Andy as we hefted the yellow excavator door to cover the hole, but he just glared. He looked like a drowned rat with his greasy hair plastered to his head. I wanted to make a joke about it, try to lighten the mood. I knew better than to say anything, though. Most days, his personality matched his looks. Dopey stoner hippie. But he had a dark side that came out when he was stressed or pissed, and I ’ d learned to give him space until he chilled out.
The second we set down the heavy metal door, Andy swore under his breath and held out his hand. “ Keys,” was all he said.
When he ’ d snatched them away from me, he jogged toward the white shuttle van, opened the back passenger door, and hefted the detour sign onto the dirt without a word. Then he dusted off his pants, jogged back to the driver ’ s side, and drove away down the narrow dirt path in a cloud of dust.
I lifted a hand to wave at the back tires. A late airport pickup was nothing compared to what we ’ d just pulled off. He was planning to quit that shitty side job the second we got the ransom money, anyway.
He ’ d calm down when he got back.
I opened the driver ’ s side door of the gray van and checked inside the groove of the door to grab my burner phone that I ’ d tucked there earlier. Then I pressed the ON button until the pixelated, gray screen lit up.
I scanned the news alerts from the local station I ’ d turned on notifications for earlier that morning.
The story about the missing kids and bus driver had hit the news fast and furious. I read the headlines, then the articles, nodding when it became clear that it was all panicked fluff.
They had no idea where those kids were or what had happened to them.
I tucked the phone in my pocket for later then lugged the detour sign through the dirt and opened the back doors to the gray van. I shoved it inside the stripped cargo area, holding my breath so I wouldn ’ t smell the vomit and the urine.
We ’ d have time to hose down the van later.
I closed the doors again and sat down on the bumper until I couldn ’ t hear the crunch of the airport shuttle ’ s tires anymore.
I made myself take a big, deep breath.
Without the noise of sniffling kids and Andy barking orders, the quarry had gone completely silent. Peaceful, almost.
Big, stacked-up clouds were gathering above the steep quarry wall rising above my head. A faint ray of light from the sun, sinking down on the other side, cut through the clouds like an Easter postcard. “ Get-yourself-right-with-Jesus clouds,” Mom always said when that happened. I felt the tiniest twinge of guilt when I imagined the look on His face if he slid down that beam of light and saw what me and Andy had done with those kids.
Then I flicked it away along with a mosquito trying to suck my arm.
I ’ d promised myself I ’ d do some good stuff with my share of the money. Maybe even help some kids. I ’ d rebalance the karma.
Andy and I hadn ’ t told each other what we planned on doing with our shares of the money or where we planned on going when the ransom came through. I told him it was smarter that way, so we wouldn ’ t be able to rat each other out if everything went tits up and one of us got caught.
Really though, it was because I didn ’ t want him tagging along with me.
Andy was an okay dude. He was the only one who didn ’ t judge me when I got out of jail. He ’ d gotten me this job, and he ’ d done his part helping me dig out the bunker for the kids. But I was the one who ’ d planned out the real logistics, thought through everything that could go wrong, insisted we practice timing and run drills on every possible scenario.
I ’ d done the same with my own escape plan.
Living in my mom ’ s shitty double-wide for the past year hadn ’ t been all that bad when I could dream about my new life as a millionaire.
I wasn’t stupid, I knew a million dollars wasn ’ t that much anymore. Inflation and cost of living and whatever. Some of the houses in Sunset Springs cost that much.
But a million was plenty in Cuba—just a ten-hour trip on a cruise boat away from Miami. My cellmate Daniel was the one who gave me the idea, once he warmed up to me. When I first got to jail, he glared at me like I was a skid mark on a pair of jeans. But when I stayed quiet, didn ’ t pick fights, and stayed the hell away from his side of the cell, he decided he liked me. And after a few days, he started opening up.
His family was originally from Merida, Mexico—across the water from Cuba. His family had moved to California, then Idaho, when he was a kid. There was no work in Merida, but there were oranges to be harvested and potatoes to be dug for cash under the table.
However, when Daniel was a teenager, two of his cousins had gotten into bad trouble back in Merida. Some deal went south, so they made a run for Cuba.
The Mexican government tried to get them back, but the Cubans wouldn ’ t lift a finger.
And they definitely wouldn ’ t lift a finger for Uncle Sam.
One day, some meth-head named Corey tried to accuse Daniel of stealing his Twix. I was the one who saw the sharpened toothbrush handle snake out of his pocket. I was the one who hip-checked Corey just in time to keep the homemade shiv from making contact with the back of Daniel ’ s neck.
Corey got sent to solitary. And later that night, Daniel told me he was still in touch with his cousins. They ’ d promised to set him up if he ever got in a tight spot again.
All he had to do was get to Little Haiti in Miami with five thousand dollars in his pocket, and they ’ d do the rest. Fake passport. Fake ID. Fake birth certificate. They ’ d already done it for his brothers.
They ’ d do it for me, too. No questions asked.
So that was where I was headed as soon as I got my share of the ransom money.
Besides Mom and Andy, there was nothing keeping me in Idaho. It wasn ’ t totally accurate to say that my life had gone to shit since jail. It had started out as shit. The stink just piled on over the last two years. Sometimes I was the one shoveling it, but not always.
So I was plenty happy to leave it all behind.
Mom ’ s ears must ’ ve been burning enough for her to wake up from her latest bender, because my phone pinged right then. Bring home something good for dinner.
I punched out a reply before I could feel bad that I hadn ’ t stocked the fridge for her yesterday. There ’ s some leftover spaghetti.
I wasn ’ t great at cooking, but I was better than Mom. She was so skinny when I saw her again after jail, it hurt to look at her. Half of her hair had fallen out, and her clothes hung so loose on her limp body I barely recognized her. When she got high, she forgot to eat unless somebody put food in front of her. And she was high most of the time.
“ Meth diet, huh?” Andy had joked when he came by to pick me up for work one time and Mom made a rare appearance at the door.
I ’ d laughed, but he was right. When Mom wasn ’ t high and manic, she was asleep. And when she wasn ’ t asleep, she was high and manic. She ate when I cooked. It ’ d been that way since my dad moved out five years ago.
I ignored the second ping of my phone, probably something about how the spaghetti was old so she just wouldn ’ t eat.
“ Take your own advice and apply yourself, Mom,” I mumbled, kicking the tire of the gray van and wishing Andy would hurry and get back from the airport.