Chapter 3
Three
Raven
Kawasaki is behind me. I can feel his eyes boring holes into my back, and it makes my skin crawl. The stupid fuck is on a dirt bike. I did say something to Kurt, but he just shrugged it off with a ‘His choice.’
Kurt knows better than that. Makes me wonder if he doesn’t care—and if he doesn’t, what did Kawasaki do to earn such contempt?
Aside from standing up in front of them all and suggesting, again, that I suck his cock.
Hale didn’t like that, did he? Probably because Kawasaki is such an asshole.
Enough of an asshole to get himself caught? That would be a problem for all of us.
I don’t get why Kurt is treating it so lightly, and it’s adding to my irritation.
We’re sitting on a side street a block from the bank.
It’s a hot day and the bikes are running.
One problem with relay devices: they run off spoofing the signal from the key, and that means we can’t shut the bikes down, because we don’t have the keys.
If we stall out, we’re dead in the water.
I unzip my jacket, trying to get some air flow.
Hale glances over, the motion drawing my eye.
His gaze rests on the skin I’m showing, maybe on the tattoo on my upper chest that disappears into my strappy top.
It’s a botanical branch with flowers and thorns together, following the curve around my left breast, down my flank.
No one’s seen it in full beyond Tasha. It’s some of her best work.
My earpiece crackles, then Tasha speaks. “Done. Cameras are looping, alarms are off. Eight minutes.”
Four for the monitoring company to respond to the bank going dark. Four for the cops.
“Move.” Kurt’s voice snaps out.
Thirty seconds of nothing but ambient sound. Footsteps, a door, the soft click of something electronic giving way. My pulse pounding in my ears.
“Cellular’s jammed.” Tasha again. “Silent alarm should be inactive. You’re invisible.”
“Vault room.” Dario’s voice, low and quiet.
There’s a smack and a muffled cry. I wince. A shout of alarm, with another cry following swiftly.
“You’re getting sloppy,” Cole murmurs.
“He was in the fucking can!”
“Focus.” Kurt pulls them back in.
“Seven,” Tasha says, unhurried.
More silence. The sound of movement, something metallic. Declan’s perfectly still on his bike, head tilted as he listens.
“We’re here,” Kurt says. “Hit it.”
“Vault opening… now,” Tasha replies. “Six-thirty.”
“Hello, gorgeous,” Dario purrs.
The sound of drilling comes through loud, a high-pitched whine and the screech of metal on metal. I wince, teeth on edge, then a second drill starts up, a third following. It’s like being in the vault with them, even with the automatic gain control on our radios.
“Fuck.” Kawasaki gives a pained mutter behind me, and it echoes in my earpiece a half-second later.
Kurt always uses open mics. He says push-to-talk adds delays and causes mistakes. But at times like this, I don’t really want to listen in.
“Five.” Tasha’s countdown cuts through.
If the monitoring company is good, they’ll already be putting a call through to the bank. This is the window we can’t predict. But how good are people at 7 p.m. the night before July Fourth weekend?
I don’t have to see inside the vault to know what’s happening. Boxes drilled open, contents emptied into three backpacks. One’s mine, one’s Hale’s, and one’s going to Kawasaki on the dirt bike behind me. Chances he won’t open it and have a little rummage? Zero.
Will Hale?
Jury’s out on that one.
I grimace; bad choice of words. Call it undecided instead.
“Four,” Tasha says. That’s the police being called. Dispatch receiving, assessing, assigning; two minutes. But here’s where we might gain some time, if every unit is deployed to DUIs, noise complaints, or crowd management around bars and restaurants.
Kurt picked this night for a reason.
I pull my helmet on, sliding it carefully over my earpiece.
Tuck my braid in. Gloves next. Declan copies, his visor iridescent, blocking out those haunting pale blue eyes.
I’m assuming Kawasaki does the same, but I don’t care enough to check.
The dick still doesn’t have gloves. He should go visit Hank in the hospital and see if that makes him buy a pair.
“Three.”
We’re a minute away from a really damn early response. My pulse ratchets up another notch.
The drills whir on, and the men are silent. Focused as they work, no banter.
“Two.”
As soon as Tasha says it, two of the drills cut. They’re loading the bags now, taking everything they’ve unlocked. Loose-cut diamonds, jewelry, rare and expensive watches. If we get lucky, maybe a sheath of bearer bonds from the ‘80s. Palm Springs’s wealthiest are about to have a bad weekend.
Who cares? It’s all just sitting in boxes anyway. Not like they’ll go hungry.
I’m hungry.
“Got a patrol car out here.” Tasha still sounds perfectly unruffled. She’s tapped into the cameras around the bank. “Single car, driving by, lights only…”
Keep going, I will it. Quiet bank, quiet evening. No signs of a forced entry from the front; nothing to see here.
“…he’s turning…”
Keep going.
“…and he’s stopped.”
Shit.
“Also, One. Cop’s getting out. Wrap it up, boys.”
“Thirty seconds,” Kurt replies, voice terse.
I kick my bike into gear and peel out, gentle and slow. Twenty seconds to reach Cammy’s van. Declan’s in my mirror, following. I don’t bother to check on Kawasaki.
“Cop’s coming around the side,” Tasha says. “Ten seconds to the van.”
“Shoot the fucker,” Kawasaki says on the radio. “I’ll do it.”
“Negative,” Kurt snaps out. “Zero body count. Stand down, Pablo.”
Pablo? Is that how he gets to ‘Diablo’? Dick Face suits him better.
“Bunch of pussies. Scared to kill?”
“Where d’you find this guy, Kurt?” That’s Cole’s voice, echoing the question in my head.
“You kill a cop, this becomes a manhunt,” Kurt explains in a patient voice for our stupid novice. “That’s every informer they have, every agency, FBI, US Marshals, and death penalty eligibility. In simple terms, you kill him, we kill you. Got it?”
“Fuck,” Kawasaki spits, then mutters a reluctant, “Got it.”
“Cop’s at the van.” Tasha’s voice drops to a whisper. “Wait on exit.”
I pull over half a block shy, fully expecting Pablo to ride past me. But Hale pulls in behind, and to my relief, so does Dick Face.
“Cop’s walking on,” Tasha says quietly, not even a hint of relief in her voice. But it’s not our first rodeo. “He’s heading for the back door. Go quiet.”
We sit at the side of the main road, trying to blend in. It would be a lot easier if one of us wasn’t on a fucking dirt bike, looking like his parents bought it for his fourteenth birthday.
“Cop’s gone full circle, heading back to his cruiser. Go active. We’re at minus one-thirty.”
Shit. We’re ninety seconds over our time, and that means the police response will be here any moment, in full. That cop’s probably gone to meet them.
I drop my clutch and open my throttle, the front wheel coming up six inches off the ground as I fly forward, and ten seconds later hit the brakes, turning into the alley where Cammy’s van sits, quiet and grey, doing its best impression of a hole in space.
Kurt and the others come out just as I arrive, their balaclavas covering their faces, and he hands me my bag.
It’s heavier than I expect. I pull the straps over my shoulders, fasten the waist belt, give him a nod, and I’m gone.
His voice follows me. “That’s it, we’re done. Good luck.”
I’m already on the road, heading east, farther into the city. Away from LA to the northwest. Passing cop cars coming toward me, lights and sirens in full, but none of them stop. I don’t know where Hale’s gone, and I don’t care where Kawasaki is heading. Except on that, I’m pretty sure I do know.
“Well, we have a late response, but they’ve arrived in numbers now,” Tasha tells us, a minute later. “And we have a chopper. Be aware, chopper.” She still sounds like she’s updating us on the latest discounts at Walmart.
There’s nothing in my mirrors, but that doesn’t mean it’s not following me.
I’m on Ramon Road, heading east. It’s wide, dead straight, and I’m fucking obvious.
So damn obvious that I speed slightly. A nice fifty-five in a forty-five zone.
Just another happy biker, absolutely not running from a robbery with a bag of loot, a gentle weave through the traffic.
This road runs six miles through the city and keeps going, but my goal’s closer than that.
“Status update,” Kurt requests.
“Route 111 south,” Hale replies, his radio crackling with distance. “No attention.”
“None here either. North through the city,” I lie, not giving a shit. I’m not telling them my plan.
“Heading for Joshua Tree,” Dick Face replies. “Lose them in the desert.”
I can’t help my curse. I fucking knew it.
“Pablo, speed?” Kurt must’ve heard me, but he doesn’t say anything. He’s focused on Pablo instead.
“One-ten. They won’t catch me.”
Kurt’s sigh is loud enough to transmit. “Drop to forty, immediately. You’re very noisy, drawing all the attention.”
“Fuck that. I already have attention.”
What. An. Asshole.
Kurt’s complete silence tells me exactly what he thinks too.
Tasha comes back on. “Heli is turning north, in pursuit. Raven, is it on you?”
I don’t even need to check the skies behind me, because I’m not where the chopper is. “Negative.”
“It’s on you then, Diablo. Do you have a plan?”
“Two minutes to the desert. I’ll lose them there.”
I can’t help myself. “You’re going to lose them as the only moving object in a thousand square miles? You’re a fucking idiot.”
“Fuck you, chica. What are they going to catch me with? I have just the bike to get the job done.”
I’d face palm if I wasn’t wearing a lid. I told Kurt he was going to do this.
He’s screwed, it’s as simple as that. The heli will track him wherever he goes, and the cars don’t need to follow him in. They can simply wait for him to come out. Put up a roadblock as soon as he heads for anything with asphalt.
“Kurt, this is—”
“Enough.” The response cuts through sharp, like he was anticipating me. Fine, whatever. “See you all back tomorrow as scheduled. Good luck. Out.”
That’s it?
The hiss goes quiet in my ear. I still have Dick Face, who I have literally nothing to say to, and Declan, who clearly can’t talk more than once a week, and used up his five-word allocation earlier.
“Why don’t you pull off some of this heat, chica? We’re a team, right?” Kawasaki sounds tense. He’s also breaking up, which suits me just fine. I suddenly love the range limit on these radios.
“Each on their own,” Hale replies.
Wow, he spoke again.
“She owes me, man,” Kawasaki argues. “You seen my face?”
Yep. I did that.
“No,” Hale says coolly. “Has something happened to it?”
“Fuck you, man. Get her to help me. You’re south, she’s north, she can take some of this.”
Actually, I’m now way the hell out east, nothing in my mirrors. I pulled Lou into this for no reason, but I don’t care. It’s still the safest plan. I drop my speed down to forty-five, blend with the traffic, and start looking for my turn.
“She’s taking nothing,” Hale bites out. “Stay on your own route, Genesis.”
The fuck gives him the right to call me that?
It’s your name.
So not the point.
Great. He’s got me arguing with myself.
“Chica, you come help me out, I’ll feed you my cock nice and slow. I know you want it.”
That supposed to be an incentive? I almost barf into my lid.
“The only action in your future is as a prison bitch,” Hale growls, radio crackling with every word. He’s almost out of range. “So shut up and ride.”
And that’s the truth, right there. Kawasaki’s chances of escape are plummeting fast.
“…desert and I’ll… that chica’s fault…” That’s him out of range too. Finally.
A minute later, I pull off the main road and into the suburbs, find Lou’s van and go straight up the ramp. It’s short work to strap the bike in, then switch to my beautiful Ducati waiting for me in the sunset.
“Thanks, Lou.” I nod to the trusty Yamaha, sad to see it go. “You burn it good, you hear?”
“No problem, Raven, it’ll be gone tonight.” He offers me a hopeful grin. “You get a decent haul?”
“I guess so.” No idea what’s in it, but it feels heavy enough.
I give him the best smile I can, kick my bike into gear, and head back west. Time to go home.
But for how long?
Damn Kurt and damn this job. I should’ve walked away when I could.
I don’t care what happens to Kawasaki. He can go to prison and rot there as far as I’m concerned.
That notion doesn’t bother me at all. What bothers me is I don’t trust him one tiny bit.
I trust the rest of the crew. Hale I can't read, which is either a good sign or a very bad one. But Kawasaki? Never.
Chances he’ll escape, and I’ll see him crowing and obnoxious tomorrow night?
Five percent. Maybe.
Chances he’ll get caught, then turn me in to strike a deal and save his skin?
Fucking astronomical.