there’s no way anyone can mistake you for him, so just relax.”
Well, that is true. Because I’m all tatted up in black and red. I’ve got the body of a Greek god, and I own this fucking town. Drake is one of those rockabilly types, with his skinny-ass body, thick black glasses, and white t-shirts. “Thinks he’s Fonzie or something.”
“What?” Ronin asks with a weird look.
“Drake. Thinks he’s Fonzie with those white t-shirts. And him stealing my bikes is his version of jumping the shark. He’s desperate, so he’s gotta steal my shit.”
“You’re crazy, Spencer.” Ronin goes back to his tablet.
“Crazy enough to come up with this plan, yo .”
I might’ve gone too far because they’re ignoring me now.
“OK,” Ford says, “I’m gonna drop it.” He opens the back door of the van and tosses the robot out. Ronin switches feeds so he has the bot cam on one side of his tablet and Ashleigh manning the Drake cam on the other. She’s new in town and no one really knows her yet, so she was the only one who could keep an eye on the guy while we tapped his shit.
The bot’s all-terrain tires start to roll and it travels down the alley to the warehouse. The bay door is closed. We’ve been watching this place all week and it’s the same routine. Drake takes off about four-thirty and heads over to the Cat Call for dunch and a few brewskies. Then he comes back and locks the place up. We’ve looked at every possible way to get in here without resorting to the stealth and stalk we’re doing now, but the place is tight. Ford even hacked the blueprints of the building from the city, and no dice. The place was remodeled before he moved in last month and it’s like these guys are stashing guns and gold in there.
But Drake always pulls into the bay when he comes home, he likes to work on his bike in the evenings or something because he stays late every night. So the bay will open to let the bike in and that will be our window to drive that bot right into his lair, the mechanical hum of the tiny motor covered up by the roaring of the motorcycle.
He’s got quite the setup for a man who came out of nowhere. Warehouse, employees, production schedule, advertising. It’s like he’s got a backer or something. But Ford checked him out. There are no obvious ties and no covert ones either. None Ford can see without taking risks that are not warranted for this particular annoyance.
At least as far as Ronin is concerned. And since Ronin’s the one who has to dig us out if we fuck up, he always gets the final say on shit like that.
The radio in back crackles and then Ashleigh’s voice comes in. “This is Mama Likes a Spankin’, come back good, buddies.”
I look at Ronin. He shakes his head. “You don’t want to know,” he says.
“Go ahead, Red Cheeks,” Ford replies.
“Playtime’s over, time to get busy. ETA”—her voice is drowned out by a loud motorcycle starting up and driving away—“five. Mama out.”
“Someone’s been watching a little too much Dukes of Hazzard .”
Both my partners in crime ignore me now. Figures. I’m always the bored one on these jobs. I never have anything to do unless someone needs to be roughed up. And this guy can’t be roughed up. He’s too close to me. But that guy with Ronnie back at Anna Ameci’s can.
I crack my knuckles and pat my leather jacket until I find the outline of my little Smith and Wesson Bodyguard. Love this little gun. It fits everywhere. In a pocket, in a boot—and shit, my hands are so big, I can probably conceal it in my palm. It’s always there, inside left pocket of the leather, ready to go when I am.
A motorcycle roars by and the van shakes a little from the wind and the rumble.
We watch the bike on the bot cam, then it inches forward into the bay with the bike. “We’re in. Now all I gotta do is find a place to park it.”
“Find that place now, Ford. Else we’re fucking busted.” Ronin says with urgency.
I lean over and
Well, that is true. Because I’m all tatted up in black and red. I’ve got the body of a Greek god, and I own this fucking town. Drake is one of those rockabilly types, with his skinny-ass body, thick black glasses, and white t-shirts. “Thinks he’s Fonzie or something.”
“What?” Ronin asks with a weird look.
“Drake. Thinks he’s Fonzie with those white t-shirts. And him stealing my bikes is his version of jumping the shark. He’s desperate, so he’s gotta steal my shit.”
“You’re crazy, Spencer.” Ronin goes back to his tablet.
“Crazy enough to come up with this plan, yo .”
I might’ve gone too far because they’re ignoring me now.
“OK,” Ford says, “I’m gonna drop it.” He opens the back door of the van and tosses the robot out. Ronin switches feeds so he has the bot cam on one side of his tablet and Ashleigh manning the Drake cam on the other. She’s new in town and no one really knows her yet, so she was the only one who could keep an eye on the guy while we tapped his shit.
The bot’s all-terrain tires start to roll and it travels down the alley to the warehouse. The bay door is closed. We’ve been watching this place all week and it’s the same routine. Drake takes off about four-thirty and heads over to the Cat Call for dunch and a few brewskies. Then he comes back and locks the place up. We’ve looked at every possible way to get in here without resorting to the stealth and stalk we’re doing now, but the place is tight. Ford even hacked the blueprints of the building from the city, and no dice. The place was remodeled before he moved in last month and it’s like these guys are stashing guns and gold in there.
But Drake always pulls into the bay when he comes home, he likes to work on his bike in the evenings or something because he stays late every night. So the bay will open to let the bike in and that will be our window to drive that bot right into his lair, the mechanical hum of the tiny motor covered up by the roaring of the motorcycle.
He’s got quite the setup for a man who came out of nowhere. Warehouse, employees, production schedule, advertising. It’s like he’s got a backer or something. But Ford checked him out. There are no obvious ties and no covert ones either. None Ford can see without taking risks that are not warranted for this particular annoyance.
At least as far as Ronin is concerned. And since Ronin’s the one who has to dig us out if we fuck up, he always gets the final say on shit like that.
The radio in back crackles and then Ashleigh’s voice comes in. “This is Mama Likes a Spankin’, come back good, buddies.”
I look at Ronin. He shakes his head. “You don’t want to know,” he says.
“Go ahead, Red Cheeks,” Ford replies.
“Playtime’s over, time to get busy. ETA”—her voice is drowned out by a loud motorcycle starting up and driving away—“five. Mama out.”
“Someone’s been watching a little too much Dukes of Hazzard .”
Both my partners in crime ignore me now. Figures. I’m always the bored one on these jobs. I never have anything to do unless someone needs to be roughed up. And this guy can’t be roughed up. He’s too close to me. But that guy with Ronnie back at Anna Ameci’s can.
I crack my knuckles and pat my leather jacket until I find the outline of my little Smith and Wesson Bodyguard. Love this little gun. It fits everywhere. In a pocket, in a boot—and shit, my hands are so big, I can probably conceal it in my palm. It’s always there, inside left pocket of the leather, ready to go when I am.
A motorcycle roars by and the van shakes a little from the wind and the rumble.
We watch the bike on the bot cam, then it inches forward into the bay with the bike. “We’re in. Now all I gotta do is find a place to park it.”
“Find that place now, Ford. Else we’re fucking busted.” Ronin says with urgency.
I lean over and
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