“It blends in with traffic. It doesn’t blend in with people.” I scan the parking lot. My eyes land on a row of vehicles near the Garden Center. “We need social camouflage.”
“Social camouflage.” He tastes the word like it’s foreign.
“Look at that.” I point.
A Honda Odyssey minivan. Maroon. Stick-figure family stickers on the back window. A ‘Baby on Board’ suction cup sign.
“A minivan,” he says. Flat. Unimpressed.
“Nobody looks at a minivan. They look through it. It implies kids, groceries, and soccer practice. It implies a life so boring it doesn’t register as a threat.”
He looks at the van. Then back at me.
He’s calculating and weighing the tactical profile against the psychological one.
“It has tinted windows in the back,” he acknowledges. “Good for gear concealment.”
“And it’s probably unlocked because the mom is returning a potted plant and wrangling a toddler.”
He studies me for a second longer. A flicker of respect? Or maybe just resignation.
“Fine. The minivan.”
We walk toward it.
I’m right. The driver’s side door is unlocked.
Diego slides in. I take the passenger seat.
The interior smells of hand sanitizer, Cheerios, and stale coffee. A half-empty Starbucks cup sits in the cupholder. A toddler’s car seat is strapped in the back.
It smells like safety, like a normal life where the biggest problem is traffic.
Diego checks the visor. Keys drop into his hand.
“Careless,” he mutters.
“Distracted,” I correct. “She’s a mom.”
He starts the engine. It purrs. Quiet. Smooth.
“I feel bad,” I say.
“She has insurance.” He puts it in gear. “We don’t. Besides, Ghost always sends a check to cover the damage.”
That makes me feel slightly better about our grand theft auto spree.
We roll out of the lot. Diego drives conservatively. Hands at ten and two.
We merge onto the highway, heading west.
“Safe house is six hours,” he says. “We can rest there. Get cleaned up. Re-equip.”
“And then?”
“Then we figure out how to hit back.”
The heater kicks in. Warmth floods the cabin.
