It’s that time of night when everything takes on a blue hue and the shadows feel like they’re whispering to you.I slip through a narrow gap in the chain-link fence and cross the small lot that’s littered with scrap metal. I approach the front door which has a thick chain wrapped around its handles. I pull until the chains are taut, cursing when the opening it creates is just too small for me to squeeze through. I grab the cheap padlock and flip it around. From my back pocket, I pull out my metal nail file and start working the lock.
I love being a woman.
I jiggle the nail file then twist, the serrated edge of the metal cutting into my fingers as I ply the tool. I think the lock’s about to give, but I use too much force and the file snaps in two. Half of it’s lodged in the hole. Removing the bobby pin that holds my curls out of my face, I insert the pin into the free space at the bottom of the keyhole.
Using lighter pressure this time, I jiggle some more until the lock clicks free. Leaving the chain wrapped around the handles, I open the door just enough to duck down and slip through the space. When I’m inside I pull out my phone and switch on the torch.
This place is a dump.
The guts of cars are splayed out all over the ground, entire motors dissected into parts – not uncommon for a chop shop, but there’s something else about this place. It doesn’t smell homey, like the Fernando Garage. Oil should smell like oil no matter where it’s spilled, but there’s no warmth to it here. This place smells like it destroys, not revives.
I see a few chassis sheeted by car covers. Tentatively, I peek under one tarp to find a Z28 Camaro Indy Pace Car, perfect apart from the missing numberplate, a hood that’s been ripped off and the empty engine bay. I move to the next covered vehicle, bunching the cover before rippingit off. A ’98 Dodge Viper GTS – again, perfect, but there are no plates or engine.
The last car is a ’57 Ford T-Bird. I’m not surprised when there’s no engine, but that’s not all. The front left indicator is shattered. I crouch down, running my fingers along the sharp plastic that bites into my skin. The surrounding bodywork is perfect, meaning this wasn’t caused by a hit. The break was intentional. I shine my torch and notice the fried wiring inside. In these older cars, that would be enough to short-circuit the aftermarket alarm system and stop it from sounding.
This isn’t right.Every car in here is being torn apart, which they’re in the right place for, but why these cars? They’re all classics. There’s close to half a million dollars sitting right here in pristine cars you wouldn’t dream of ripping apart.
I double back, leaning into the open hood of the Camaro to check for the VIN plate. The numbers are scratched but still discernible. I punch them into my phone, using the same software we use at the garage to run a vehicle check. Red text floods the page. I refuse to believe my eyes and hit refresh. I enter the numbers again.
Shit.It’s stolen.
I go to check the other cars, though their VINs are filed down so much that the plates are smooth. Landon’s dealing in stolen car parts.
My phone buzzes in my hands, making me jump. I read the text.
Dr Aimee:Sorry I didn’t message earlier. I saw the first-aid box left out and wanted to make sure you’re okay?
I squeeze the device. The images of the last twenty-four hours replay fresh in my mind. How Landon slipped me the details of the race. How Ryker appeared at the clinic. There was a moment – only a moment, but it was there. A kindness. A flicker of his old self.
Then that damn silver mask materialised on the doorstep.
I shoot off a reply, right before the rasp of engines approaching makes my stomach drop. I freeze for a second, the only second I have before the floor-to-ceiling metal shutters on the side of the building shake and start to rise. I dash between the Camaro and Viper as the overhead lights come on. The Camaro has been lowered, so I shuffle underneath the undercarriage of the Viper, my cheek pressed to the gritty cement floor.
Landon’s Civic pulls into the open space, followed by the whistling sputter of a Porsche 911 Turbo screaming as it downshifts.
’86 model … a widow-maker.
I hold my breath, literally using my hands to dampen the sound, and watch a pair of boat shoes moving across the floor. My eardrums pulse with my heart.
‘Nice boost tonight, Lex. You’re getting better at this,’ Landon says when the driver of the Porsche steps out. Or limps. It seems he’s banged up his leg pretty bad.
‘Yeah,’ a gruff voice replies. ‘You want the plates sanded down tonight?’
‘Sand it down but don’t take it apart yet. This needs a new paint job.’
‘Paint job?’
‘Yeah, find a painter. I’ve heard the best is over at Fernando’s. Any colour, it doesn’t matter. Get it done thisweek, but give it a few days for the heat to die down. The owner’s gonna be looking for this one.’
‘What’s next on the list? That pretty girl from the other night’s got a nice Mustang.’
‘Don’t worry about that one. Not yet, anyway. She’s meeting us for the race tomorrow. I’ll get it when the time’s right.’
Heat bursts underneath my skin. That fucker isn’t getting anywherenearmy car. How many cars does he plan to steal? What’s he doing with them all?
A sudden siren sounds before the flashing lights of a police car appear, and I’m doused with relief.
‘Officer,’ Landon chimes before the doors slam shut.
