That makes me sound pathetic and creepy, but I’m not a total loser. Wick and I have talked before. It was mostly about our classes, but I keep trying anyway. Now probably isn’t the best time to ask her about the weather though. Wick seems deep in thought. Her head swivels from side to side . . . she pauses . . . and then makes a hard right, heading straight for Matthew Bradford’s red Mustang.
Well, this is going to be interesting.
I lean against someone’s puke-green minivan, watching Wick through the tinted windows. She stands next to the Mustang for a few seconds and then, suddenly, drops out of sight.
What the— There’s a low pop and Wick jumps into view again, a soft hissing noise following her. I blink, unable to believe what I’m seeing. Wick just slashed Matthew Bradford’s tires.
I can barely cram down the laugh.
She glances around, double-checking that she’s still alone, and hightails it back through the parking lot. Not fast enough to look guilty. Not slow enough to get caught. Confident.
I pass one hand over my mouth. Man, there’s something about the way that girl shoves up her chin and tosses her hair that just . . . kills me.
I toss on my backpack and make my way slowly down the aisle, not stopping at Bradford’s car until Wick’s inside the school again.
Sure enough, the tire’s ruined. She made a quick puncture and tear. There’s no way Fix-A-Flat or whatever is going to plug it. The tire’ll have to be replaced.
I smile. Couldn’t happen to a nicer person too. Matthew Bradford is an asshole. There’s no better way to describe it. He loves Ed Hardy T-shirts, kicking around smaller people . . . and tossing Wick’s lunch into the school fountain.
My eyes flick to the double doors Wick disappeared through. I’d heard Bradford did it again this morning. That makes how many times now? I’ve lost count.
Guess she decided to get even. Interesting. I know a lot of girls, and none of them have ever been into payback. The realization that Wick is . . . well, it makes my chest go all warm.
I walk around the Mustang’s side, drop to one knee, and use the X-Acto knife I have for art class on the opposite tire.
There. I stand, examine my work. Now Wick and Bradford are even.
Ben picks me up after school. I usually don’t go down to the police station to get new work assignments, but my cousin says the guy wants to meet me in person. Technically Ben’s off duty, and he explains the drop-in to his coworkers by saying I want to join some community outreach program. It’s not a bad excuse until I have to follow Ben through the bull pen, all the officers slapping me on the back like I’m five years old.
If one of them asks me if I want to sit in his police cruiser while he turns on the siren, I’m out of here.
“His office is this way,” Ben says, motioning toward a narrow hallway, dotted with brown filing boxes. We’re nearly to the end when my cousin opens one of the doors, leans against the frame.
“Hey, Carson, you have a minute?” he asks.
There’s no response, but Ben walks in anyway, so I follow him. The office is almost as small as my bedroom. There’s a single filing cabinet, a desk, a computer that looks older than I am, and a thin, brown-haired guy sitting behind it.
“Carson,” Ben says, “this is my cousin Griff. Griff, this is Detective Carson.”
“Nice to meet you.” I push one hand forward and Carson shakes it, gripping harder than necessary. Tool.
“I’ve heard good things about you,” he says.
“They’re all true too.” Ben shuts the door behind us and hovers next to me. “Griff’s great with computers and he can talk his way into anything.”
I stiffen. Talk my way into “anything”? That’s not exactly a great character reference, but what should Ben say instead? “Here’s my cousin and thanks to his mom he really needs the cash”? That’s not exactly glowing either. Still, my brain keeps hanging on to Ben’s description. The only reason my cousin would bring that up is if the job isn’t strictly the “computer thing” like he billed it.
“So what do you need?” I ask.
Carson settles into his desk chair. “Someone to infiltrate a possible credit card scam. We’ve heard through a couple of sources that the group is looking for an additional hacker. I want you to be that guy, make yourself useful to the leaders, and report everything to me.”
“Who’re the leaders?”
“Joe Bender and Michael Tate.”
Everything inside me sinks two inches. They don’t need my skills. They need my connections.
Joe Bender and Michael Tate are from my neighborhood. Everyone knows they’re thugs. Everyone’s afraid of them.
Including me.
I glance at Ben, but he won’t meet my eyes. I kind of hate him for it. It’s one thing to say you need my skill set. It’s another to need my background—especially when he bad-mouths that background whenever he can.
If Bender and Tate are looking for a hacker, there’s no way they’d trust an outsider. It makes me a great pick. I’m not here because I’m “good.” I’m here because I live minutes from Bender’s place.
“Can you get in with them?” Carson asks.