I had to move fast.
Ducking, I raced over to the cluster of trees—tall weeds slapping against my shins—while praying that I wouldn’t step on a snake or a rabid animal’s nest or a colony of ground hornets. I kept going deeper, until I reached a spot where the weeds and limbs were intertwined in the chain link. I couldn’t get any more covered than this.
I stuffed my toes and looped my fingers into chain-link holes and pulled myself up, trying to move as quickly as possible, thanking God the whole way that there was no razor wire or even barbed wire to contend with at the top. The fence was tall and kind of unstable, and I swayed, gripping so hard my fingers were white, as I hoisted my leg over the top and stood, straddling the fence. I started to get dizzy from the height, but reminded myself I didn’t have time for dizzy. And I sure as hell didn’t have time to fall off this thing.
I swung over the fence and scurried down the other side, dropping into the dirt when I got about three feet off the ground.
I was in.
And now that I was in, it seemed like finding the truck would be an impossible task. Made even more impossible if Chris was actually successful in getting it released to us. I doubted he ever would, but he’d surprised me with his abilities before, and if they were bringing the truck out to the parking lot for him, I was screwed.
I walked several feet down the aisle I’d landed in. Like I’d thought, most of these cars were shells, missing tires and bumpers and engine parts, doors open to reveal gutted insides. The truck would not be back here.
I turned myself so that I was facing where the trailer had been—I could no longer see it from where I was—and started jogging between the cars, passing up aisle upon aisle, until I got to what looked like new stuff. Colors jumped out at me where license plates hung. I closed my eyes, trying to clear my mind and focus.
Candy cane and mustard. Brown, brown, brown. That was what I was looking for.
I opened them, and again the entire rainbow pushed in on me. Bits of candy cane here, mustard there, brown everywhere.
God, this seemed impossible.
I decided to look at trucks only. If it wasn’t a truck, I let my eyes skip over it, flinging its plate colors out of my way. I’d thought that would make this easier, but practically every other vehicle there was a truck. Red, blue, white, white, silver, red, red—the colors of the vehicles themselves making it even harder to concentrate on the plates.
I wound my way down four aisles this way, until I heard voices coming from the direction of the trailer, which was much closer now. Time was running out. I pushed myself harder. Run faster, concentrate better. Hug the cars, stay out of sight. Keep moving, but pay attention. I was sweating. And my head was starting to throb.
Just when I turned the final corner—taking me close enough to the trailer that anyone who stepped out back for a smoke would see me—and thought I was going to have to backtrack and start all over again, I saw it.
Silver truck. Candy cane. Mustard. Brown, brown, brown.
VP 111.
Jones’s license plate on a car that Luna got away in. I made a beeline for it.
Just as I reached for the door handle, my phone rang, startling the shit out of me. I snatched it out of my pocket before it could ring twice and spark someone’s attention.
“Jesus, what?” I hissed into the phone.
“I don’t know why I was surprised that you lied to me. Where are you?”
“Looking for my phone.” My voice was cool, challenging.
“Bullshit. But nicely done. It worked. I can tell I’m still off my game.”
Probably true. “I take it you weren’t successful in getting the car released.”
“How do you know I’m not sitting in it right now?”
I opened the driver’s-side door with a soft click and slid onto the bench seat, keeping myself low so nobody could see my silhouette. “Because I am,” I said.
“Damn it, Nikki. You’re in there?” I heard a distant rattle of chain link, as if he’d tapped it or, more likely, pounded it with his fist. “Do you know how illegal this is? Now I have to arrest you.”
“Can’t,” I said, opening and shutting every console door I could find. “You’re technically not on the clock. Convenient for me, huh?”
“I doubt anyone would mind if I brought in a B and E.”
“You don’t have handcuffs.” I pawed through rolls of mints and pens and a stack of fast-food napkins. Just like this was any old car.
“I can get creative.”
I stopped what I was doing. “But we both know you won’t. Plus, you’d have to catch me first, and that’s not happening on that leg of yours. So, listen, get in your car and go. There’s some sort of Laundromat or something on the street behind the lot. I saw the back side of it when I was climbing in. Go park there and wait for me. I won’t be long.”
There was a trademark Chris Martinez pause, where he wanted to appear to be mulling over his options but was actually just kicking himself for knowing that he was going to give in to whatever I wanted him to do. He may have forgotten me, but part of him still remembered us. “If you get arrested, it’s on you. I won’t bail you out this time.”
I stopped, sat up, tucked the phone tighter between my ear and shoulder. “You remember?”
“Remember what?”
“Bailing me out of jail.”
Another pause. “Yeah. I guess I do. You did something typically stupid like assault an officer or something. But you were set up, right? And somebody wanted me to let you go.”
“Blake Willis,” I said softly.
“That’s right,” he said. “Blake Willis.” But it was as if he were repeating the name to only himself, trying it out to see if it jogged any memories.
I didn’t want it to jog memories, and I couldn’t explain why. It had to do with the magenta, with the kiss, with the way things had been between us after Blake, his gorgeous, totally-put-together ex-girlfriend, had left him. There was nothing wrong with Blake Willis. Actually, everything about her seemed absolutely perfect. Which was why I didn’t want her back in his life. It was hard to compete with perfection.
You’re not competing, Nikki. It never was a competition.
“Just wait for me at the Laundromat,” I repeated, and hung up, quickly flicking the sound off so it couldn’t ring again.
I couldn’t be worrying about Blake Willis. I had to get through this truck and get out of here, because there was something about the way he said it that made me believe Chris really meant that he wouldn’t bail me out again.
I stuffed the phone back into my pocket and continued rummaging. Nothing. Nothing on top of nothing. Whoever had abandoned this truck had made sure to clean it beforehand. Not surprising, given the professional criminals that Luna had for friends.
I grunted in frustration and sat back with my fists in my lap. Not that I was super hopeful that I would find someone’s driver’s license or a neon sign that would point the way to Luna’s hideout, but I had been more hopeful than I realized that I would find something. Anything better than a wadded straw wrapper and the car manual.
Sighing, I opened the door and slid out, trying to keep low to avoid being seen. Just before I closed the door, something under the seat caught my eye. I reached in and pulled it out. Before I could really study it, I heard voices coming from the direction of the trailer. I popped up enough to see through the windshield. Two hulking men were stepping down the wooden stairs from the trailer onto the lot. They were talking loudly, gesturing, laughing. No idea they had a trespasser only about thirty feet away.