You could almost smell the money.
I went over to the rolling cabinets first. Immediately, I found vials of liquid and bottles of pills—some names I recognized from commercials or the street, sedatives, paralytics, antianxiety medicine, painkillers.
I pulled out more drawers, found more. They all went into the bag.
The crashes in the hall doubled. I went back to the door and glanced out. T-Man was ripping the framed art from the walls. He smashed the glass, picked up a hammer, and darted into the waiting room. As the door swung, I caught a glimpse of him taking aim at a television mounted on the wall.
Michael shoved me aside, barreling into the surgical suite. He kicked over the stainless steel rolling trays and jumped on them, warping them.
“What are you waiting for?” he yelled. He climbed onto the surgical table and yanked at the lights.
They fell with a crash. Their cords dangled.
Michael jumped off the table and ripped the monitor from its mount. He swung a mini-sledgehammer at the microscope. He shrieked at the empty room as he wrecked it. He didn’t even see me leave.
I walked into the hall. There were holes in the Sheetrock all the way down to where Cyndra kept watch.
I went to the front office. It was completely trashed, the counter broken and dangling from the wall in two pieces. Papers strewn on the floor. Broken glass from the reception window glittered across the carpet.
The waiting room was equally destroyed. Fish lay gasping on the ground, their aquarium glass, water, and gravel spilled across the sofa and floor. LaShonda ignored them, watching out the front windows.
My lungs squeezed.
T-Man lugged paint cans in through the back door, pushing past Cyndra.
I went back and forth, first helping Beast wreck the bathrooms, then helping T-Man slop paint onto the furniture, floors, and walls.
LaShonda’s scream pierced the sound of shattering porcelain. “Someone’s coming!”
I dropped the paint and ran up to the waiting room. My heels skidded on wet gravel and dead fish. I fell against the chair next to LaShonda.
Outside, headlights threaded through the medical park. The car passed under a streetlamp, and the crest on the door was briefly illuminated.
T-Man scooted around Michael and stood next to LaShonda. He caressed the back of her hooded head. “It’s okay, baby.”
Paranoia gnawed on my synapses. I went to the front door into the office, gave it a tug to make sure it was locked. My eyes snagged on the writing on the glass. The words were backward—meant to be read as you walked up to the door from the parking lot, not as you stood inside looking out.
“Stay calm,” Michael was telling the others. “He’ll drive away, whoever he is.”
My eyes tracked the words from right to left: Beautiful You Cosmetic Surgery and Dermatology Associates. There were three doctors in the practice. Dr. Singh Patel, Dr. Sam Reaves, and Dr. Michael Springfield.
My brain felt like it was twisting, warping in my skull.
Dr. Michael Springfield, who named his only son after himself. Who was never home in his mountaintop mansion.
Plastic surgeons wouldn’t keep birth control medication in their offices. Cyndra and her stepdad had nothing to do with this. Michael had lied about all of it. Hadn’t said it was his own father’s practice we were planning to rob.
Did it matter?
I stalked to the window, glaring at Michael as the car got closer. It turned onto our street.
“We’re bailing,” I told him. “Now. Everyone, go to the van.”
The security guard’s car drew closer.
“Relax. It’s a rent-a-cop.” Michael didn’t even glance at me. “Maybe even Trent.”
“T-Man, LaShonda, Beast. Go to the van. Get Cyndra to start it,” I said. They scuttled out of the room.
“I’m not done here, Ice.” Michael turned cold eyes to me. His hand went to his waistband.
The security car turned into the office parking lot. Headlights swept the plate glass.
Michael and I dove for the floor.
The car parked and the driver’s door opened. The security guard passed in front of his car’s headlights, making them flicker in the window.
He was too tall to be Trent.
Michael swung the gun toward the door. I crouched like a racer, weight braced on my fingertips.
“What are you doing?” I hissed. “Let’s go!”
I eased around the bank of chairs toward the hall and the back door.
The security guard stopped at the door and gave it a tug. He turned on a flashlight and aimed it inside.
Crouched behind the row of chairs, Michael kept the gun trained on the door.
The flashlight glinted off the shattered glass of the television.
“What the—” The guard’s voice was muffled. He fumbled at his belt, pulled out keys.
A percussive blast ripped through the room. A second shot answered it. The door shattered. The security guard fell backward with a scream.
“Time to go,” Michael said. His eyes gleamed with jittery triumph. He lowered the gun and whirled.
We sprinted down the hall and crashed through the back door.
Outside, the van waited with Cyndra at the wheel.
Michael and I leapt in. He pulled the sliding door closed, straining against the acceleration as Cyndra spun the steering wheel.
She steadied the van, heading toward the driveway back to the main road.
“No!” Michael handed me the gun and wrenched the steering wheel hard. The tires screeched. The van skidded in a circle.
I fell against the door, half expecting it to shoot open.
Michael pointed out the windshield. “Over the scrub. They’ll be looking for us on the roads.”
Cyndra nodded and turned toward the curb. She took it too fast, bottoming out on the concrete.
“That way.” Michael pointed. “Head toward the radio tower. Turn the lights off. Don’t worry, it’s safe. I used to walk out here when I was a kid.”
Cyndra hit the switch. The lights went dark. The van bounced and lurched over the scrub.