Boosted (In The Fast Lane)

Boosted (In The Fast Lane)

by

Arya Cole

 

Copyright © 2013 Arya Cole

All rights reserved. This document
may not be reproduced in any way without the expressed written consent of the
author. The ideas, characters, and situations presented in this story are strictly
fictional and any unintentional likeness to real people or real situations is
completely coincidental.

 

Adult Reading Material

The material in this document
contains explicit sexual content that is intended for mature audiences only and
is inappropriate for readers under 18 years of age.

 

ONE

The Ferrari Hustle

 

Another goddamn Ferrari, Brody thought to himself. What is
it with these people and Ferraris? Why not a Mercedes or a BMW or a Lexus or a
practical luxury car? Or just go to the opposite side of the spectrum and opt
for a Lamborghini or a Maserati. But these tacky motherfuckers. It was always a
fucking Ferrari.

Brody had set out to find a Ferrari earlier that day. It
shouldn’t have been too hard in Beverly Hills - where he’d always had success
in the past. But for some reason luck wasn’t with him in the morning and was
failing him so far in the afternoon as well.

Brody had gotten the call at six that morning. He wasn’t
sure if Sergei had woken up early or if he was just up all night, either way
the call came and jarred Brody from his deep slumber. When the word “Ferrari”
rolled off Sergei’s tongue Brody was sure that he was trapped in a fucking
nightmare. There was no going back to bed now. Might as well roll out.

Ferraris, of course, are not a morning car. The type who
will go out and spend their money on Ferraris tend to be the nocturnal sort.
Brody knew that, yet had wasted the last seven hours anyway. Might as well have
stayed in bed.

To top it off, Brody was beginning to sweat and he fucking
hated sweating. He was wearing a long-sleeved shirt to cover up the ink on his
arms, as was his usual practice. So too was the hat that covered his trimmed
sandy blonde hair and the aviators that masked his striking hazel eyes.

He drove in seemingly endless circles in his mid-ought's
Impala, a cigarette dangling from between his fingers that he frequently forgot
to puff, scanning the landscape in search of his automotive prey. He drove in
and out of several parking garages as well. Still nothing. Fuck.

This had been Brody’s life for the past six years. Some days
were more painless than others. But his routine had changed little on his
“work” days. Luckily it was lucrative enough that he didn’t have to go through
this bullshit too often. Ten grand a car buys a lot of vacation days.
Summertime was the busy season though. Everybody wants a new car to show off
once the sun starts blazing and Sergei’s clients in Iran were no exception.

Brody didn’t know how Sergei had accumulated these contacts
behind the Persian Curtain and he didn’t particularly care to know. Sergei paid
on time and in cash and that answered all of Brody's questions well enough. The
operation seemed fairly simple though. Rich Iranians wanted fancy cars just
like the wealthy in any country around the world.

Thanks to the trade embargo, however, these cars were
unavailable in the strictly legal sense. The demand, however, remained and Sergei
and his associates attempted to sate it. They probably received a tremendous
markup price for shipping these cars into the forbidden land. It seemed to
Brody like they could have saved themselves the trouble and just bought these
things new and still made a profit. But why not make an even bigger profit by
paying him a comparative pittance to steal them instead?

So in some chain of events Sergei would get the cars, pack
them on a container ship, and get them to the guys on the ground in Iran. These
dealers would then sell them off to the wealthy of Tehran, Mashkad, and Tabriz.
And they all seemed to want fucking Ferraris.

Brody did another look. He was losing his focus and
concentration at this point. His abbreviated sleep and the tedium of the
morning were taking their toll. He’d need a coffee soon if he hoped to keep it
up. Sergei usually gave him a twenty-four hour deadline from when he called and
right now it seemed like Brody would need every single one of those hours.

Yeah, coffee was definitely in order.

The Starbucks line was typically long and agonizingly slow
thanks to each of the entitled patrons describing their latte desires down to
the most minute details. Even though he was born there, Brody never really felt
at ease in the posh Los Angeles scene. He kept telling himself that someday he
would save up enough to retire and move somewhere more fit for him. Maybe
Austin. Maybe get a place in the mountains of Colorado.

Maybe just pack it up and fuck off to an exotic island
country where he could live like a king and surround himself with all the young
beautiful brown girls he could handle. Eat fruit and pork, get fat and
decadent. Part of him knew this would never happen though. Because stealing
cars wasn’t just a job. It was his passion. He lived for it. In spite of all
the pain in the ass that came for working for Sergei, he still felt the same
thrill, the same adrenalin rush narcotic high whenever he got behind the wheel
of someone else’s car.

Brody inched closer to finally getting his coffee. He was
starting to get a dull headache now and he hoped the caffeine would taper it
off before it got worse.

And wouldn’t you know it? Just as Brody reached the front of
the line out of the corner of his eye he saw the sleek red wedge of metal and
horse power idling at the stop light. A fucking Ferrari.

“Never mind,” Brody mumbled as he shuffled through the crowd
to get back to his car. He kept a close eye on the Ferrari as he moved, making
sure that it didn’t turn when the light changed to green. He made it out the
door and jogged over to his Impala, momentarily losing sight of his objective.

Brody hopped into his car, started it up, and pulled out of
the parking lot as quickly as physics would allow. He turned the corner back
onto the main drag and recognized the red speck on the horizon already five
blocks away and moving fast.

Brody dropped his foot down hard on the pedal. This was
where the black Impala came in handy. It was the same type of car that
undercover cops drove. This allowed him to bend the rules of the road with
little fear of attracting undue attention from the men and women on the other
side of the thin blue line.

He gained on the Ferrari enough to track it as it began to
make a series of turns. Brody kept his distance, staying just close enough to
keep the car in line of sight. Finally, the Ferrari pulled into a parking
garage.

Brody pulled to the curb and lit another cigarette. Not much
to do now but wait.

The adrenaline rush of chasing the Ferrari had made his
headache disappear. He felt good now, felt alive. He took deep drags on his
cigarette as his heartbeat slowed. Parking garages made things easier.

Never hurt to have a little bit of cover when you’re trying
to swipe a car in the middle of a busy afternoon. There are complications of
course. Cameras. Juggling tickets. Nosy attendants. But it beat the street,
that’s for sure. Too many prying eyes and potential flies in the ointment.
Nope, a parking garage would do just fine.

Brody drew in the last of the cigarette and flicked the butt
into the street. He swung his Impala around and headed for the parking garage.
His body was running on automatic now. Pure instinct. It was like he was an
automaton on a conveyor belt. He got his ticket and circled up the long ramps
of the garage. He passed by the Ferrari, nestled into place amongst dozens of
other high end (and in Brody’s opinion, superior) cars.

He kept on moving and parked his car on the level above. He
went to the trunk and took out a reusable shopping bag before walking off as if
he were going to the shops.

He ducked into the stairwell and waited. These places never
had cameras in the stairwells. When enough time had passed, he removed the
contents of the shopping bag, a jacket and ski mask, and put them on. He went
down a floor and entered the floor. No one was around. Better to move quick
then, not bother with ducking and sneaking between cars.

He made a beeline for the Ferrari and only ducked down when
he had reached the driver’s side door. He unzipped his jacket and from an
elongated pocket he had stitched into the lining he removed a thin metal slim
jim. He eased it between the window pane and the door frame until he heard the
familiar pop.

He eased the handle open, hoping beyond hell that he
wouldn’t have to deal with the annoyance of an alarm today. The door opened
without incident. Finally a little good fortune. He climbed behind the wheel
and shut the door behind him. From his jacket pocket he removed another tool
and oh this was a sweet one.

All the convenience of hotwiring with none of the damage to
the electrical system. Modern technology. You had to love it. The engine turned
over and purred like a cheetah. And for all that he hated about Ferraris, Brody
had to acknowledge that there was nothing like that first rumble of Italian
machismo.

The Ferrari backed out of its space and eased down the
various levels of the parking garage. No reason to draw attention to anything
yet. Brody passed by several shoppers and wage slaves on their way in and out
of the commercial paradise. They turned and gawked at the car as it passed but
none of them seemed to notice the man in the ski mask behind the wheel. As he
approached the end of the ramp he took a deep breath. His fingers clutched
harder around the wheel. Now came the fun part.

He joined the queue of cars waiting to exit. The drivers in
front of him dutifully paid their fees. A few attendants milled around. It
looked to be the shift change. They were too preoccupied with their small talk
and bullshitting to look over at him though. Lucky for everyone, Brody thought
to himself.

Better to have one victim who could afford to lose his car
than several belly-shot parking attendants naively “just trying to do their
job.” Brody carried heat with him, had to in this extralegal line of work, but
he’d never had to use it before. In all honesty it was more to protect himself
from the likes for Sergei than from the police or some good Samaritan with bad
judgment.

Now came Brody’s turn to pull up to the ticket booth. When
the car in front of him exited, Brody remained in the same spot. The car behind
him honked. The man in the ticket booth poked his torso out and beckoned him
forward. His arms grew more frantic with each passing second that the Ferrari
sat in place. Now the attendants began to notice him as well. A few of them
began to step toward the car. One of the impatient drivers behind him yelled.
It was unintelligible amongst the din of horns and Spanish exhortations.

Brody flipped the car into gear and stomped his foot down on
the gas. The Ferrari shot forward. From this distance he was easily able to
pick up enough speed to break through the barrier arm that blocked his exit as
if it wasn’t even there. The Ferrari screeched out onto the street. He blazed
through the streets block after block until he was able to get onto the highway
and seamlessly transition into the light midday traffic.

He removed the ski mask and found that he was now bathed in
sweat. A small price to pay though. He looked over the hood of the car to see
if the gate arm had done any damage. Maybe a faint scratch or two but otherwise
everything seemed fine. Besides, Sergei had a guy who made everything look like
new before they shipped the things off to the other side of the world.

When he arrived at the docks, Brody took the car to its
appointed place. One of Sergei’s boys, a 6’5 goon who barely knew right from
left (and up from down only slightly better), opened the door to the makeshift
garage where Sergei ran his secret operation. It was a small outfit. A couple
bodyguard-slash-enforcer types, a mechanic, a guy to do the bodywork, and a
small stable of thieves like himself (none of whom were ever allowed to meet).
There were the guys who did the shipping too, but they rarely made appearances
at the garage.

Sergei was there waiting for him when Brody landed with the
car. He leaned back in his chair reading a Russian newspaper that looked to be
at least a couple weeks old. Then again, how else was he supposed to get local
news from the motherland?

“Took you a long time,” he said, the unfamiliar English
words tripping and spilling out of his mouth.

“I’ve got plenty of time to spare.”

“You’re usually much quicker.” Then, as if to needle him,
“Maybe you’re losing it. Yes?”

Brody let the insinuation roll off his back. No need to bite
the hand that feeds. “There might be some scratches on the hood. The brakes
aren’t great. Oh, and it’s a fucking Ferrari. Otherwise it’s fine.”

“A Ferrari is a very nice car.”

“You got anything else for me right now?”

Sergei shook his head. He handed Brody an envelope of cash.
“There’s a little bonus in there for you. Go out and have fun.”

“Yeah,” Brody said. “Sure. Thanks.”

Sergei put his arm over Brody’s shoulder. “Come on. I’ll
give you a ride back into town.”

On the way back to Beverly Hills Sergei spent much of his
time on the phone. Some calls were in Russian, some in Arabic or Farsi--Brody
wasn’t sure which. Sergei drove like a maniac. Every time he got behind the
wheel Brody felt like he was with a drunk teenager who had boosted his dad’s
car. He swerved recklessly in and out of traffic, ignored all signs and speed
limits, and acted as if he cared little about whether he and the other
occupants of the car lived or died.

Finally, even mercifully, they arrived back at the parking
garage in Beverly Hills. Brody opened the door as soon as he could and hopped
out onto the sun-soaked pavement.

Sergei paused and shouted out to him, “Remember what I said.
You go have fun tonight!” He then sped off to further endanger the lives of all
the other drivers and pedestrians who had the misfortune of crossing his path.

Fun. Sure. But later. Now it was time for some fucking
sleep.

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