Cutting Loose (16 page)

And leaving the kid out here alone. That sucked. That was unacceptable.

“Come on, Creed, get out from under there.” Dylan had balked at the kid's name, which had gone on forfuckingever, and started calling him Creed almost from the get-go. And Zach didn't care that his last name was Rivera; the kid was no Chicano. He wasn't going to mention it to the boy, but he must have noticed that he was a green-eyed blond and didn't look a damn thing like his brothers and sisters, of which he had so many, the kid didn't get enough to eat. Dylan had actually found him outside Mama Guadaloupe's, a restaurant on the west side, waiting for kitchen scraps, of which Mama made sure she had plenty for the younger kids in the neighborhood. The older ones were on their own.

But no, Zach wasn't going to mention that Creed's Anglo mama must have gotten it on with the mailman or some other white dude. He was in no shape to be dishing dirt on other guys' mothers, not with the mother he had.

“And pay attention,” he said to the kid after he'd squirmed out from under the steering wheel. “You got wire on you?”

“No.”

“Well, you need wire. You're always gonna need wire, so you might as well get some and keep a roll of it in your pocket. You can use it for a hundred different things on a car.” He walked toward the front of the Cyclone and popped the hood. A timer in his head went off at the sound. That was the other thing the kid was going to need, a timer in his head that he was always going to be trying to beat. “And Dylan sent you after a Mercury, so somebody should have brought a screwdriver.”

“Kenny had a screwdriver.”

“Yeah, well, me too. Shine that light on the solenoid,” Zach said, leaning under the hood and getting to work. “Now look. We're going to use the wire to connect the coil to the ignition post on the solenoid.” It took him ten seconds to pull off the circuit wires and rig the connection. “And we're going to use the screwdriver to feed power to the starter.” He laid the screwdriver on the starter post and the positive battery cable simultaneously, and a flurry of sparks shot out from the connection. The engine also turned over, just as if he'd used the key. He pocketed the screwdriver and slammed the hood.

With the Cyclone softly rumbling and ready to go, Zach took one more look around at the dark buildings and the empty spaces in between them, and for a split second, he thought he saw something flit across one of the alleys.

The hair instantly rose on the back of his neck. Effen-ee-fuck.

“So…uh…what spooked Kenny?” he asked the kid.

In answer, Creed turned off his penlight and stuck it in his back pocket.

“Well,” he said, turning his back to the Cyclone and looking out over the deserted parking lot and the warehouses. “There's a couple of things running wild around here tonight. He got scared.”

Fair enough.

“And you didn't?”

The boy shrugged. “Ain't nothing out here wilder than me.”

Zach hadn't admitted it then, and he wouldn't admit it now, but listening to that skinny kid's offhand dismissal of whatever in the hell had been prowling through a Commerce City compound that night had sent the hair on the back of his neck rising all over again.

And the blonde in the bustier worked with Creed, SDF's jungle boy?

“She's an operator?” he asked Dylan, not quite believing it, not really.

“I'll put you in the gym with her for five minutes, and you tell me.”

He'd be damned. Steele Street had obviously improved considerably over the years.

“Is she going to kick my ass?” he asked, and this time it was Dylan who grinned.

“If she couldn't, I wouldn't let you anywhere near her.”

Fair enough.

CHAPTER
SIXTEEN

Saturday, 8:00
A.M
.—Commerce City, Colorado

Cherie pulled Roxanne to a stop in the alley next to Steele Street's Commerce City Garage, turned off the key, and took a breath. Driving relaxed her, especially driving Hawkins's Challenger, and she'd definitely needed a little relaxation after the meeting in Dylan's office, and a little more relaxation in order to face the third floor of the Commerce City Garage with Gabriel Shore at her side.

She took another easy breath, and let it flow through her. Roxanne had power and looks, and handled like a dream since Skeeter and Superman had redone her suspension.

Cherie was no mechanic. She never worked on the cars, but she could drive with the best of the big boys, and Skeeter, of course. Red Dog drove the way she did everything else, as close to the edge as she could get, which sometimes gave the impression that she was out of control.

She wasn't. Ever.

Neither was Cherie. Ever. But sometimes she got a little un-relaxed, this morning being a case in point. So thank goodness for Roxanne. She'd been taught to drive the Challenger by Christian Hawkins, a.k.a. Superman, and he'd given her supreme confidence in her skills.

Not to say that riding in any of Steele Street's muscle cars was for the faint of heart. She'd had to build up to it herself.

She slanted a glance at her passenger to see how he was holding up, and was pleased to see him relaxed back in his seat, his hands in his lap.

“Gillian's apartment is—” she started.

Without so much as a flicker of emotion, or in any other way acknowledging her presence, Gabriel held up two fingers, like a benediction. She instinctively understood he was asking for silence, she supposed because he was dreaming up a brilliantly insightful plan for interfacing the DREAGAR 454 with a secure link to Steele Street and downloading the mysterious files that had Dylan all wound up—for all the good that was going to do him.

She took another breath and just relaxed into it. Good Lord, the man worked in the Marsh Annex, and in about five minutes or less, he was going to enter her shop. She didn't think Dylan appreciated what an incredible place the Annex was, or the kind of beyond-the-cutting-edge technology the people there produced. Ostensibly, the Marsh Annex was part of the Department of Commerce. At least it had started out that way, an offshoot of the department's security division, specifically in charge of keeping the U.S. government's latest and greatest gizmos out of the hands of the opposition. In today's climate, sometimes keeping them out of the marketplace and off eBay was an even greater challenge. It hadn't been too much of a stretch from protecting the technology to improving upon it. Some of the best minds in the country went through the Marsh Annex.

Cherie's security clearance hadn't granted her total access when she'd been there, but when General Grant had put her name in the hat for the DREAGAR 454 2Z8s contract, the Marsh people had been very pleased to meet her. She had a reputation, all good, especially with government folks dealing with classified information—and she would like very much for everything to stay that way.

“I—” she started.

The two fingers came up again, cutting her off, and she saw him visibly take a breath.

“I'll be driving back to Steele Street,” he said.

She didn't think so.

“No, you won't. Superman doesn't let just anybody drive his car.”

“You weren't driving his car,” he said. “His car was driving you. There's a difference, and by Superman, you mean Christian Hawkins, correct?”

“Yes, but—”

“There aren't any ‘buts' about it. You drive like my grandmother, and from here on out, I will be taking over the transportation duties. I am sure Mr. Hart will clear me on the car.”

Cherie blinked at him.

“Your grandmother?” He had a lot of gall. She knew what he meant, and he was wrong. She was careful, that was all. “I bet a hundred dollars your grandmother has never driven a 1971 Dodge Hemi Challenger R/T.” Actually, she'd bet a thousand. There just weren't that many 1971 Hemis out there to be driven.

“Neither have you,” he said, sliding a glance in her direction. “Do you even know about fourth gear?”

Of course she did.

“Fourth gear is a highway gear, and we never got on the highway.” Keeping to the back roads and staying off the interstate, where people drove like maniacs, was no crime. It was just good sense.

He shook his head. “I can't believe Christian Hawkins lets you drive his car. How many clutches has he had to put in this thing?”

“A few,” she admitted, not quite seeing his point, “but that's what they do at Steele Street, fix cars, put in clutches, do valve jobs, time things. The cars require constant maintenance, and—”

“Is he in love with you?” The young guy's gaze narrowed on her, which she found somewhat discomforting. “I mean, are you with him, like his girlfriend?”

Well, that startled the hell out of her. “No,” she said, then said it again for good measure. “No. He's married.”

Her and Superman? That was actually an alarming thought. Christian Hawkins was so…so much. Too much.

No, no, no. When she went for a guy, and she'd had any number of boyfriends over the years, she went for guys like Henry Stiner, the Seventeenth Street lawyer, and there was no denying that she thought Gabriel Shore was exceptionally cute. She had a penchant for computer geeks, tech guys, brainy guys with the skills to hotwire DREAGAR 454s rather than 1970 Chevelles, even if the brainy guys never quite seemed to be brainy enough. Truly brainy guys were proving hard to come by.

Still, she would never, had not, did not go for guys like the SDF operators. Oh, God, no.

“Then why does he let you destroy his car?” Red Dog's little brother looked confused, and he was definitely cute, but he was also a little insulting, and starting to sound a little bossy.

“Well, in the first place, I'm not
destroying
his car.”

“Yes, you are,” he interrupted, sounding very sure of himself—which, when she thought about it, wasn't a trait she found particularly appealing in men on a personal level.

“I have never so much as gotten a fingerprint on it, let alone any kind of a dent.” He couldn't know that, of course, which was why she was telling him, which put her on comfortable ground. She liked telling men what they didn't know, and she usually had plenty to say.

“I'm not talking dents,” he muttered.

She ignored him.

“And second of all, Superman believes that Roxanne and I are soul sisters of a sort, that she wants to bring out what he calls my ‘inner NASCAR.' So he lets me drive her, and if any little problems occur, they get fixed.”

“Inner NASCAR?” He looked incredulous at that, which was also probably an insult. “Ms. Hacker, you don't even have an ‘inner Soap Box Derby,' let alone an ‘inner NASCAR,' so maybe you should go back to driving whatever it is you usually drive, like a…a…”

He seemed to be having trouble coming up with something, so she helped him out, which also put her on comfortable ground—telling men what they were trying to say.

“A Prius.”

“Yes,” he said. “A Prius.” Amazingly, he made that sound like an insult, too—and to think she'd almost been interested in him.

Well, she wasn't now, that was for damn sure.

“And I suppose you drive a—”

“Viper.”

Oh.

Well, everyone knew the Marsh Annex people were overpaid and probably underchallenged, so they needed constant infusions of “newer, better, faster,” and she supposed a Dodge Viper gave him plenty of that.

Still, she was surprised. He'd seemed so nice at first, with his lanyard and his DREAGAR 454 Subliminal Neuron Intel Interface.

         

Gabriel took another breath and wondered what in the world he'd been thinking in Hart's office, but he didn't wonder long. He'd been thinking she was beautiful in an odd, angular, stunning way. She had very pretty strawberry blond hair, long and sleek, stick-straight to her shoulders with bangs and very sophisticated, like her dress and those shoes with the pompoms on them.

He knew her by reputation, Cherie Hacker of Hacker International. Everybody in his field had heard of her, but no one had ever said she was so gorgeous.

Maybe because they'd ridden with her in a car, and their brain cells had been so shook up from being lurched and jerked around they hadn't been able to think straight. Or maybe the smell of a burning clutch had obscured their reason. Or maybe they'd gotten so exhausted watching her trying to find a gear—and she only used three—that their eyes had crossed.

Because she was gorgeous. Or she had been up until she'd gotten so bossy.

Or maybe other guys thought she was too skinny. Rhonda had used the word “elegant.” Either way, Gabriel didn't know what was holding her dress up. Maybe she had it pinned to the inside of the motorcycle jacket—a fashion statement that was obviously no statement whatsoever on her risk-taking abilities. She not only stopped for the yellow lights, she slowed down for the green ones in case they turned yellow.

He'd never seen anybody slow down for a green light. It was incredibly disconcerting.

Stylish, Rhonda had also called her.

After half an hour in the car with her, Gabriel was going to stick with bossy, and he still wished she would take off her sunglasses so he could see her eyes.

“Yes, well, Vipers are very nice cars,” she said, opening the Challenger's door.

Nice was a ridiculous understatement, but he let it pass. His V-10 Viper kicked ass, and if she'd known anything at all about cars, like how to use fourth gear, for instance, she would have known that.

“There's one at Steele Street,” she continued. “Maybe you'll have time to look at it when we're finished downloading the DREAGAR files.”

He doubted it. Once they got back to Steele Street, he and Dylan and Gillian needed to get to work, and Ms. Hacker could go back to grinding gears and endangering someone else's life at twenty-five miles an hour. He honestly hadn't known he could get an adrenaline rush at twenty-five miles an hour—not until he'd lurched across an intersection with her, praying to God they made it before the light turned red.

“Please don't touch anything while I'm disarming the security system.” She kept talking, and he just let her. He knew what he was going to do, and it didn't have anything to do with what she had to say. “And please don't touch anything once we get inside, not until after you've checked with me. My setup here will…uh, undoubtedly be different from what you're used to dealing with, so it's best if you let me take the lead.”

Very bossy.

But sure, if she wanted to do the work, he was fine with watching. It wasn't as if he hadn't designed the whole DREAGAR 454 system and knew it inside out, upside down, and backward better than anybody on the planet. He had, and he did.

But if she wanted to stumble around with it and show off her setup, he'd stand back and watch—up to a point, and then he was taking over. The DREAGAR was his. The only reason she even had one was because she'd won the contracts on the 2Z8s.

She got out of the Challenger, and he followed suit, keeping a step behind as she climbed the stairs up the outside of the garage. His mom and dad had been to Gillian's place on the second floor a couple of times, but this was his first visit. No matter how much his sister was a part of his memories, she didn't know him from Adam.

Passing a dull gray, iron door on the second landing, with the name “Red Dog” spray-painted across it in red paint, Gabriel's mood took another dip. A couple of years ago, when General Grant had mentioned he needed a new secretary, Gabriel's first thought had gone to his sister. Recently divorced and back in Washington, D.C., she'd just gotten an apartment and was looking for a job. He'd thought it would be great to have her in the Marsh Annex, but she hadn't been in the job very long before she'd fallen into the middle of one of Grant's black operations and been irreparably harmed.

She was never going to be what she'd been, and now she lived above a garage with graffiti on the door.

It was her choice. He knew that. Dylan Hart had offered her one of the lofts at Steele Street, but she preferred being out here in the urban jungle.

When they reached the third landing and a heavy steel door, he glanced around the area. It was bleak, very industrial, and looked like a crime spree could happen any minute, even at midmorning. A dry riverbed filled with junk and trash bordered the building to the south. Smokestacks from a factory a few blocks over jutted up into the sky.

His gaze went back to Cherie Hacker in her expensive high heels and flouncy dress, trying to cover up a yawn and key in a code on the alarm system, and suddenly, he wished she would hurry the hell up.

Two million dollars was going to bring every world-class cutthroat and gunslinger on the planet down on Gillian's head, and more than a few of them would figure out to come looking for her here.

And why, oh, why, hadn't he thought of that while he'd been standing in Dylan Hart's office? He could have gotten the security codes from Ms. Hacker and left her well enough out of it. Despite what she or Hart might think, there wasn't anything she could have done to her DREAGAR that he couldn't figure out.

“Can you get back to Steele Street on your own?” he asked, as she finally, thank God, entered the last number into the system.

“I get around Denver on my own all the time,” she said, watching a stream of equations scroll across a small screen at the top of the digital keypad.

“Then as soon as you get the door open, I think you ought to go back. I'll take care of everything on this end.”

She mumbled something under her breath he didn't quite catch.