Becoming Rain

I’ve turned a blind eye to things in the past—like when I knew that Rust’s business partner, Viktor Petrova, was abusing his wife—and, though I couldn’t do much about it, I’ve never quite forgiven myself for not trying.

I vowed that wouldn’t happen again.

“No, Luke. Gangbangers hijack, and my fences know never to deal with gangs. They’re a bunch of crack dealers and meth heads. They all get picked up eventually and, when they do, they’ll squeal to anyone who will listen. There’s no need for any of that. There are plenty of ways to get a car without hurting anyone. We’re car thieves, not murderers.” Rust’s mouth sets in a deep frown. “So? You wanted in. Now you’ve seen it all. Have you changed your mind?”

It’s the first time that he’s bothered to ask. It’s the first time we’ve stopped to talk in the hours since the others arrived. A man I didn’t recognize arrived at the storage spot first, with two younger guys I’d also never seen before, none of whom bothered to introduce themselves. We had every last car torn apart in hours, me following their expert lead. Albert pulled up in a transport truck an hour later. Four goons built for lifting tires hopped out the back and began loading parts into empty crates, then used the forklift to fill the truck, chattering in Russian the entire time.

It was after three in the morning when the truck’s taillights disappeared into darkness, leaving the storage shed empty except for a small pool of oil and a few loose screws. No one would ever suspect that only hours earlier it was loaded with stolen car parts.

I look down at myself, covered in dirt, my skin wiped but not clean. “Depends. Are you going to make me pull apart cars, or was that just another ‘experience’?”

He laughs. “Everyone should experience a good chop session once. But, no, for now you’re going to be lining up the orders with my fences, the guys I have ties to closer to the street. Here . . .” One hand on the steering wheel and eyes still on the road, Rust reaches over and grabs four stacks of cash from the bag. Forty grand, by my calculations. He thrusts them against my chest.

“What’s this for?”

“Your cut, which will be much bigger next time.” He grins. “Put it in your safe at home.”

I let the cash fan through my fingers.

So much cash. There’s no way I earned this for what I did tonight.

“Oh, and I have a little surprise for you.” He reaches into his pockets and hands me a set of keys. Just like the night he handed me the keys to a new condo.

Only, these are car keys, with a logo that I’ve drooled over for years.

With waves of excitement and nervousness coursing through my body, I sit back and quietly listen as Uncle Rust walks me through the “how” to this entire operation that he, one day, wants me to run with him.

The giant bag of cash pressing down on my thighs is impossible to ignore.

Chapter 8

CLARA

“You couldn’t get me a real dog, could you?”

Warner’s deep laugh vibrates through my phone and into my ear. “What do you mean? He barks.”

“I wouldn’t qualify it as a bark.” I eye the pudgy little thing, which is belly-up and rolling in the grass next to the park bench like his back is itchy, oblivious to my severe judgment. I’m not 100 percent sure that he doesn’t have fleas. “Seriously, Warner, why wouldn’t you let me pick one out myself?”

Warner’s laughter only grows. “What would you have preferred?”

“I don’t know. A Great Dane or a pit bull, or something more . . . me?”

“But you’re not you,” he reminds me. “You’re Rain Martines. A little princess who lives in her daddy’s condo with her lap dog.”

“That is not a lap dog. His eyes aren’t even in the right place.” I’ve spent days Googling pictures, and based on his smashed-up nose and curly tail and ears like satellites, my best guess is an obese pug–Boston terrier cross, with a little bit of swine mixed in for good measure. But I’m no expert.

“He was the smallest one they had and you need a dog, not a puppy. Come on! He’s kind of cute, isn’t he?”

I roll my eyes. “I’m changing his name. Who names their dog ‘Stanley’ anyway?” That’s what the tag hanging off his collar read, when Animal Control picked him up. “I’ll bet he ran away from his owners because they gave him such a stupid name.”

“Whatever he did, I’m glad he was there. You needed a small dog for our case. He needed a home. It’s a win-win.”

“Yeah, until the case is over. And then what happens?”

“You’ll be so in love with Stanley by then, you’ll take him back to D.C. with you.”

The dog’s tongue hangs over his severe under-bite as he pants, staring me down with those bulging, round eyes that belong on a gremlin, waiting for me to toss the tennis ball again. I doubt that. I let out a reluctant sigh. Stanley is the least of my problems.

I walked out of Rust’s Garage over two weeks ago now, full of confidence and feeling in control. But there’s been no call from Luke Boone. He’s been at his office and out to The Cellar, based on the surveillance team reports. He’s even had that bartender over once. But he hasn’t picked up the phone and dialed my number. I’ve played through a dozen scenarios as to why that might be and what the right next step is without creating suspicion or an air of desperation.