The morning light had a different quality to it now. It wasn't just illumination; it was scrutiny. Megan leaned against the bridge, looking down at the tunnel being built, not as a curious rich girl, but as a scout. She'd driven the escape route five times, each pass etching it deeper into her muscle memory.
From the store—a high-end boutique called Vangelico, according to the plans—they'd burst out, turn hard onto Dorset Drive. A straight, frantic sprint down Las Lagunas Boulevard, then the terrifying, crucial part: a controlled launch off a specific, low section of the bridge railing, down onto the Del Perro Freeway below. Then into the new subway tunnel dig site that ran parallel to it. The pictures Lester showed didn't do it justice. From her vantage point, she could see it was a quagmire—a canyon of churned earth, and construction debris under the city's belly. Pavement wouldn't save them here. They needed something that could eat mud and spit it back out.
A dirt bike. Specifically, something light, powerful, and stupidly agile. The Nagasaki BF-400 flashed in her mind. It was the urban daredevil's choice, a street-legal missile that could handle off-road punishment. Perfect. Now came the hard part.
Source them.
Lester's dry, clinical instruction echoed. You are the exit strategy. You are the lifeline. And part of that lifeline was procuring the vehicles without a paper trail. She couldn't just waltz into a dealership with Daddy's black card. This was the first real test.
She leaned against her Elegy, scrolling through her contacts—a digital Rolodex of ex-hookups, party acquaintances, and racing rivals. Her thumb stopped. Danny. The name was attached to a hazy memory of leather, cheap beer, and the acrid chemical smell of a garage that wasn't just for cars. A crackhead. Or, he had been. A fringe member of some wannabe biker crew, not the feared Lost MC, but the kind of guys who played at being outlaws between shifts at the auto shop. Not her proudest night, by a long shot. She vaguely recalled his frenetic energy, his hands that shook even when he wasn't holding a wrench, and the profound, aching boredom of the whole encounter. She hadn't even finished. The only tangible souvenir was a cheap, skull-shaped ring he'd given her, which she'd promptly lost.
Pros and cons. Pro: he had access to bikes, knew the greasy underbelly of the vehicle trade. Con: he was Danny.
With a sigh that fogged her phone screen, she made her decision. A job. This was her job now.
The drive to Auto Exotic in Hawick was a blur. The shop was a grimy box of corrugated metal, the air thick with the scent of ozone, burnt oil, and stale cigarettes. Inside, the roar of an impact wrench was the only greeting. A mechanic with grease smeared up to his elbows glanced up, his eyes lingering on her with a dull, appraising leer.
"I'm looking for Danny Everett," she said, her voice cutting through the noise without warmth.
The mechanic scoffed, jerking a thumb toward the back. "Out back, tryin' to look busy."
She walked around the side of the building, the concrete stained with decades of fluid spills. And there he was.
Danny was leaning against a chain-link fence, smoking a cigarette. He looked… different. Not healthy, exactly, but solid. The terrifying, meth-fueled gauntness was gone. He'd put on muscle, his arms filling out his oil-stained wife-beater. His face, while still etched with hard living, had color. The constant, jittery tremor was absent; he held the cigarette with a steady hand. He was, in a rough, garage-rat kind of way, almost handsome.
He saw her and did a double-take, the cigarette dangling from his lips. A slow, knowing grin spread across his face. "Well, hell. Megan De Santa. Slummin' again?"
"Business, Danny," she said, stopping a few feet away, crossing her arms. No small talk. "I need three bikes. Nagasaki BF-400s. Clean-ish, but untraceable. Tonight."
Danny's grin didn't fade; it just gained a calculating edge. He took a long drag, blowing the smoke out to the side. "Three BF's? That's not a casual request, princess. That's a crew request. You startin' a biker gang? 'Cause you'd look hot in leather, I gotta say."
"Can you get them or not?"
"I can get anything," he said, pushing off the fence and taking a step closer. The smell of cigarettes and motor oil intensified. "For a price. But see, cash is… complicated for me right now. Draws attention. I'm clean now, off the glass. Boss is watchin' my accounts."
Megan's jaw tightened. She knew where this was going. "What, then?"
He looked her up and down, the appraisal frank and hungry. "You know what. A night. For old times' sake. Except this time…" he gestured to himself, a flash of pride in his eyes. "I'm not that skinny freak you knew. I'm healthier. Stronger. It'd be better for you. I guarantee it."
A wave of cold disgust washed over her, followed immediately by a pragmatic numbness. This was the currency of the world she'd just demanded entry into. Not credit cards, not whining to Dad—favors, debts, and transactions in flesh. Danny was cleaner, steadier, but he was still a commodity broker, and she was the product.
She held his gaze, her expression flat. Inside, something curdled. But the image of the tunnel, the mud, the four percent—the lifeline—was stronger.
"Whatever," she said, the word devoid of any emotion, a simple acknowledgment of terms. "You get me three BF-400s, in running order, no GPS, no plates, delivered to Darnell Bros in La Mesa by midnight. Then we'll talk."
Danny's smile turned triumphant, predatory. "See? Knew you missed me." He dropped the cigarette and crushed it under his boot. "Midnight. Don't be late. And wear something… less." He gave her another lingering look before turning and sauntering back into the garage.
Megan stood there for a moment, the hum of the city traffic on Elgin Avenue a distant murmur. The deal was struck. The first part of her job was in motion, purchased with the oldest currency there was. She walked back to her bright yellow car, feeling its vibrant paint job was now a grotesque lie. She wasn't a spoiled girl in a fast car anymore. She was a criminal logistics officer who'd just paid her first deposit in blood, sweat, and something much cheaper. She got in and drove away, not feeling dirty, just feeling… operational.