The air in Lester's office was thick with the smell of new rubber, cheap synthetic fabric, and a shared, unspoken dread. The crew was assembled, transformed into a uniformed, faceless unit by the garish red Bugstar jumpsuits. Megan perched on the edge of the room's only table, the material of her suit crinkling with every slight movement. The earpiece was a cold, foreign presence in her ear canal, a literal channel for the voices that would dictate her next hour.
Next to her, Norm Richards leaned against the same table, a hulking presence in his suit. He fidgeted constantly, his fingers tapping a silent, nervous rhythm on his thigh. On the worn couch, Franklin sat with a focused calm, while Paige, the only one not in the clownish red, hovered by her laptop setup, a study in neon cyberpunk amidst the drabness. Michael and Lester stood before the planning board, the two poles of the operation—the force and the brains.
Michael's voice cut through the static of nerves. It was lower, more gravelly than usual, a voice meant to command. "Now, we all know why we're here. We've got a store to take. The plan is simple… elegant." He said 'elegant' with a wry twist, as if tasting the irony. "Listen to Lester, pay attention to the information he gives you and we'll all make a buck." His eyes scanned the room, landing briefly on each of them. Megan felt the weight of his gaze when it passed over her—not paternal, but evaluative. "Things go bad, you know the drill. This wasn't organized, we don't know each other. We got caught up in a robbery and acted in self-defense." He let the bleak, absurd lie hang in the air for a beat before a dry, unconvincing chuckle escaped him. "But that's not going to be an issue, because everything's gonna go just fine."
Lester cleared his throat, stepping forward. His reedy voice was the antithesis of Michael's bravado, all nerves and precision. "The um… the err, alarm system is easy. Now if I didn't need to be running things I could have it offline myself no problem but uh, you should be able to get us a pretty decent window." He glanced at Paige, who gave a slight, confident nod. "How decent depends on the job you do. Now, once it's down, you signal Michael, he makes the call."
Michael took over again. "If things look good, we should be able to drop a present right through the air vent on the roof. Everybody goes to sleep, no problem, we take our time. If we run into trouble, we move quickly and with force." He clapped his hands together once, the sound sharp in the quiet room. "Any questions? No? Let's go."
The movement was immediate, a coordinated unfreezing. They filed out of the office, a line of red ghosts descending the metal stairs, their bootsteps a synchronized thunder in the empty factory.
"Frank, you're with me," Michael said, his voice now filtered through the earpieces as they hit the loading bay. "Paige, you're in the truck with the bikes." He gestured to a nondescript Benson box truck parked nearby. "Megan, Norm, you got the van."
Megan's eyes found the vehicle: a Bugstars Burrito, its sides painted with cartoonish, smiling bugs holding spray cans. The absurdity of it was almost comforting. This was their Trojan horse.
They moved outside into the blinding LS sun. "See you on Little Portola, people," Michael's voice crackled in her ear. "Initials only from here on out."
Paige slid into the driver's seat of the Benson, its cargo hold holding their three navy-blue escape tickets. Michael and Franklin disappeared into a sleek, black Primo. Megan and Norm were left with the garish van.
She took the driver's seat without discussion. Norm lumbered into the passenger side, filling it completely. The van smelled of fake citrus air freshener and old anxiety sweat.
She started the engine, its hum anemic compared to her Elegy, and pulled out onto the street, following the distant speck of the black Primo. The silence inside the van was oppressive, broken only by the tinny chatter from Lester in their ears, giving traffic updates.
"So," Norm said after a few blocks, his voice a low rumble. He was trying for casual, but it came out strained. "You're the driver, huh? M's daughter."
"That's what it says on the jumpsuit," Megan replied, her eyes never leaving the road.
"Huh. You know bikes? For the getaway?"
"I sourced them," she said flatly.
"Yeah? BF-400s, right? Good choice. Fast. Light." He shifted his bulk, the suit rustling loudly. "Had one once. Thing was a bitch to keep the front end down on a hard launch, though. Almost looped it a few times."
Megan's blood ran cold. She flicked her eyes from the road to him for a fraction of a second. He was staring out the window, reminiscing about a near-death experience like it was a funny anecdote.
"You didn't adjust the preload on the rear shock," she said, her voice sharper than she intended.
"The what?"
"The suspension. The BF has adjustable preload. If you're a big guy and you're gunning it off the line or, I don't know, launching off a bridge into a construction site, you need to crank that shit up. Stiffens the rear, keeps the front wheel planted. If you don't…" She trailed off, the image of Norm, a 250-pound man on a lightweight bike, accidentally pulling a wheelie mid-air over the freeway and cartwheeling into concrete played in her mind in vivid, horrifying detail.
"Huh," Norm grunted again, non-committal. "Didn't know that."
Of course you didn't, she thought, a fresh wave of terror washing over her. This wasn't just about her driving. The whole escape was a chain, and he was a major, ignorant link. Lester's question echoed: Can you hold your composure when the plan goes to shit?
The plan was going to shit before they'd even started, and it was sitting in the passenger seat wearing a bug costume.
She took a slow, controlled breath, the way she did before a race's starting lights went green. "Listen," she said, forcing her voice into a calm, instructional tone. "When we get to the bikes, before we mount up, you find the collar on the rear shock. It's right under the seat. You turn it clockwise. Hard. Until it won't go anymore. You understand? Clockwise. Hard."
Norm looked over at her, finally sensing the urgency. "Uh. Yeah. Clockwise. Hard."
"Say it."
"Clockwise. Hard. On the shock thing."
"Good." She returned her full attention to the road. The glittering facade of Vangelico was coming into view down the street. The fear was still there, a live wire in her chest, but it had fused with a new, steely resolve.