Shane drove the stolen old Ford through the narrow service roads of the South Side industrial zone, following the map Lip had scribbled full of arrows and notes.
He stayed off the main drags, dodging every obvious traffic camera. The few he couldn't avoid didn't matter—three people in full-face helmets inside a sketchy car? Good luck running the plates later.
The drive was weirdly smooth. No patrol cars, no drunk assholes stumbling into the road. Just the occasional dog barking and the rumble of traffic on the overpass above them.
They parked exactly where they'd planned—a gravel lot behind an old warehouse, close enough to the impound but hidden in shadow.
The three of them slipped out and moved toward the basin where the impound lot sat, using every bit of cover the terrain gave them.
At night the place looked like a set from a horror movie—no special effects needed.
Chain-link fence glinted cold under the moonlight. Rows of cars sat like metal tombstones in the dark.
They reached the gap in the fence when Shane suddenly hissed, "Stop."
Fiona and Lip dropped flat. Every nerve on edge.
Rustle. Rustle.
Something moved in the bushes right beside them.
Shane flicked his flashlight to the lowest setting and swept it over while his other hand drifted toward the pistol tucked at his waist (the one he'd taken from Peggy).
A skinny Black guy stepped out—the same one the guards had thrown out earlier that day.
He was still in the same ragged clothes, clutching a rock like a weapon. When he saw three figures in full black tactical gear, he nearly jumped out of his skin.
For two long seconds they stared each other down in the weak beam of light.
Shane didn't speak. He lowered his fighting stance and raised one hand, making a few quick gestures.
He pointed at the guy, then at the cars inside the lot, mimed driving away, and finally opened both palms—you go your way, we go ours.
The man blinked, confusion flashing across his face, then understanding. He took in their pro-level gear, the heavy hydraulic cutters in Shane's hand, and the fear on his face melted into bitter recognition—like he was looking at three more desperate souls just trying to survive the same fucked-up system.
He gave a slow nod, said nothing, and melted back into the shadows, waving them ahead.
Shane didn't waste time. He clamped the hydraulic cutters on the fence.
Snap-snap-snap.
The gap they could barely squeeze through before widened enough to walk through hunched over.
They slipped inside one by one. Shane went last, giving the bushes a quick nod of thanks before leading Lip and Fiona toward the van.
Thanks to his perfect sense of direction, they found Kevin's beat-up bread van fast, parked right at the edge of the lot.
"Quick and quiet," Shane whispered. "Grab it and we're gone." He motioned for Lip to open the rear doors.
Lip's hands shook as he peeled off the seals. The doors creaked open.
The inside looked exactly like they'd left it. Lip's eyes darted straight to the gap beside the oven.
"It should be right—"
Shane planted a boot on Lip's ass and shoved him hard into the van—controlled force, just enough to send him stumbling forward without making noise.
"Thirty seconds. Get it yourself."
Lip scrambled inside, fingers diving into the tight space. The second he felt the familiar strap of his laptop bag, his eyes stung with relief.
He yanked it out, hugged it to his chest like a newborn, and started backing out.
CRASH—WEE-OO WEE-OO WEE-OO!
Chaos exploded.
Glass shattered somewhere. Then car alarms started screaming—one after another, a chain reaction ripping through the lot.
High-power floodlights snapped on along the perimeter, sweeping the sea of vehicles like prison searchlights.
Distant shouts and running footsteps echoed. Flashlight beams bounced wildly toward the noise.
"Oh shit!"
Fiona's soul almost left her body. She grabbed Lip's arm the second he tumbled out, then snatched Shane's hand, ready to sprint for the gap.
"Stop!" Shane growled, clamping down on both their wrists. "Running now turns us into targets. The spotlights will paint us white. Hide!"
"But—"
Fiona's voice cracked. The swinging lights and pounding footsteps were closing in fast.
"Listen to Shane," Lip said suddenly, voice steady for the first time all night.
He stared at Shane through the helmet visor and saw the same calm, ice-cold focus he'd seen when Shane tased Frank.
In that split second, both Lip and Fiona had the exact same thought:
Maybe the only person they could trust from now on—the only voice they had to listen to—was this little brother they'd just pissed off so badly.
Shane cracked the van doors open wider, pulled them both inside, and backed them into the deepest shadow.
"Stay low," he ordered. He stayed at the crack, watching.
The whole impound lot had turned into a circus. Sirens, shouting, engines roaring.
Through the gap Shane saw two pickup trucks with bright lights racing toward the original alarm. Flashlights swept everywhere.
In the middle of it all, the skinny Black guy's beat-up truck was fishtailing, trying to break free.
He'd smashed his own window in a panic, accidentally set off the cars around him, and now the whole place was lit up like the Fourth of July.
The guy floored it, smashed straight through the fence on the far side, and disappeared up the slope into the night.
"Somebody's stealing a truck! West fence! They're through!"
"Fuck! After him!"
"Get the patrol vehicles rolling!"
The two pickups tore out after him. The remaining guards stayed behind, checking cars and cursing at the new hole in the fence.
Ten minutes later the noise finally died down.
Alarms were shut off one by one. Most floodlights clicked off. The guards' attention had clearly followed the fleeing truck. The rest of the lot only got a lazy flashlight sweep.
In their minds, the thief was gone. Chase him or forget it.
Shane waited five more minutes until everything was quiet again.
"Go."
He slid out first. Fiona and Lip followed on shaky legs, sticking to his shadow like glue.
They moved faster on the way out, slipping through the widened gap and sprinting back to their stolen car using the vehicles as cover.
All three piled in. Shane started the engine but left the lights off.
He eased out of the gravel lot, didn't flip the headlights on until they were on a dark side road.
Inside the car, Lip clutched the laptop bag like it was his firstborn.
Fiona was breathing hard, slapping her chest. "Holy shit… that was way too fucking close."
Shane stayed silent, eyes on the road, already calculating the safest route home.
Two more blocks, drop onto the main road, then cut into another quiet side street. They'd ditch the car and walk the rest of the way.
But the universe decided the night still wasn't exciting enough.
Right as they approached a T-intersection to merge onto the main road, a blue-and-white Chicago PD cruiser rolled up on the opposite side.
The two vehicles passed each other at the stop.
Shane's stomach tightened, but he kept his speed steady, hoping they looked boring.
No speeding. Plain car. Middle of the night in an industrial zone. Should be—
The cruiser rolled past… then its brake lights flared.
It reversed hard, headlights swinging around and blasting straight through the Ford's rear window, lighting up all three helmeted figures in full riding gear.
Three people in tactical motorcycle outfits inside a beater at 3 a.m. in the industrial zone?
Yeah. Suspicious as hell.
"Vehicle ahead, pull over immediately! Chicago Police!"
The cruiser's loudspeaker cracked with a hard male voice.
The patrol car had been responding to a disturbance call from the industrial zone. Their car didn't match the stolen-truck description… but three helmeted ghosts in riding gear? That was more than enough reason to light them up.
"Shit. Shane, what do we do?" Fiona's voice cracked with tears.
Lip went white. He unzipped the laptop bag—he was ready to smash the computer if they got caught.
Shane didn't answer. He kept driving.
The cruiser didn't like that. The voice on the loudspeaker turned sharp.
"I said pull over! Now!"
The cruiser accelerated, closing the gap fast.
Shane glanced in the rear-view at the flashing lights, made his decision in a heartbeat.
He pretended to slow and drift right like he was complying.
The second the cruiser relaxed, Shane yanked the wheel hard left, smashed through a pile of wooden crates blocking an alley entrance, and dove into the narrow side street.
The rear bumper clipped the cruiser's front end with a loud bang.
WEE-OO WEE-OO WEE-OO—
Sirens screamed behind them, splitting the night wide open.
The cop was furious at the blatant refusal and the hit-and-run on a police vehicle. The loudspeaker voice was practically screaming now:
"STOP! PULL OVER RIGHT NOW! YOU ARE ORDERED TO STOP!!"