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“I trust that you wouldn’t want anything to do with it.”
“That, my dear friend, is where you’re wrong. You’re about to steal that thing, aren’t you?”
I nod. “Three million on the low end. People pay more for it.”
“How many are there?”
“Seven.”
She whistles.
“She has a twin turbocharger and can accelerate from zero to two hundred in under 9.4 seconds.”
“You guys know you’ll be in deep shit if you’re caught, right?”
I look to my right, taking her in.
She dressed for the occasion, that’s for sure. In a blue form-fitting suit, Jerry looks stunning.
“What are you here for?”
She smiles at me, winking her charcoal-lined eye. “Hunting.”
Right.
“Are you going to have any problems getting it out of here?” she asks, turning her attention back to the car in front of us.
“No. It has a seven-speed dual clutch, so it basically drives like an automatic.”
Jerry makes a face. “Who would possibly want that?”
“Rich people,”
She nods.
“It has a satellite navigation system we can use, but we’re going to have to hack it to make sure that we’re not tracked. That’s going to be the biggest feat. Other than that, it’s just wicked cool. A great addition to our collection.”
Over the last five years, Jerry and the other new Fallen Angels and I have bonded over stealing cars. We’re not totally proud of it, but it’s fun and we can get away with it. It’s something to pass the time, and that makes it good enough for me.
We’ve collected twenty so far, filling half of the bottom floor of the compound with our expensive, free toys.
Jerry has always secretly worried about our little extra-curricular activity considering it’s not exactly Agency-approved, but we have to do something for us, and this is what I choose.
“You want to help?” I ask.
She shakes her head, her eyes stuck on a blonde down below. “No, I have business to attend to,” she says with a smirk before prowling away. She shakes out her now black hair, letting it sweep behind her.
Taking a deep breath, I make my way down the stairs behind her, heading for the car.
“Are you lost, boy?” a man asks. He’s older, probably around sixty, and he wears a three-piece suit. His question is reasonable. At twenty-four, I’m sure he doesn’t understand why a kid is here looking at cars he cannot even possibly afford.
But I’m not here to buy them.
“I was just wondering if I could look in the Lykan,” I say, beaming at the beautiful thing.
“We only let people actually interested in purchasing do that,” the man states, looking me up and down.
I don’t look poor, that’s for sure. In my best suit, I cross my wrists over my waist, tapping my Rolex.
