“Jesus, Dennis, we gotta turn ourselves in.”
Dennis felt so much pressure in his head that he thought his eyes were swelling.
“No one’s turning themselves in! We can get outta this! We just gotta figure out what to do!”
Mars touched him again.
“Listen.”
Mars was smiling at nothing. Not even looking at them.
“We’re just three guys in a red truck. There’s a million red trucks.”
Dennis desperately wanted to believe that.
“You think?”
“They’ve got to find witnesses. If they find those two kids or the woman, then those people have to describe us. Maybe they can, but maybe they can’t. When the cops get all that sorted out, then they have to start looking for three white guys in a red truck. You know how many red trucks there are?”
“A million.”
“That’s right. And how long does all that take? The rest of the day? Tomorrow? We can be across the border in four hours. Let’s go down to Mexico.”
The vacant smile was absolutely sure of itself. Mars was so calm that Dennis found himself convinced; it was as if Mars had run this path before and knew the turns.
“That’s a fucking plan, Mars. That’s a plan! We can kick back for a few days, then come back when everything blows over. It always blows over.”
“That’s right.”
Dennis pushed harder on the accelerator, felt the transmission lag, and then a loud BANG came from under the truck. The transmission let go. Six hundred dollars. Cash. What did he expect?
“MotherFUCKing piece of SHIT!”
The truck lost power, bucking as Dennis guided it off the road. Even before it lurched to a stop, Dennis shoved open the door, desperate to run. Kevin caught his arm, holding him back.
“There’s nothing we can do, Dennis. We’re only making it worse.”
“Shut up!”
Dennis shook off his brother’s hand and slid out of the truck. He searched up and down the road, half expecting to see a highway patrol car, but the cars were few and far between and those were mostly soccer moms. Flanders Road from here to the freeway cut through an area of affluent housing developments. Some of the communities were gated, but most weren’t, though most were hidden from the road by hedges that masked heavy stone walls. Dennis looked at the hedges, and the walls that they hid. He wondered if escape lay beyond them.
It was like Mars read his mind.
“Let’s steal a car.”
Dennis looked at the wall again. On the other side of it would be a housing development filled with cars. They could crash into a house, tie up the soccer mom to buy some time, and drive.
Dennis didn’t think about it any more than that.
“Let’s go.”
“Dennis, please.”
Dennis pulled his brother out of the truck.
They crashed into the hedges and went up the wall.
OFFICER MIKE WELCH,
BRISTO CAMINO POLICE
Officer Mike Welch, thirty-two years old, married, one child, was rolling code seven to the Krispy Kreme donut shop on the west side of Bristo Camino when he got the call.
“Unit four, base.”
“Four.”
“Armed robbery, Kim’s Minimart on Flanders Road, shots fired.”
Welch thought that was absurd.
“Say again, shots fired. Are you kidding me?”
“Three white males, approximately twenty years, jeans and T-shirts, driving a red Nissan pickup last seen west on Flanders Road. Get over there and see about Junior.”
Mike Welch was rolling westbound on Flanders Road. Junior’s service station was straight ahead, less than two miles. Welch went code three, hitting the lights and siren. He had never before in his three years as a police officer rolled code three other than when he pulled over a speeder.
“I’m on Flanders now. Is Junior shot?”
“That’s affirm. Ambulance is inbound.”
Welch floored it. He was so intent on beating the paramedics to Kim’s that he was past the red truck parked on the opposite side of the road before he realized that it matched the description of the getaway vehicle.
Welch shut his siren and pulled off onto the shoulder. He twisted around to stare back up the street. He couldn’t see anyone in or around the truck, but there it was, a red Nissan pickup. Welch waited for a gap in traffic, then swung around and drove back, pulling off behind the Nissan. He keyed his shoulder mike.
“Base, four. I’m a mile and a half east of Kim’s on Flanders. Got a red Nissan pickup, license Three-Kilo-Lima-Mike-Four-Two-Nine. It appears abandoned. Can you send someone else to Kim’s?”
“Ah, we can.”
“I’m gonna check it out.”
“Three-Kilo-Lima-Mike-Four-Two-Nine. Rog.”
Welch climbed out of his car and rested his right hand on the butt of his Browning Hi-Power. He didn’t draw his weapon, but he wanted to be ready. He walked up along the passenger side of the truck, glanced underneath, then walked around the front. The engine was still ticking, and the hood was warm. Mike Welch thought, sonofabitch, this was it, this was the getaway vehicle.
“Base, four. Area’s clear. Vehicle is abandoned.”
“Rog.”
Welch continued around to the driver’s-side door and looked inside. He couldn’t be sure that this was the getaway vehicle, but his heart was hammering with excitement. Mike Welch had come to the Bristo police department after seven years as a roofing contractor. He had thought that police work would be more than writing traffic tickets and breaking up domestic disturbances, but it hadn’t worked out that way; now, for the first time in his career, he might come face-to-face with an actual felon. He looked either way up and down the road, wondering why they had abandoned the truck and where they had gone. He suddenly felt frightened. Welch stared at the hedges. He squatted again, trying to see under the low branches, but saw nothing except a wall. Welch drew his gun, then approached the hedges, looking more closely. Several branches were broken. He glanced back at the truck, thinking it through, imagining three suspects pushing through the hedges. Three kids on the run, shitting their pants, going over the wall. On the other side of the wall was a development of expensive homes called York Estates. Welch knew from his patrol route that there were only two streets out unless they went over the wall again. They would be hiding in someone’s garage or running like hell out the back side of the development, trying to get away.
Welch listened to the Nissan’s ticking engine, and decided that he was no more than a few minutes behind them. His heart rate increased. He made his decision. Welch burned rubber as he swung out onto the road, intent on cutting them off before they escaped the development, intent on making the arrest.
DENNIS
Dennis dropped from the wall into a different world, hidden behind lush ferns and plants with leathery green leaves and orange trees. His impulse was to keep running, haul ass across the yard, jump the next wall, and keep going, but the siren was right on top of them. And then the siren stopped.
Kevin said, “Dennis, please, the police are gonna see the truck. They’re gonna know who we are.”
“Shut up, Kevin. I know. Lemme think!”
They were in a dense garden surrounding a tennis court at the rear of a palatial home. A swimming pool was directly in front of them with the main house beyond the pool, a big-ass two-story house with lots of windows and doors, and one of the doors was open. Just like that. Open. If people were home, there would be a car. A Sony boom box beside the pool was playing music. There wouldn’t be music if no one was home.
Dennis glanced at Mars, and, without even looking back at him, almost as if he had read Dennis’s mind again, Mars nodded.
JENNIFER SMITH
Sixty feet away through the open door, Jennifer Smith was thoroughly pissed off about the state of her life. Her father was behind closed doors at the front of the house, working. He was an accountant, and often worked at home. Her mother was in Florida visiting their Aunt Kate. With her mom in Florida and her dad working, Jen was forced 24/7 to ride herd on her ten-year-old brother, Thomas. If her friends wanted to go to the Multiplex, Thomas had to go. If she lied about going to Palmdale so she could sneak down to LA, Thomas would tell. Jennifer Smith was sixteen years old. Having a turd like Thomas grafted to her butt 24/7 was wrecking her summer.