“Either in the metal cabinet or under the wooden workbench.” He held his hands roughly twelve inches apart. “It’s a gray metal box about this big. Silver handle.”
“How am I supposed to get it open?”
“You’re not. Just bring it back.”
This whole plan stunk.
He reached out, clamping a hand over my shoulder, squeezing enough to make me wince, but I didn’t move a muscle or show any fear. “You get caught, don’t mention my name, understand?”
“Sure.” I barely knew the guy and I sure as fuck didn’t have any warm, fuzzy, loyal feelings for him. But I wasn’t planning to get caught, so I kept my mouth shut.
“You’re gonna need something to get in that garage,” he said, looking around on his front porch. He returned and handed me a stubby screwdriver.
“That works.” I slipped it in my pocket and walked back to my house to grab my bike. I’d taken any reflective bits off earlier and Blake had helped me spray the shiny parts with matte black paint. Good way to get hit by a car, but I was hoping it’d help me stay off the radar of the guys I was plannin’ to rob.
I pedaled slowly, considering how to approach this job. Wondering what was in the box that had this guy willing to break into a garage owned by a bunch of bikers. Well, he wasn’t willing to do anything. He was sending a kid to do his dirty work. Figuring, what? The bikers wouldn’t be pissed to find me breaking in and stealing their shit? I had no illusion they’d go easy on me if I got caught.
Then don’t get caught.
Easier said than done.
In and out.
The parking lot for the strip club Crystal Ball was packed. The muffled thump of dance music throbbed through the air. Now, that was a place I’d rather sneak into. The garage next door, not so much.
The bikers that hung out there were scary.
But I needed that money. In and out. That’s all I had to do. I’d be quick. Then I could stop and pick up some groceries on the way home.
The building next door to the strip club was dark, although a truck and a couple motorcycles sat in the parking lot. I hadn’t determined what exactly went on in that building. Other than loud parties, lots of motorcycles, and half-naked chicks every weekend, the place seemed vacant. The garage behind it was usually full of bikers coming and going.
Tonight, the garage was dark and locked tight.
First, I circled the building. El Creep-o said I might be able to get in through one of the windows. Since they were high up and only about six inches wide, the odds of that seemed slim.
The front doors had a simple lock, which shoulda been my first clue that breaking in was fucking stupid. But I pried it loose with the screwdriver. Even then the door wouldn’t open all the way. Good thing I’d come instead of Blake. He might’ve been two years younger than me, but he was twice as wide and never woulda fit through the narrow opening.
Once inside, I cursed that I’d forgotten a flashlight. I was the worst burglar ever. I stepped carefully, holding my arms out in front of me. First thing I collided with hurt like hell. From the cool metal and solid feel, it must’ve been a motorcycle that bruised the shit out of my shin.
Thankfully, I didn’t knock it over.
I located the metal cabinet and said a prayer that the stupid box was inside. Risking a petit larceny charge at Price Chopper was looking better and better.
The doors creaked, as if calling out for help. I slid my hand over the dust and grime on each shelf. Something sharp sliced into my index finger.
“Fuck.” I jammed my finger in my mouth, the tang of copper hitting my tongue. My other hand brushed up against something smooth, cool, and box-like. I grabbed it. I could barely see the damn thing, but it felt like what I was looking for. I didn’t try to open it. Probably needed a key. But since El Creep-o hadn’t asked me to retrieve one, I didn’t bother looking.
Tucking the box under my arm, I turned.
And stopped dead in my tracks.
Two of the scariest bikers I’d ever seen stood just outside the open doors. One was at least seven feet tall and as wide as a mountain. The other, not much shorter and almost as broad. Both wore scowls that were too terrifying to look at directly. Mountain man had long, fuck-you hair down to his shoulders and tattoos on arms that were bigger than my entire body. They both wore heavy shit-kicker boots that were probably about to kick the shit out of me.
How long had they been watching me fumble around in the dark?
The answer didn’t matter.
I was worm food.