Page 107 of Savage Lover

I’m creeping around to the back of the police cars, to the van at the edge of the roped-off street.

Taking a deep breath, and staying low, I jog out from the neighbor’s yard to the driver’s side door. It’s unlocked. There’s no key in the ignition, but that’s not a problem. Using Nero’s knife, I turn the screws on the steering column, then strip the insulation off the battery and ignition wires. Twisting them together, the dashboard lights up. I take a quick peek out the front windshield, to make sure that hasn’t attracted any attention. The cops are all facing the other direction, focused on the house.

I grab the starter wire and spark it against the other two.

The engine revs to life.

Fucking bingo.

Resisting the urge to burn rubber, I quietly pull away from the curb and drive off without anybody noticing.

24

NERO

Idon’t particularly like sending Camille back to Levi’s house. Especially with only that idiot Schultz to protect her. But I trust Camille to take care of herself. And Schultz to look out for his own best interests by keeping his informant alive.

Still, I’m more distracted than I’ve ever been, heading into this job.

And that’s not a good thing.

Because this shit is complicated. In fact, I’d almost say that I’m nervous. If I were willing to admit to feeling an emotion like that.

Let’s just call it . . . tense. A tightness that runs from my scalp all the way down my spine.

I look at my watch: 10:02. Camille should be going into Levi’s house right now.

Fuck, fuck, fuck, I regret how we planned this. It seemed like the only way to make sure Schultz was occupied. But now it seems insane, pulling two jobs in one night . . .

We should have stayed together.

If we all get out of this alive, I’m not letting Camille out of my sight anymore. She can stay safe right by my side.

“You okay?” Seb says to me.

“Of course,” I reply.

I shake my hair out of my eyes, determined to focus.

Sebastian, Mason, and Jonesy are all gearing up. We’re at Jonesy’s house ‘cause we’re using his van. He’s got this nice white windowless electrician’s van, from his time working for Brickhouse Security. That was four years ago, but Jonesy hasn’t forgotten how to cut his way into most any electrical panel, including the one powering Alliance Bank.

I love Jonesy, but he’s twitchy as fuck. When he’s in a manic phase, he stays up all night hacking government websites, trying to prove his conspiracy theories. When he’s in a depressive state, he holes up in his basement and won’t let anybody come over unless they bring pizza and a six-pack, and agree not to discuss anything but Halo.

You have to catch him right in the middle of those two states, when he can actually be productive.

Today he seems in good spirits. He’s showered (always a good sign), and he’s got a new pair of glasses that make him look a bit like John Lennon during his bearded Jesus phase.

Jonesy drives us to 600 North LaSalle, where we use a stolen keycard to get into the underground parking garage.

This is a mixed-use building, with a bunch of law firms and private equity companies using the office space. It’s not the perfect access point, because lawyers and finance types like to work late at night, but it has one very special feature—a patio garden space that extends outward to within twelve feet of the Alliance bank.

We hop out of the van, taking a ladder and a couple of paint cans out of the back.

“Let me know if you have any trouble,” I say to Jonesy, tapping the earpiece nestled in my right ear.

He nods. “Don’t cut the glass ‘till I give you the okay.”

Jonesy drives off, headed for the electrical grid that powers the Alliance building. It’s about twelve minutes away, and he’s got to stay there for the duration of the job, manually clamping off the signals for the perimeter sensors. He won’t have time to drive back and pick us up again. That’s got to be Camille.

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