Page 51 of Twisted Legacy

I follow him up to the guard shack. The guard,Walter,jumps to attention when he sees us. “Good Evening, Mr. Cox, Mr. Rhodes. How’s it going tonight?”

In a clipped tone, I answer, “You tell us.”

“All quiet. Like usual.”

“My bike is missing.”

He smiles, then laughs. Why is everyone acting like I’m a fucking comedian all of a sudden? The smile slips when he takes in my face; the color draining from his. Turning to the camera, he says, “Sir, that’s impossible. Nobody came by the booth on your bike.”

“Maybe it happened when you were on a bathroom break.”

Finn adds, “Or doing your rounds.”

“Impossible. The gate would have been down, and they’d need a code to get it up, which is logged into the system.” He stabs a button and shows no access in or out during the times he annotated he was away from the booth.

“Well, somebody was here, and my bike is missing.” If they didn’t ride by, did they load it onto a trailer so he wouldn’t know what it was, or take it apart and sneak it out piece by piece the way we did Tyler’s car?

That thought makes me even madder. Disassembling that beauty is the worst violation imaginable. If that’s what happened, then there’s only one frat that could be responsible. “Austin.” I growl.

Finn points to the monitors, and says, “Show me the cameras.”

The school installed cameras at the front of the building, because it’s the only place for cars to enter or exit the garage. Vandalism isn’t a problem here. Shit, I didn’t think theft was either. At least not down on the lower level, because The Trium are the only ones who use that level. Sometimes we use the access tunnel to get down there, but even then, we still have to come this way to get out.

Walter speeds through the camera feeds. I don’t see anything. I tell him, “Go back to yesterday.” He does and still nothing. This doesn’t make any sense. “Is it on a loop?,” I ask.

“No, sir. These dates and stamps are in real-time. See the different cars going and coming?”

Holden joins us as Walter says the last part. The look on his face confirms the feed wasn’t tampered with. Finn points to the screen. “I only recognize a few of these cars and jeeps, but none of them are Austin’s.”

“Maybe he borrowed someone else’s,” I suggest.

Walter’s sweating when he swivels in his seat and asks, “Mr. Cox, do you want me to call the cops?”

I don’t need that kind of attention. Especially since I’ll be going after Austin myself. It’s best to keep this between us. “That won’t be necessary. I’ll take care of it.”

My friends and I head back to the lower level to look for clues. I jerk to a stop and bellow, “What the fuck is going on?”

My bike is back in its spot, and whoever had it definitely didn’t come through the front of the garage while we were standing there.

“They must’ve put it in neutral and hid between two cars, or on a different level.” Finn says, scanning the structure for movement.”

Holden puts up his hand, when I take a step towards my bike. “Don’t touch it.”

Shit. Is this a prank or did somebody really do something to it, and hope I wouldn’t know it was missing until it was too late?

While I’m thinking about that, Holden makes a call. He hangs up and says, “My dad’s team will be here to sweep it clean within the hour.”

An hour turns out to be ten minutes. Holden’s dad rolls into the garage in an armored SUV with his bomb squad already suited up. They send in a remote controlled bomb sniffer to do an initial scan for wires, and heat signatures.

“Someone was definitely riding this bike, sir.” The guy working the remote calls out. “The engines still warm.”

But how? My smart lock is coded. I have the key with me at all times, and nobody knows the code for it but me. I didn’t get any alerts that someone was trying to tamper with it.

“Proceed.” Holden’s dad says.

The last time I saw Parker Sullivan surrounded by this many armed agents, and looking this pissed, was the day Holden was almost kidnapped. It took him years to relax enough to let his son go out without an armed escort by his side. I think Holden’s extreme distrust of people, and the tracker embedded in his watch, helped his dad feel comfortable enough to loosen the reins.

Parker being here, instead of just letting a team handle it, puts me on edge. I’m watching him watch the feed being transmitted by the bomb squad. He smiles, when he sees me looking. “It’s okay, Pax. I doubt there’s a bomb, but we want to be certain, and we’re look for any other ways the perpetrator may have mechanically or electronically manipulated your bike.”

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