Page 53 of Thief

“Hey!” she said, indignant at the rough treatment.

“Shh, someone’s coming out.”

Kat froze in her doubled up position. She heard an engine then headlights lit up the street like a floodlight.

“Was it him?” she whispered when the car had gone from view.

“Yeah, but he’s switched. He’s in the BMW again now.” John clicked his tongue in frustration. “Shit, I was about to go in there and fuck him up.”

“Shall we follow?”

“No, he’ll be back at some point.”

Kat reached her boots from the box on the back of the bike, laced them and stood upright with renewed enthusiasm now Carlos had left the vicinity. “Come on. Your car might still be in there.” She turned and trotted across the street, her footsteps silent and her outfit melting into the blackness.

She walked up to the gate and silently pushed the left one with the flat of her hand. The gates parted in the middle around the heavy chain.

I can do it. Just.

Like an expert contortionist, she put her right leg and right hip through the small space.

“What the hell are you doing?” John said through gritted teeth.

“I’m going to find your Porsche. Wait here…and be quiet!”

With a little wriggle she was on the other side of the gate, standing in Carlos’s yard full of stolen cars. Some of them—many of them—products of her own skillful handy work.

Without so much as backward glance, she weaved around several cars, none of which were Porsches, and went on towards a long, low building the size of four double garages. It had blue wooden doors, not quite shut, and she could make out a low window at the side.

She stooped and ran, her boots carrying her noiselessly on the uneven, concrete surface. She placed her palms on sleeping cars as she moved around them, stopping and starting frequently and checking out her next move.

Her adrenaline was flowing, her breaths shallow. Every instinct told her to get as far away as possible from anything of Carlos’s. But the thought of the diamonds urged her on. She was on a mission, a mission to become rich.

Reaching a vantage point where she could spy through the window, Kat hooked her fingers over the sill and cautiously raised her head. Past a bundle of heavy cobwebs thick with London soot, she could see the inside of the brightly lit workshop.

There were two cars side by side, a yellow Lamborghini, nothing to do with her, and the Mercedes. Tools were spread around the floor as were tyres, seats, radios and a steering wheel. Only one person was apparent. The man she’d seen opening the gates for Carlos. But he was only just a man, because as Kat studied him, she realised he was probably not even out of his teens. He had a stretched pale face, over sized hooked nose and a wet mouth hanging open formlessly—the whole mishmash of features made all the worse by the fact they were surrounded with angry red acne and a greasy tug of hair which poked out of his cap.

The new Mercedes was up on jacks. She saw him lean right inside, and suddenly, the air was filled with banging rap music. As the youth’s head reappeared, it bobbed around in time with the fast beat.

Feeling confident the youth wouldn’t pose a problem even if he did see her, Kat scanned the rest of the garage. Surely there was some sort of desk in the building. Somewhere Carlos would keep a record of his illegal business, a tracking system for the cars he shifted through. She strained to see into each corner, looking for any signs of paperwork, a computer, a filing cabinet—anything. But there was nothing other than car parts and oily rags, hundreds of cans of spray paint and bottles of polish—nothing to suggest record keeping.

But there was a door, right at the back, and judging from its position along the wall on which she was leaning, it wasn’t flush with the end of the building. It must be a doorway into another room, hopefully an office.

She flicked her attention back to the youth. He was tucked under the car now, his feet twitching to the booming rap.

Heart racing at the thought of entering deeper into Carlos’s domain, she nipped past a pile of rusty old oil drums to the front of the workshop and slipped inside.

Her breath caught high in her throat as she passed within a few feet of the mechanic’s feet.

She reached the door, pushed down the handle and stepped inside.

She was greeted with a Formica desk strewn with a great pile of papers.

Yes!

Immediately, she began to rifle through them. If Carlos had information on where the Porsche was, it must be on this desk…somewhere.

Scanning the familiar scrawling writing, she hunted for the word Porsche. Any word that started with P was treated to scrutiny. She accidently dropped a pile of papers onto the floor and bent to sift them back together.

---