The Nightmare Thief. Meg Gardiner

“Reiniger Cartel World Headquarters, Sobieski the Assassin speaking. How may I direct your call?” Then, giggling, “Hi, Mom.”

      Kyle scanned the parking lot, one hand steepled over his brow. After a minute he reached inside the Hummer and took out a walkie-talkie.

      “Ritter calling base.”

      Static.

      “Ritter calling base, come in.”

      More static. He got his phone, made a call, and frowned. Autumn knew that look. It was the one she got when she called her father. Voice mail.

      She tugged on Dustin’s sleeve. “All that crap from my dad about getting here on time, and we have to stand around waiting for the game to start?”

      Dustin shrugged. His smile was slippery, like it had been oiled. “They’re going to spring things on us. It’s cool.”

      “Ask the driver what’s going on.” She pinched him. “Dustin. This is boring.”

      Dustin raised his hands in submission and walked toward Kyle. “Hey, man, thought your team was supposed to be waiting for us here. What’s going on?”

      Kyle looked up, sheepish behind his sunglasses. “Coordinating with HQ.” He frowned again at his phone. “It’s just . . .” His lips, full and red, had constricted. He looked baffled.

      Autumn crossed her arms. “Where are the other game runners?”

      Ritter raised his hands, a mollifying gesture. “Guys, I’m as new to this as you. Let’s just ride it and see what happens.”

      “New?” Autumn said.

      He smiled, greasy and uncertain, trying to play it. “I’m Edge’s most recent addition to the team.”

      “You’re brand-new on the gig?” Dustin said.

      “First time for everybody, man. It’s no biggie. And I’m sure this delay is just a glitch.” Kyle gave one more beseeching glance at his silent cell phone.

      “Are you telling us we came to the wrong place?” Dustin looked around, weaving.

      Autumn’s voice rose. “This has been planned for months. And you came in at the last minute?”

      The others stopped horsing around and walked over. Noah said, “What’s going on?”

      Autumn pointed at Kyle. “Did you screw up? Because if you did, my dad will have your ass on a skewer.”

      Kyle’s expression dried, like a chunk of Sheetrock. “I did not screw up. We changed plans at the last second, thanks to a specific request by your father for Edge to provide this limo. My boss called me at seven A.M. We had to scramble to get this Hummer and pick you all up,” he said. “So no offense, Miss Reiniger, but if there’s a problem, it’s your dad . . .”

      Autumn stiffened, but Kyle caught himself.

      “Let’s all cool down.” He forced a smile. “It’s just a hiccup. I’m sure the rest of the team will be right along.”

      Peyton grabbed the champagne bottle from Dustin. She took Grier’s hand and pulled him toward the Hummer.

      “Knock on the window if anybody shows up,” she said.

      Autumn swallowed. The hot pellet in her stomach had returned. How could this turn bad, so quick? It was her day.

      Lark looked around: at the empty, wind-bitten park, the flying saucer stadium, the bay. Then she stood straighter. “Oh. Look.”

      Dustin’s gaze swerved around. “Whoa.”

      Lark jogged toward the bay. Noah ran after her. “All right.” Autumn blinked, fighting the sting in her eyes. On the water, arcing around the abandoned cranes at Hunters Point, was a white speedboat.

      Kyle let out a breath, half laugh, half sigh. “There you go.”

      “That’s them?”

      He waved her forward. “Let’s hit it.” He banged on the window of the Hummer. “Peyton. Grier. Out. We got bogeys incoming.”

      Autumn’s anger let go and a bright stripe of excitement painted the view. She grabbed Dustin’s hand and pulled him toward the beach.

       Chapter 5

      The speedboat razored through the chop past the cranes at Hunters Point and skipped across the bay toward Candlestick Point. Dane Haugen held the throttle wide open.

      “Masks on,” he said.

      Von Nordlinger pulled a black ski mask over his face. Haugen did likewise. Over the mask he put on the wraparound sunglasses he had purchased that morning. His hands were already covered by black calfskin gloves.

      He picked up his walkie-talkie and clicked Transmit. “This is Viking. We are three hundred meters from the beach and closing.”

      The boat bounced on the whitecapped water. Over the walkie-talkie, a woman’s voice scratched at him.

      “This is Ran. We are thirty seconds from the rec area parking lot.”

      Haugen smirked. Ran. How apropos of Sabine to employ a Norse goddess as a cover name, one that meant theft. “Masks on. Hold position.”

      “Roger,” she said.

      He had to wear the mask. He was fair, tall, well built, and so handsome that a Hollywood producer had once told him that he could have opened feature films. The word chiseled, he had decided, fit him best. And his presence was magnetic—almost bewitching to women. He saw himself as a classic figure, perhaps Spartan. Nobody who saw him could forget him. He was too striking.

      He raised his binoculars from the strap that hung around his neck. At Candlestick Point, the trees bent beneath the wind. The park’s sad picnic tables were empty. On the muddy beach, a group of young people jogged into sight.

      “It’s them.”

      Von slipped the pistol from the small of his back and chambered a round. Behind the ski mask, his watery blue eyes were eager.

      “Clear the round,” Haugen said.

      Von glanced sharply at him.

      “Do it now,” Haugen said. “We will not damage the merchandise.”

      “But if they run—”

      Haugen clipped him in the side of the head with the walkie-talkie. Von lurched and grabbed his ear. “Christ, you—”

      “Clear the chamber, and safety your weapon. Now. Before I dump you overboard.”

      Struggling to hold himself steady against the chop, Von cleared the chamber and safetied the pistol. He wouldn’t look at Haugen.

      “If they run?” Haugen said. “Of course they’re going to run. They’re young and fit and pumped up, and they think this is a game. We want them to think it’s a game. Our plan depends on them thinking so.”

      He shouted over the roar of the engine, enunciating each word carefully, as if lecturing a cognitively challenged janitor. Von stared at the prow of the boat. His lips were pressed white, his nostrils flaring beneath the ski mask, but he kept his mouth shut this time.

      Haugen aimed the speedboat directly at the beach. The boat was a fine piece of machinery. And the drug runner’s vehicle of choice. Credit Terry Coates—the ex-cop knew his stuff. Too bad for Edge Adventures that the boat had been so easy to steal.

      Haugen breathed in the sharp salt air. So far, so perfect. His team had taken control of the Edge game runners without a fight. Coates had thought briefly about resisting, but the sight of Von’s Glock had stopped him in his tracks. Coates didn’t want to die over a bunch of spoiled college kids.

      No,