Drake

 

 

The motorcycle roars under me as I open the throttle up. It's a cool, crisp Atlanta night, and the highway into town is almost clear. The chance for a burst of speed does me good; it reminds me that I am free.

 

I’m dressed like any late-twenties guy you’d expect to find on a motorcycle—head to toe black leather, boots, gloves, jeans, and an unmarked jacket. I’m not flying our club colors tonight. I’m flying under the radar.

 

I told the boys to stay back in Baton Rouge where we’ve got a secure hideout and plenty of money and pot. They need a break after six heists in a row, jumping from city to city to intercept jewel shipments and steal from collections. If we push too far and too hard, especially right now, we’re more likely to make a mistake that will cost us.

 

I don’t go for reckless excess. Neither does my team. We’re subtle, careful, and thanks to me, we always go in disguised and knowing exactly what part each of us will play. Zero casualties, zero arrests, zero betrayals. That’s the tight ship I have always kept.

 

Between heists, our usual cover is a small motorcycle club, perpetually “just passing through,” calling ourselves the Wanderers. Friendly, selling a little pot for travel money, not asking for trouble from anyone—especially other clubs. On the roads, especially in spring and summer, we can pass for any such group of nomads.

 

It’s all a means to an end. I play any role that’s going to get us the money, freedom, and security that we need. Drunk tourist, cat burglar, parkourist, biker, cutter and setter of fake gems, cruise passenger, and just recently, jailbird.

 

We’ve gotten our routine down to the point where it’s comfortable and easy to follow. After a jewel theft, we stash whatever it is we stole, grab our ready cash, and move on to the next town. We wait for things to cool down—usually six months or so—and then circle back to the cities where we have our stashes and commit no crimes at all while we retrieve them. Outside of a little trespassing, of course.

 

Six months on, five months off, and we leave one stash every year squirreled away long term in case something goes wrong. We end up fencing bits as we go, but keep the really choice stuff for a black market gem sale in Rio that happens every January.

 

Five years in a row, we have gone down the coast on an enormous cruise ship, pretending to be five brothers on our annual vacation together. Our stopover in Rio is three days, and we arrive with gems sewn into the linings of our luggage and our outer clothes. On the way back, those seams are stuffed with cash.

 

It’s a good life, and we make bank. And for the most part, outside of a punched-out guard or something like that, we do it without any violence at all. It’s so much better than what the boys and I left behind that maybe I’ve gotten a little complacent while I enjoyed my new life.

 

Maybe that’s how I got caught—either that or someone didn’t drop the damn dime on me. I don’t know. I may never know. But I can’t help but feel like I slipped up somehow.

 

They were waiting for us when I got back to New Orleans. I barely got to check on my houseboat before the goddamned cops were all over me. They had popped me on a gun charge for a weapon I had never seen before in my life, but had supposedly been found back in my stateroom by the maid.

 

I went without a fight so everyone else could take the chance to get away. Everyone else in our club has no record at all; I snapped them up before they could get into the sort of low-level crap that gets kids into trouble. I was the one the cops had something on, so I took a dive. One for all.

 

Maybe I’m dumb and sentimental, but after ending up in juvie for stealing to survive, I couldn’t risk my boys going down too. I just don’t see imprisonment as anything but hell on earth. There’s no rehabilitation behind bars; just a cage you share with monsters.

 

I was jailed for five-and-a-half months for a crime I did not commit before they finally figured out that I was telling the truth. I could have copped a plea, but that would have meant probation, which would have thrown a giant monkey wrench into our business. And I’ve got my pride; if they had caught me for something I had actually done, that would be one thing, but I’m not going down for something I’m innocent of.

 

I was as shocked as anyone to find out about that gun; I hate the damn things. I only carry a firearm on the job or when we’re playing outlaw biker out on the roads. Tonight, Max, my second-in-command, pretty much had to push a pistol at me and make me promise to take it along.

 

I’m an ex street kid with a lot of dumb mistakes under my belt, but compared to the guys I met in prison, I’m a model citizen. I steal and smuggle jewels from people so rich that they will barely miss them, and I sell a little pot between gigs. I’ve never bullied anyone, I’ve never started a fight, and I’ve never had to use my gun.

 

When I think about my time in jail, those six months have a weird, dreamlike quality. I had no control of my life then—someone else told me when I could eat, sleep, exercise, everything. Once they found out I was a black belt, the gangsters and crazies mostly left me alone, but I never entirely felt safe, stable, or...real...while under those bright prison lights.

 

The first thing I wanted when I got out was a long motorcycle ride. So I asked the boys, since I didn’t want them to see me struggling through my post-jail recovery, if I could go pick up our latest stash of diamonds by myself. That’s what puts me on the highway toward Atlanta at eight on Halloween night.

 

I like Halloween. It’s one of the most benign holidays ever. Raucous parties aside, it’s pretty much all for the kids—running around playing pretend for payment in candy. It’s nostalgic and silly, and when you find yourself passing those happy, noisy gaggles of small figures in costume, it can lighten the worst mood.

 

Once I’m off the highway I buy two shopping bags worth of full-sized chocolate bars and start tossing them to kids as I roll past—without taking my helmet off. “Thanks, Ghost Rider!” one of them yells, and I wave. I feel something relax inside of me that hasn’t relented since my cell door slammed on me for the first time.

 

We’re pretty much rich by now. I might want to retire soon. Maybe go full normal—wife, kids. I love kids, and as for women...I let out a chuckle as I give out the last of the chocolate bars and head to a late supper at the nearest steak place.

 

I’ve been in a cage for six months, constantly watched, constantly...pent up. I need to get laid so badly that my balls ache sometimes, like they’re over-full. I know nothing is going to really help me but a good, long fuck with a really enthusiastic woman.

 

But before I do that, I have a stopover to make, and then a job to do.

 

I park the bike and jump off as a pair of college girls are walking past toward the restaurant. I hear one of them gasp as I pull off my helmet, and can’t help but smile a little. My hair is bright, white gold, and stands up in spikes just out of the helmet, so I have to smooth it down with a hand.

 

After months of canteen food, this is my first real meal that hasn’t been delivered by a pizza guy since I got out. I order the biggest steak on their menu with all the fixings, and take over an hour downing the whole damn thing with good beer. My mood keeps improving; eventually, once I have a full belly and a little buzz, I start planning the night’s short but very important job.

 

We stashed the jewels in an abandoned hospital called Grace Memorial. Eight months ago, before we left for Rio, I personally hid over two million dollars in unset diamonds under the floorboards of a room in their mental health wing. I'm the only one who knows exactly where they are, so it made sense to just let me go.

 

I scouted the place for over a week before choosing it as our stash site. There’s one security guard, but the man’s fifty and struggling to cover four acres of forested land on foot, on top of the building itself. As far as I know, all he does is check the doors for signs of tampering.

 

It’s an easy job. The building’s a maze inside, but the room I’m going to has a missing window with a broken metal grating. The angle of the grating and the two remaining bolts provide a convenient way for an athletic guy with the right training to get straight to that room.

 

My mood continues to lift as I ride over to the hospital grounds. I find myself humming—something I haven’t done since I was locked up. I might be contemplating retirement after another year or so of this, but it still feels good to be getting back to what I do best.

 

I feel the first little hint of doubt as I see a battered little blue car sitting at the curb immediately outside the front gates. It could be the security guy’s, but he usually parks in the back as far as I know. Its presence sets my nerves on edge. Is someone else here?

 

A fat, drooping live oak sits at the property line near the gate. I park in its shadow, secure my bike, grab my backpack with my minimal gear and strap it on. Then, after a glance around to make sure I’m not being followed, I scramble right up the tree trunk and swing over the iron fence on a sturdy branch.

 

I land in a crouch, glancing around again. I still have my helmet on since I want my head protected if I have to do some climbing—and my face covered in case I actually do run into anyone. I’m pretty distinctive—I’ve always been a big guy, and I got even more into bodybuilding while I was inside. But the helmet makes me anonymous enough.

 

I still can’t get used to the idea that I can see the sky as much as I want. I still can’t get used to the idea that I can go pretty much wherever I want, whenever—as long as I take precautions not to get caught. My false imprisonment has left me with a greater appreciation for freedom than ever before.

 

Now let’s not fuck it up.

 

I approach the building cautiously, staying in the shadows. Down the hill from me, a flashlight bobs as the security guy doggedly makes his usual rounds. I don’t have to worry about him. But I need to get past the tree line so I can get a good view of that hospital wing.

 

Finally, I reach the knot of trees closest to that side of the building and peer up at the window where I’m supposed to make my entrance...

 

Only to see a light shining in it.

 

Fuck, I think, as I stare up at the lit window in this supposedly abandoned building. Who is this now? Are they looking for the diamonds? If they’re here for some other reason, is it possible that they’ll stumble onto them?

 

I can’t just leave and take the chance that the diamonds are safe. I have to check this out—and pray that I can still retrieve them without risking being seen.

 

Muttering in irritation, I head for the entrance, planning to slip inside and quietly investigate this unexpected intruder.