Free Overdrive by Dawn Ius Page B

convertible?”
    Roger purses his lips. “Convertible.”
    Nick laughs. “Impossible. They only made two hundred and ninety-six convertible Coronet R/Ts. That’s a seriously collectible car.”
    I raise an eyebrow. “More so than the Camaro?”
    Ignoring the question, Nick runs his thumb over another of the cars, a ’68 Cosma Ray Corvette. “Jesus, Roger. This is a Barris.” He rubs the back of his neck. “ George Barris worked on this.”
    â€œI’m aware.”
    I nudge a little closer to Nick. “Now I’m impressed.”
    A goofy look crosses his face. “You know who he is? Man, he did some of the best restoration work in the business.” His voice lifts. “He worked on the original Batmobile.”
    That’s one fact I actually knew, but mainly because my former foster dad used to watch Barris’s TV show. And okay, I’ve been known to geek out from time to time.
    The thing is, I get cars. The sound. The vibration. There’s something about the roar of an engine dropping into gear that makes me feel . . . free. No responsibilities. No guilt. Just me and the machine, whether I’m racing, stealing, or gawking from the sidelines.
    My gut tells me Nick can relate.
    He sucks in a breath. “These last two are impossible.”
    An Aston Martin DBS—formerly driven by James Bond—and a 1967 Shelby GT500. In parentheses, Roger has written: “(previously owned by Jim Morrison).” Guess that explains the Doors poster in the games room.
    Chelsea nibbles on her fingernail. “Why are they more difficult?”
    Solid question. Sin City car theft may be steadily on the rise, but the vehicles on Roger’s list are a far cry from Civics and Silverados. None of them are sitting ducks.
    Nick runs his hand through his hair. A strand falls over his left eye and I resist the knee-jerk urge to brush it away. “They’ve both been missing for years,” he says.
    My mouth goes dry. “And you expect us to find them?”
    Roger looks up from his magazine, and my skin prickles. “I’m confident you’ll figure it out.”
    At least someone is.
    â€œYou’ve got at least four Shelbys in the warehouse,” Nick says.
    â€œThis one’s different.”
    â€œThe Aston Martin doesn’t fit,” I say, a little rattled by the finality of Roger’s tone. “The other six are muscle cars—”
    Nick shakes his head. “Almost. Corvettes aren’t considered real muscle.”
    A continuing debate among car enthusiasts.
    â€œStill . . .” I turn to Roger. “The Bondmobile isn’t really your type.”
    â€œYour opinion isn’t necessary.”
    Nick fidgets. “It would take us years to boost the muscle on this list, and that’s assuming we can find them all.” He snags the paper from my fingers and thrusts it at Mat. “Think you can track them down?”
    Mat studies the list. “Given some serious time . . . ?”
    Roger snaps the magazine shut and stands, empty tumbler in hand. “You’ve got seven weeks.”
    My heart flutters. I’m not sure if I want to faint or laugh. He’s got to be joking.
    Chelsea’s eyes widen. “Seven cars in seven weeks. Is that even—doable? I’d need a lot longer to crack the security systems.” She glances at Nick for confirmation. “I mean, they’d have sophisticated locks, right?”
    A cold sweat breaks out along the nape of my neck. “You’re asking the impossible.”
    â€œI certainly hope not. You’ve agreed to the terms.”
    My instincts flare. “Why the rush?”
    â€œBecause I can.”
    A dangerous anger curls up my spine. The answer’s too simple, too calculated. Roger’s hiding something. “You’re arrogant. And that’s a cop-out.”
    â€œPerhaps.”
    With a stiff nod,