Free Asking For Trouble by Simon Wood

restaurant was a dead-end alley, which had been cordoned off with gates to make a parking lot watched over by two valets. They looked as if they were relations of the small man’s linebackers. Obviously, the small man was making Todd work hard to make up for his screwup. It wasn’t going to be easy, but it was doable.
    He breezed on by the restaurant, counting his steps, then turned right at the next block onto Powell. He turned right at the next cross street and counted his steps again. When he counted eighty-seven, he stopped in front of a narrow apartment block, which looked squeezed by its neighbors. The door was locked, but there was a buzzer entry system. Todd pressed the first one his finger fell on.
    “Yes,” a woman answered.
    “Pizza delivery,” Todd said.
    “We didn’t order any pizza,” she barked.
    “Sorry, is this seven A?”
    “No, eight A, moron.”
    “Sorry. Can you buzz me in?”
    She growled but the door clicked.
    Todd let himself in and bounded up the first flight of stairs. The good news, as he had hoped, was that the landing window opened out onto the restaurant’s alley parking lot. The bad news was that there were no fire escapes. They were all on the front of the building. He flicked the safety latches and slid the window open. Surprisingly, it opened with ease.
    One of the valets trotted up the alley to collect a Range Rover. Todd waited until the SUV and owner were reunited, then he climbed onto the ledge and jumped out. He connected hard with the ground. Electricity crackled through his legs, intensifying in his groin. He bit back a scream and crumpled onto his knees. Too busy hustling for a tip, the valets didn’t notice him. Todd crawled behind the nearest car to survey the lot.
    Todd had a new problem. There were two black Jags in the parking lot, one an XK8, the other an S-Type. The small man had told him to pick up a black Jag, but he hadn’t told him the model or license number. He fumbled in his pocket for the keys. He aimed the remote in the direction of both cars and pressed the unlock button. The S-Type chirped and blinked its lights. The valets whipped around at the noise. Todd burst out of the shadows, charging for the Jag. Thevalets did likewise. Todd was lucky on two counts. The valets were big, but not fast, and he was closer.
    He reached the car first, dived in front of the wheel, and gunned the engine, all before the valets were halfway to him. He cranked the steering and hit the gas. The Jag leaped forward, smearing its fender across the back of a Lincoln Navigator, setting off its alarm. The Jag bounced off another car before he gained control.
    One of the valets raced back to the gates while the other blocked the alley with his body. He made himself wide by crouching and splaying out his arms. If they were playing chicken, Todd knew he had the upper hand and floored the gas.
    “Time to jump, buddy,” Todd said, grinning.
    Todd’s grin slipped when he realized the second before he hit the guy that the guy wasn’t going anywhere. He smashed into the windshield and disappeared over the roof.
    The remaining valet had closed the gates but hadn’t locked them, and Todd blasted them open. They slammed back against the side of the restaurant, busting its neon sign. Todd jumped on the brakes to prevent the Jag from slamming into the apartment block opposite. Traffic slithered to a screaming halt and he floored the gas pedal, fishtailing down the street and jumping the first red light he hit.
    His heart out-revved the Jag. Adrenaline raced through his veins, and sweat poured off his face. Heading toward the Bay Bridge, his pipe-wrench grip on the steering wheel softened and his foot eased off the gas.
    He laughed. His panic and fear changed into exhilaration and excitement. The crime-fueled buzz was hard to deny. He liked being a bad guy. It beat stacking boxes.
    ***
    The drop-off point was in Oakland’s warehouse district, near the rejuvenated Jack London Square, but