Free Shift by Sidney Bristol Page A

she was saying, but he could make out the distressed tones of her voice.
    Tori.
    Distressed.
    As if.
    Her act had the desired result. The guards circled around the car, several working together to pop the hood.
    This was it. Maybe his only chance.
    Emery snatched a set of needle-nose pliers from his toolbox and snipped the wire woven between the broken links to keep the fence together. He shouldered through the hole, carrying his toolbox against his chest.
    At most, he’d have a couple of minutes to do a ten-minute job. Good thing he was quick with his hands.
    Emery ducked behind the Dumpster, listening for a shout or footsteps to let him know he’d been made. He lifted the lid of the junction box, torn between a groan and pumping his fist. The wiring was old, probably older than the cameras. It should have been swapped out when the system was upgraded, but someone had cut corners.
    Their loss.
    Emery’s gain.
    He pulled out a knife, cutting away the plastic casing on the wires until he could ensure a good enough connection. Instead of the government-issue toys he normally played with, he’d put together a simple transmitter for their purposes. All they needed was the footage. If he kept the receiver online and functional, they’d have everything.
    The Camaro revved and the sound of an excited female voice drifted toward him. The men’s voices were a jumble of bass tones that got lost in the rumble of the car. Whatever Tori had fucked up, he was pretty sure they were about to fix it.
    He grabbed the transmitter and very carefully set the live ends against the exposed wires. It would be ideal to solder the metals together, but there wasn’t time for that. In a pinch, electrical tape would have to work. He wound the black adhesive around the ends, securing the transmitter to the wires.
    A man called out to the others in Spanish, just on the other side of the Dumpster. Emery ducked his head and peered out at the street. The skin on the back of his neck prickled. They were cutting this way too close.
    Tori stood by the Camaro, smiling and talking to the guards while the car idled—no smoke streaming from the hood now.
    He made the last connection and wrapped the whole thing in tape to keep the connection from slipping due to the weight of the transmitter. Taking an extra moment, he shifted the wires, turning and pulling them so his additional tech wasn’t visible. He slid the lid closed, cringing at the rusty scrape of the metal, but no one paid him any mind.
    Now, how did he get out of here?
    Emery pressed his back to the Dumpster and edged to where he could see the street and a bit of the loading docks. Most of the dockhands had dispersed, meandering back to their stations, or to whatever they’d been doing before. Tori dropped into the driver’s seat of the Camaro and the guard from the shack closed her door.
    His distraction was gone. Unless she drove the car into the guard shack, he would have to get out of here on his own.
    He shoved one hand in his pocket and strolled in the opposite direction of the gate, toolbox in hand. This was the part of the job he’d struggled with in the beginning. Pretending to act normal. Time, practice, and the memory of what he’d suffered had taught him better than his instructors at Quantico. Now, he had a range of practiced reasons to be anywhere for any reason.
    â€œWho are you?” A young man wearing new kicks, saggy jeans, and a shirt so neon it hurt Emery’s eyes to look at stepped out from behind a metal door. There was no handle on the outside, which meant it was some sort of emergency-only exit. Clearly not hooked up to a security system. Good to know.
    â€œHi, I’m from Gexa. I’m checking the amps on your meters. Any idea where the subsidiary meters are?” This kid wasn’t one of the hired staff. He looked . . . like someone the Eleventh Street gang would have driving for them.
    â€œWhat are you talking