Page 110 of Goose

In fifteen minutes, we pulled into the garage. Baker was leaning against the hood of his rental car with a bottle of beer dangling from his fingertips. When he saw the red paint, his eyes went as wide as saucers.

He leaped away from the car and rushed to Ally’s window.

Baker was the most superstitious human being to ever walk the face of the earth. Red vehicles were a no-no, as was any other well-known superstitious bullshit, including anything to do with the number thirteen.

I realized we had thirteen boxes in the back of the SUV.

“What in the fuck happened?” Baker blurted. “That cop was behind me, and I didn’t even realize it was a cop. His lights came on and I about shit myself. Fucker passed me and took off after you.”

Everyone got out and started talking at once.

“Ally outran the cop…”

“We got in a high-speed chase with the law.”

“Took the fucking on ramp at 160.”

“Ripped off the wrap.”

“That bitch can—she can—Ally can fuckin’ drive.”

Baker raised his hands. “Stop!”

“Everyone’s okay?”

“Fine as frog’s hair,” Reno said. “Chick can drive, Boss. Never seen anything like it.”

Baker shifted his eyes from Reno to Ally. “You okay?”

She grinned. “Peachy.”

He glared at me. “Why are you in a RED car? You know how I am about—”

“Wait till you hear how many boxes we loaded up,” I said.

“Boxes?” he asked.

I nodded.

“Boxes of what?”

“Ally says it’s money. A lot of money.”

“How many you get?” he asked.

“All of ‘em.”

“How many? Better not be thirteen.”

“Maybe you ought to just go home for the night,” I said. “We’ll call you down when it’s sorted.”

He pressed the heels of his palms against his temples. “This entire night is going to be bad fucking luck. Just wait. It’ll be one thing after the other. I guarantee it.”

“Oh fuuuuck,” Cash said.

Baker spun around. “What?”

Cash patted his back pocket. “My wallet.”