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I set the GPS on the dashboard.
“Make a U-turn,” a female voice instructs, in a tone that suggests we’ve already disappointed her.
Solo brakes. “I don’t think it’s legal to.”
“Now make a U-turn,” the voice commands.
Solo pulls the car into a tight U-turn.
“Turn right in a hundred yards,” says the voice.
“What do we do when we get there?” I ask Aislin. “These guys, the guys after Maddox—”
“Now turn right.”
“—they’re not like people who would have guns, right?”
“Turn right in one-half mile.”
“Guns?” Aislin echoes. Like she’s never heard the word before. “They might, but—”
“Whoa,” I say.
“—what are they going to do, shoot us?” She attempts a laugh. It fails.
Aislin reaches up from the backseat and switches on the radio. It’s Rancid, singing about another East Bay night. One of my favorites, despite the fact that it’s partly about earthquakes and watching the freeways fall. (Before my time, that quake.)
Even though I like the song, I reach to switch it off. Solo stops me, snatching my wrist in midair. He’s as quick as a snake. “It’s good cover. Makes us seem like regular kids.”
He rolls down the windows. The air is damp and smells of pine.
“Now turn right,” says the voice.
The lake is close by, but you can’t see it from the road. We see it on the
GPS map. It’s an isosceles triangle with a circular island in the fat end. The park isn’t busy and there are only a few cars parked here and there. But at the point where the road is closest to the lake, there are three cars, obviously hastily parked.
“That’s Maddox’s stepfather’s brother’s wife’s Ford!” Aislin cries.
The Ford, a dented tan Fusion, is boxed in by the other two cars, a tricked-out Miata and a Civic with spinners and a spoiler.
The Miata’s driver’s-side door is open. No one is inside.
Solo slows down and pulls off onto the shoulder. We are surrounded by way too many trees and way too many bushes. It’s surprisingly jungle-esque for something in the middle of San Francisco.
Our radio plays on after Solo turns off the engine. “Text your boyfriend that we’re here,” he instructs.
“He says he can’t move,” Aislin reports back.
Solo cranks the music higher. “Ask him if he hears the music.”
Maddox hears the music.
“If he hears it so do … Okay, here they come,” Solo says. There’s a look of satisfaction on his face. “Seat belts tight?”
“Why?” I ask.
Two guys, both Asian, thin, smoking cigarettes, emerge from the tangle of bushes, fallen trees, and wet grass. One is well-muscled and wearing a green leather jacket. The other, smaller, is wearing a black T-shirt. They give us a hard look. A tough-guy look. The muscular one reaches into his jacket. It’s a move intended to tell us that he’s got something in there.
