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What was I going to do if this threat wasn’t enough to run these assholes out of town? If they were too stubborn or too stupid to realize they were outclassed?
I didn’t want tokillanyone. That much I was sure of. Lou, semi-professional figure skater, was not a fucking murderer. At least, not when I had a choice in the matter.
Lord, how would Niko or Jasper look at me if they had any idea what I’d already had to do under my mother’s orders?
That wasn’t me. I hadn’t wanted to do any of it then, and I wasn’t going to sink to the same depths now.
There had to be a way to get the pricks out of here without resorting to full out war, and I was smart enough to figure it out.
If I was lucky, my current gambit might even do the trick all on its own.
The whole town was silent and dark except for the pools of light cast by the periodic streetlamps. I avoided those, making a quick dash whenever I had to cross a street.
The last thing I needed was for any of the locals to notice me skulking around and think I was the real problem here. Not that it seemed like them calling the police about a suspicious character would accomplish anything, good or bad, regardless.
When I came up on the end of the last street before the sprawl of the warehouses and their parking lots, I pulled out my ski mask and tugged it over my head. Thankfully it was cool enough at night these days that the layer of cloth actually brought a welcome warmth.
I scanned the parking lot outside the gang’s storage building in the hazy glow of the security lamps. The windows on the hideout were dark, but a couple of figures were standing near the main entrance, passing a cigarette or a joint back and forth while they played a grating rock song from a Bluetooth speaker propped on a window ledge.
The idiots had finally figured out a little security was in order. Well, I’d expected as much.
It made my job harder, but not impossible. Too bad for them the bozos hadn’t also figured out that blasting music to keep themselves entertained also meant it’d be that much harder to hear an intruder.
I glanced up and down the cross-street to make sure no headlights were anywhere inside and then hunkered down into an army crawl position. Gritting my teeth at the discomfort of the awkward stance, I slithered across the road and over to the nearest ideal target.
A pickup truck, its hood facing away from the would-be guards. Perfect.
I fished out my screwdriver and wiggled it along the edge of the hood, feeling for the latch. The screeching music drowned out the faint scraping sounds of the tool.
There it was. Slide, click, and nudge that sucker up.
Just a few inches, since I didn’t want my project to be noticeable if the guards happened to glance this way. Now, the motor oil.
I unscrewed the cap and extended my arm under the hood to slosh the viscous liquid all across the engine area.
Next I balanced one of the batteries in the perfect nook and tucked a thin but wide swath of steel wool right under it. Then I yanked the bottle of oil back and eased the hood into place.
My heart was thumping hard, but a grin stretched across my face. Perfect.
I’d learned this trick from one of the guys who worked under my mom. He’d been incredibly proud of the revenge trick he’d played on a guy who’d hit on his girlfriend, and he’d shown me all the steps, “Just in case you ever need to teach a guy a lesson yourself, little Rose.”
The moment one of these goons turned the ignition, the vibration would send the battery tumbling into the steel wool for an instant spark, and the front of the car would go up in the prettiest bonfire in all of Ontario. The engine wouldn’t outright explode, because this wasn’t a movie, but I’d bet the dipshits would throw themselves across the parking lot in terror, afraid that it would.
And they’d be left wondering just how much worse it could get if they insisted on continuing to do “business” around here.
A few more cars were parked close enough together that I could scurry from one to another without coming into the guards’ line of sight. I set up my trap another three times and then paused to scan my surroundings, the cloying smell of the motor oil itching in my nose.
My gaze snagged on a massive white shape near the far end of the lot, close to the building’s loading area. My pulse skipped a beat.
A delivery truck. That would be the perfect finishing touch for my don’t-fuck-with-me demonstration. I wouldn’t just be freaking them out but screwing up their plans for whatever they’d meant to transport in it.
But there were a few open stretches between my current position, the two cars at that end of the parking lot, and my ultimate goal. I worried at my lower lip, debating the risk.
If the guards spotted me, I could just run for it, but they might check the vehicles and find my traps before they could go off properly.
On the other hand, Ireallywanted to go for maximum impact here. The sooner the jerks decided it wasn’t worth sticking around Hobb Creek, the better.
As I considered the odds, the guards pretty much made my decision for me. One of them started tapping at his phone, trying to find whatever song he wanted to bring up next and swearing at the device, and the other guy lowered his head to peer at the screen too.
