Boosted (In The Fast Lane) Read online

  Boosted (In The Fast Lane)

  by

  Arya Cole

  Copyright © 2013 Arya Cole

  All rights reserved. This document may not be reproduced in any way without the expressed written consent of the author. The ideas, characters, and situations presented in this story are strictly fictional and any unintentional likeness to real people or real situations is completely coincidental.

  Adult Reading Material

  The material in this document contains explicit sexual content that is intended for mature audiences only and is inappropriate for readers under 18 years of age.

  CONTENTS

  ONE - The Ferrari Hustle

  TWO - The Stranger

  THREE - A New Assignment

  FOUR - Another Call

  FIVE - Back to Work

  SIX - A Chance Encounter

  SEVEN - The Pursuit

  EIGHT - Pieces of the Puzzle

  NINE - A Drink With Sergei

  TEN - Picking Up The Pieces

  ELEVEN - A Break In The Action

  TWELVE - Brody's Visit

  THIRTEEN - Morning Revelation

  FOURTEEN - Hannah's Night

  FIFTEEN - The Crash

  SIXTEEN - Reunited

  SEVENTEEN - The Search For Sergei

  EIGHTEEN - The Decision

  NINETEEN - A Desert Ride

  TWENTY - The Ghost

  TWENTY-ONE - Treasure Hunt

  ONE

  The Ferrari Hustle

  Another goddamn Ferrari, Brody thought to himself. What is it with these people and Ferraris? Why not a Mercedes or a BMW or a Lexus or a practical luxury car? Or just go to the opposite side of the spectrum and opt for a Lamborghini or a Maserati. But these tacky motherfuckers. It was always a fucking Ferrari.

  Brody had set out to find a Ferrari earlier that day. It shouldn’t have been too hard in Beverly Hills - where he’d always had success in the past. But for some reason luck wasn’t with him in the morning and was failing him so far in the afternoon as well.

  Brody had gotten the call at six that morning. He wasn’t sure if Sergei had woken up early or if he was just up all night, either way the call came and jarred Brody from his deep slumber. When the word “Ferrari” rolled off Sergei’s tongue Brody was sure that he was trapped in a fucking nightmare. There was no going back to bed now. Might as well roll out.

  Ferraris, of course, are not a morning car. The type who will go out and spend their money on Ferraris tend to be the nocturnal sort. Brody knew that, yet had wasted the last seven hours anyway. Might as well have stayed in bed.

  To top it off, Brody was beginning to sweat and he fucking hated sweating. He was wearing a long-sleeved shirt to cover up the ink on his arms, as was his usual practice. So too was the hat that covered his trimmed sandy blonde hair and the aviators that masked his striking hazel eyes.

  He drove in seemingly endless circles in his mid-ought's Impala, a cigarette dangling from between his fingers that he frequently forgot to puff, scanning the landscape in search of his automotive prey. He drove in and out of several parking garages as well. Still nothing. Fuck.

  This had been Brody’s life for the past six years. Some days were more painless than others. But his routine had changed little on his “work” days. Luckily it was lucrative enough that he didn’t have to go through this bullshit too often. Ten grand a car buys a lot of vacation days. Summertime was the busy season though. Everybody wants a new car to show off once the sun starts blazing and Sergei’s clients in Iran were no exception.

  Brody didn’t know how Sergei had accumulated these contacts behind the Persian Curtain and he didn’t particularly care to know. Sergei paid on time and in cash and that answered all of Brody's questions well enough. The operation seemed fairly simple though. Rich Iranians wanted fancy cars just like the wealthy in any country around the world.

  Thanks to the trade embargo, however, these cars were unavailable in the strictly legal sense. The demand, however, remained and Sergei and his associates attempted to sate it. They probably received a tremendous markup price for shipping these cars into the forbidden land. It seemed to Brody like they could have saved themselves the trouble and just bought these things new and still made a profit. But why not make an even bigger profit by paying him a comparative pittance to steal them instead?

  So in some chain of events Sergei would get the cars, pack them on a container ship, and get them to the guys on the ground in Iran. These dealers would then sell them off to the wealthy of Tehran, Mashkad, and Tabriz. And they all seemed to want fucking Ferraris.

  Brody did another look. He was losing his focus and concentration at this point. His abbreviated sleep and the tedium of the morning were taking their toll. He’d need a coffee soon if he hoped to keep it up. Sergei usually gave him a twenty-four hour deadline from when he called and right now it seemed like Brody would need every single one of those hours.

  Yeah, coffee was definitely in order.

  The Starbucks line was typically long and agonizingly slow thanks to each of the entitled patrons describing their latte desires down to the most minute details. Even though he was born there, Brody never really felt at ease in the posh Los Angeles scene. He kept telling himself that someday he would save up enough to retire and move somewhere more fit for him. Maybe Austin. Maybe get a place in the mountains of Colorado.

  Maybe just pack it up and fuck off to an exotic island country where he could live like a king and surround himself with all the young beautiful brown girls he could handle. Eat fruit and pork, get fat and decadent. Part of him knew this would never happen though. Because stealing cars wasn’t just a job. It was his passion. He lived for it. In spite of all the pain in the ass that came for working for Sergei, he still felt the same thrill, the same adrenalin rush narcotic high whenever he got behind the wheel of someone else’s car.

  Brody inched closer to finally getting his coffee. He was starting to get a dull headache now and he hoped the caffeine would taper it off before it got worse.

  And wouldn’t you know it? Just as Brody reached the front of the line out of the corner of his eye he saw the sleek red wedge of metal and horse power idling at the stop light. A fucking Ferrari.

  “Never mind,” Brody mumbled as he shuffled through the crowd to get back to his car. He kept a close eye on the Ferrari as he moved, making sure that it didn’t turn when the light changed to green. He made it out the door and jogged over to his Impala, momentarily losing sight of his objective.

  Brody hopped into his car, started it up, and pulled out of the parking lot as quickly as physics would allow. He turned the corner back onto the main drag and recognized the red speck on the horizon already five blocks away and moving fast.

  Brody dropped his foot down hard on the pedal. This was where the black Impala came in handy. It was the same type of car that undercover cops drove. This allowed him to bend the rules of the road with little fear of attracting undue attention from the men and women on the other side of the thin blue line.

  He gained on the Ferrari enough to track it as it began to make a series of turns. Brody kept his distance, staying just close enough to keep the car in line of sight. Finally, the Ferrari pulled into a parking garage.

  Brody pulled to the curb and lit another cigarette. Not much to do now but wait.

  The adrenaline rush of chasing the Ferrari had made his headache disappear. He felt good now, felt alive. He took deep drags on his cigarette as his heartbeat slowed. Parking garages made things easier.

  Never hurt to have a little bit of cover when you’re trying to swipe a car in the middle of a busy afternoon. There are complications of course. Cameras. Juggling tickets. Nosy attendants. But i
t beat the street, that’s for sure. Too many prying eyes and potential flies in the ointment. Nope, a parking garage would do just fine.

  Brody drew in the last of the cigarette and flicked the butt into the street. He swung his Impala around and headed for the parking garage. His body was running on automatic now. Pure instinct. It was like he was an automaton on a conveyor belt. He got his ticket and circled up the long ramps of the garage. He passed by the Ferrari, nestled into place amongst dozens of other high end (and in Brody’s opinion, superior) cars.

  He kept on moving and parked his car on the level above. He went to the trunk and took out a reusable shopping bag before walking off as if he were going to the shops.

  He ducked into the stairwell and waited. These places never had cameras in the stairwells. When enough time had passed, he removed the contents of the shopping bag, a jacket and ski mask, and put them on. He went down a floor and entered the floor. No one was around. Better to move quick then, not bother with ducking and sneaking between cars.

  He made a beeline for the Ferrari and only ducked down when he had reached the driver’s side door. He unzipped his jacket and from an elongated pocket he had stitched into the lining he removed a thin metal slim jim. He eased it between the window pane and the door frame until he heard the familiar pop.

  He eased the handle open, hoping beyond hell that he wouldn’t have to deal with the annoyance of an alarm today. The door opened without incident. Finally a little good fortune. He climbed behind the wheel and shut the door behind him. From his jacket pocket he removed another tool and oh this was a sweet one.

  All the convenience of hotwiring with none of the damage to the electrical system. Modern technology. You had to love it. The engine turned over and purred like a cheetah. And for all that he hated about Ferraris, Brody had to acknowledge that there was nothing like that first rumble of Italian machismo.

  The Ferrari backed out of its space and eased down the various levels of the parking garage. No reason to draw attention to anything yet. Brody passed by several shoppers and wage slaves on their way in and out of the commercial paradise. They turned and gawked at the car as it passed but none of them seemed to notice the man in the ski mask behind the wheel. As he approached the end of the ramp he took a deep breath. His fingers clutched harder around the wheel. Now came the fun part.

  He joined the queue of cars waiting to exit. The drivers in front of him dutifully paid their fees. A few attendants milled around. It looked to be the shift change. They were too preoccupied with their small talk and bullshitting to look over at him though. Lucky for everyone, Brody thought to himself.

  Better to have one victim who could afford to lose his car than several belly-shot parking attendants naively “just trying to do their job.” Brody carried heat with him, had to in this extralegal line of work, but he’d never had to use it before. In all honesty it was more to protect himself from the likes for Sergei than from the police or some good Samaritan with bad judgment.

  Now came Brody’s turn to pull up to the ticket booth. When the car in front of him exited, Brody remained in the same spot. The car behind him honked. The man in the ticket booth poked his torso out and beckoned him forward. His arms grew more frantic with each passing second that the Ferrari sat in place. Now the attendants began to notice him as well. A few of them began to step toward the car. One of the impatient drivers behind him yelled. It was unintelligible amongst the din of horns and Spanish exhortations.

  Brody flipped the car into gear and stomped his foot down on the gas. The Ferrari shot forward. From this distance he was easily able to pick up enough speed to break through the barrier arm that blocked his exit as if it wasn’t even there. The Ferrari screeched out onto the street. He blazed through the streets block after block until he was able to get onto the highway and seamlessly transition into the light midday traffic.

  He removed the ski mask and found that he was now bathed in sweat. A small price to pay though. He looked over the hood of the car to see if the gate arm had done any damage. Maybe a faint scratch or two but otherwise everything seemed fine. Besides, Sergei had a guy who made everything look like new before they shipped the things off to the other side of the world.

  When he arrived at the docks, Brody took the car to its appointed place. One of Sergei’s boys, a 6’5 goon who barely knew right from left (and up from down only slightly better), opened the door to the makeshift garage where Sergei ran his secret operation. It was a small outfit. A couple bodyguard-slash-enforcer types, a mechanic, a guy to do the bodywork, and a small stable of thieves like himself (none of whom were ever allowed to meet). There were the guys who did the shipping too, but they rarely made appearances at the garage.

  Sergei was there waiting for him when Brody landed with the car. He leaned back in his chair reading a Russian newspaper that looked to be at least a couple weeks old. Then again, how else was he supposed to get local news from the motherland?

  “Took you a long time,” he said, the unfamiliar English words tripping and spilling out of his mouth.

  “I’ve got plenty of time to spare.”

  “You’re usually much quicker.” Then, as if to needle him, “Maybe you’re losing it. Yes?”

  Brody let the insinuation roll off his back. No need to bite the hand that feeds. “There might be some scratches on the hood. The brakes aren’t great. Oh, and it’s a fucking Ferrari. Otherwise it’s fine.”

  “A Ferrari is a very nice car.”

  “You got anything else for me right now?”

  Sergei shook his head. He handed Brody an envelope of cash. “There’s a little bonus in there for you. Go out and have fun.”

  “Yeah,” Brody said. “Sure. Thanks.”

  Sergei put his arm over Brody’s shoulder. “Come on. I’ll give you a ride back into town.”

  On the way back to Beverly Hills Sergei spent much of his time on the phone. Some calls were in Russian, some in Arabic or Farsi--Brody wasn’t sure which. Sergei drove like a maniac. Every time he got behind the wheel Brody felt like he was with a drunk teenager who had boosted his dad’s car. He swerved recklessly in and out of traffic, ignored all signs and speed limits, and acted as if he cared little about whether he and the other occupants of the car lived or died.

  Finally, even mercifully, they arrived back at the parking garage in Beverly Hills. Brody opened the door as soon as he could and hopped out onto the sun-soaked pavement.

  Sergei paused and shouted out to him, “Remember what I said. You go have fun tonight!” He then sped off to further endanger the lives of all the other drivers and pedestrians who had the misfortune of crossing his path.

  Fun. Sure. But later. Now it was time for some fucking sleep.

  TWO

  The Stranger

  Going out for a night on the town was about the last thing Hannah wanted to do that night. Her friends had been badgering her about it all week. Of course, their refrain of “you need a night out to get rid of some of that stress” only helped to increase her usual dose of daily anxiety.

  She was in her second year of law school and stressed beyond belief. Not only was she in over her head academically, but she found herself regularly intimidated by the other students in her classes. They were all Type-A sharks who were well on their way to sociopathically successful careers while she had to pray that she would even get an interview at a respectable firm.

  Hannah was far from home in a city that she didn’t particularly like. And now, on top of all that, her so-called friends were endlessly harassing her to spend her Friday night at some over-priced, over-hyped club that she was almost guaranteed to hate.

  Fine. There was little use arguing about the matter. It was only one night and it would get them off her back for a couple weeks. Who knows? Maybe she would even manage to have a little fun.

  Julia picked her up around ten o’clock. Most nights Hannah would have already been getting ready for bed at this time. Instead she found herself crammed into the bac
kseat of a Range Rover with three other girls all in nearly identical black dresses that were low at the top and high at the bottom.

  She felt as unenthused as she was underdressed. The other girls belted out the songs on the radio and carried on about the night ahead. It was clear that they had gotten a pre-game head start on Hannah before coming to pick her up.

  They arrived at the club and spilled out of the car. The other girls stumbled along in their heels and laughed at their own lack of balance. A perfect start to the night, Hannah thought bitterly to herself. She could be alone at home right now, buzzed on red wine, drifting slowly off to sleep. Instead she was waiting in a line with five cackling drunks who seemed to like nothing better than to criticize her Spartan existence. And to think, this gauntlet would only end once they were inside the club itself with its blaring music and smarmy clientele. What a nightmare.

  They eventually reached the front of the line. Their turn would come any minute. The impending entrance only caused the other girls to giggle and teeter on their heels even more. Hannah tried her best to ignore them and instead scanned the crowd outside the club for something interesting. It was mostly more of the same.

  Doppelgangers of her friends smoked on the opposite side of the door. Men with loosened ties and slicked back hair compared notes on finance or movie producing or whatever it was they did. The Russian bouncers smirked at each other each time an attractive woman walked by. It was like a mosaic of all that Hannah couldn’t stand in the world.

  But then someone caught her eye. It wasn’t someone who was her usual type at all, either. She normally went for the clean cut boys who had it all together. Boys who played baseball in high school, boys who were pre-meds in college, boys with steady boring jobs.

  But the man who caught her eye now. He was different. He dressed in a simple black t-shirt and jeans. His toned, tanned arms were covered with tattoos. His sandy blonde hair sat carelessly on top of his head and melted into the layer of thick stubble that covered his face.