“Bill, where are we at with the safe house? We can’t meet here anymore,” Warner asks.

“I’m working on getting the one a few blocks down from Bertelli’s assigned to us. Looks good for next month as long as the judge extends the warrant.”

Warner nods, throwing a wink my way. “Hear that? Go get us something useful.”

Chapter 7

LUKE

Rust always seems to have one eye on his surroundings. On faces, on storefronts, on nearby cars. I noticed it years ago. It’s just something I’m used to. But now, on this hour-long drive along the Oregon/Washington border toward Astoria, I would think his head is on a swivel, the way he scouts his rearview mirror and every side road we pass.

“Expecting someone?” I ask.

“Always. And you need to, too.”

I nod, afraid to ask stupid questions that’ll make him second-guess his decision to pick me up from the garage, telling Miller that I won’t be back today. Rust likes grand reveals. He was always the one insisting on surprise birthday parties and blindfolds when opening presents.

He turns his big black pickup truck—one of six vehicles Rust owns—down a lane gouged by tire tracks and riddled with small stones. Wide enough, though. It looks like it belongs to a logging company, leading into nothing but dense brush and trees. I spot the first camera a half-mile in, strapped to a tree. “Motion-activated,” Rust confirms. Another half-mile in, a simple metal gate blocks further passage. More hidden cameras are trained on it. Rust climbs out to unchain the padlock with a key tucked within a lock box. “Don’t ever come out here without telling me first,” he warns.

I exhale as softly as possible, trying to shake the edginess building in my chest. Wondering what I’m about to see. It can’t be too bad, though. This is Rust! The guy who used to let me play hooky from school so we could head up to Seattle for a Mariners game.

When I don’t think we can drive any deeper into the woods, we round a bend and a double-story, forest-green metal shed appears, tucked among the trees. It dwarfs the small, dilapidated A-frame cabin set some fifty feet away, overlooking a small lake beyond. Solar panels cover the entire south side of the roof. I’m guessing we’re not on any grid out here.

“Who owns this place?”

“Your grandfather. He bought it five years ago.”

“The one who died ten years ago?” Can’t be the other one, seeing as we have no ties to that side of the family. They never approved of my parents getting married in the first place.

Rust smiles. “He has a far reach.”

I slide out the passenger side, whistling as my feet hit the ground. Nothing but snapping branches responds. “I never took him for a fan of the outdoors.”

Rust throws an arm over my shoulder and tugs me toward the shed, laughing. We’re the same height and our builds aren’t too far off. Even though Rust has twenty-two years on me, he takes good care of himself, hitting the gym almost as much as I do. That’s the freedom of not being tied down with a wife and kids, he has always said. You get to live by your own schedule. You don’t have to answer to anyone.

Sometimes I wonder if he’s lonely. I wonder, if I follow his advice and keep it shallow, if I’ll get lonely. I do know that when I’m around Jesse and Alex, seeing my best friend with a woman who he trusts unequivocally, envy spikes inside of me.

Rust unfastens the heavy-duty padlocks, before throwing his body into the metal door. It creaks open, and I sidle in behind him as he hits a switch and fluorescent panels flicker on, illuminating the junkyard within. That’s what it looks like at first glance, at least. But closer examination reveals that there’s order to the chaos. Closest to me is an assortment of air bags—an expensive car part if you ever have to replace yours. Farther down, catalytic converters sit stacked. Those things are about a grand each. Next to them are the rims of dozens of cars, with what are probably their matching tires beside them. All around the perimeter of this huge, windowless shed are the remains of cars—everything from factory stereo systems to batteries to quarter panels. And in the center of it all sits an array of used vehicles—Hondas, Toyotas, a shiny red Ford truck, even an ’87 Oldsmobile Cutlass.

“There’s a quarter-million sitting in here.” Rust watches my face, looking for a reaction.

An odd sense of satisfaction swirls through me, because I’ve guessed right all along. I just didn’t guess big enough. “So you’re chopping cars.”

He smiles. “Chopping cars. Selling cars. Andrei has good connections across seas . . .” I follow him as he strolls over to pat the hood of the Cutlass. “The foreign market is booming. Eventually you’ll be handling exchanges with Vlad. But I want you eased into this, so we’ll start you off small. You’re going to be handling two of my fences.”

Handling fences? What the fuck does that even mean? I’ll be Googling that shit the second he turns around. “I’m guessing these cars aren’t coming from RTM . . .”

“No, Luke.” A wry smile. “They’re not.”

My uncle is dealing in stolen cars, and not just a few here and there. Stealing isn’t a completely shocking revelation for me, given that I grew up with a grandfather who stored cases of name-brand booze under our dining room table and electronics under the basement staircase. All things that “fell off the truck.” That’s what he’d always tell me when I asked, followed by a wink and a warning to keep it to myself. I’m surprised he didn’t use a place like this to store all of that stuff. Then again, Rust always called Deda a “dabbler” and not a true businessman. I’d eavesdropped on enough conversations to know that Rust was pushing him to think bigger scale, to turn the thousands he earned into more. But Deda was happy doling out meat in his friend’s downtown Portland butcher shop. It was a good balance, he said.