Becoming Rain (Burying Water #2)(18)

“Not happy without the whole picture.” Rust grins. “Your deda always said that about me, growing up.”

Question after question begins spinning into my head. I struggle to ground myself on one, to begin. “What was the other delivery you were talking about?”

“A few Lexuses. An Audi. Some Escalades.”

“Chopped?”

Rust’s snort fills the interior. “A forty-thousand-dollar Lexus here will go for almost two hundred thousand dollars in Thailand. And Andrei can sell a sixty-thousand-dollar Mercedes in Moscow like that.” He snaps his fingers.

“Where are you getting them from?”

“Different places.”

“Like . . .”

“Insurance scams. People want out of their leases or they need a chunk of cash. But they’re mostly coming from parking lots and driveways. I put in an order for what I need and down the chain it goes. Depends on the car, really. Something high-end requires some skill and specialty tools. Old-model Civics and whatnot . . . any eighteen-year-old kid will lift it from a driveway for five hundred cash.”

“And the people . . .”

“Bought theft insurance if they’re smart,” he fires back quickly, seemingly unbothered by the same moral twinge pricking the very back of my conscience. “And if they’re driving an eighty-thousand-dollar car and not locking it up in a garage, they’re just asking for it.”

I guess . . .

“It’s the insurance companies that end up paying in the end, and f*ck them. I deal with them all the time at RTM. They’re already robbing the general public.”

But insurance companies just pass on the increased costs to the consumers, so, no matter what, it’s the people who pay. I’m sure he must see the hole in his logic. I don’t say that out loud, though. There’s something more important that I need to clear up. “They’re not hurting people to get these cars, are they?” I can’t believe that Rust would have anything to do with that, but . . . I pulled a car seat and stuffed bear out of the extended cab in that red Ford truck back at the storage warehouse. It’s been bothering me ever since.

I’ve turned a blind eye to things in the past—like when I knew that Rust’s business partner, Viktor Petrova, was abusing his wife—and, though I couldn’t do much about it, I’ve never quite forgiven myself for not trying.

I vowed that wouldn’t happen again.

“No, Luke. Gangbangers hijack, and my fences know never to deal with gangs. They’re a bunch of crack dealers and meth heads. They all get picked up eventually and, when they do, they’ll squeal to anyone who will listen. There’s no need for any of that. There are plenty of ways to get a car without hurting anyone. We’re car thieves, not murderers.” Rust’s mouth sets in a deep frown. “So? You wanted in. Now you’ve seen it all. Have you changed your mind?”

It’s the first time that he’s bothered to ask. It’s the first time we’ve stopped to talk in the hours since the others arrived. A man I didn’t recognize arrived at the storage spot first, with two younger guys I’d also never seen before, none of whom bothered to introduce themselves. We had every last car torn apart in hours, me following their expert lead. Albert pulled up in a transport truck an hour later. Four goons built for lifting tires hopped out the back and began loading parts into empty crates, then used the forklift to fill the truck, chattering in Russian the entire time.

It was after three in the morning when the truck’s taillights disappeared into darkness, leaving the storage shed empty except for a small pool of oil and a few loose screws. No one would ever suspect that only hours earlier it was loaded with stolen car parts.

I look down at myself, covered in dirt, my skin wiped but not clean. “Depends. Are you going to make me pull apart cars, or was that just another ‘experience’?”

He laughs. “Everyone should experience a good chop session once. But, no, for now you’re going to be lining up the orders with my fences, the guys I have ties to closer to the street. Here . . .” One hand on the steering wheel and eyes still on the road, Rust reaches over and grabs four stacks of cash from the bag. Forty grand, by my calculations. He thrusts them against my chest.

“What’s this for?”

“Your cut, which will be much bigger next time.” He grins. “Put it in your safe at home.”

I let the cash fan through my fingers.

So much cash. There’s no way I earned this for what I did tonight.

“Oh, and I have a little surprise for you.” He reaches into his pockets and hands me a set of keys. Just like the night he handed me the keys to a new condo.

Only, these are car keys, with a logo that I’ve drooled over for years.

With waves of excitement and nervousness coursing through my body, I sit back and quietly listen as Uncle Rust walks me through the “how” to this entire operation that he, one day, wants me to run with him.

The giant bag of cash pressing down on my thighs is impossible to ignore.

Chapter 8

CLARA

“You couldn’t get me a real dog, could you?”

Warner’s deep laugh vibrates through my phone and into my ear. “What do you mean? He barks.”

“I wouldn’t qualify it as a bark.” I eye the pudgy little thing, which is belly-up and rolling in the grass next to the park bench like his back is itchy, oblivious to my severe judgment. I’m not 100 percent sure that he doesn’t have fleas. “Seriously, Warner, why wouldn’t you let me pick one out myself?”