Heatwave by Oliver Davies (the red fox clan txt) 📗

employee because no alarm went off nor lights turned on, though I did see the glint of a weak torchlight through the windows.

It took them three trips to ferry all the petrol canisters from the garage entrance to the car which sank a little on its axis every time they loaded it up. Carrying so much fuel like that was incredibly dangerous, I thought grimly. If they got into an accident or, god forbid, one of them started smoking inside the car, it wouldn’t be just those three who ended in hospital or worse.

Watching it happen, I was badly tempted to intervene and grab these three whilst we could, seizing the stolen petrol. But if we did that, the true head of the gang would get off scot-free, and we’d be facing more incidents like this in the future, but even better hidden. Not to mention that we needed to protect Mickey’s safety. Hence I made myself stay quiet and still in the car, making a promise to myself that we’d get these guys pinned down good and proper.

“They have enough to fuel a lorry, there,” Stephen said under his breath, and I agreed.

It was too dark to make out the specific petrol canisters, but I counted the number going into the car, and I reckoned that they’d stolen all the garage’s supplies. If they had, then our tagged and tracked canisters would be in there too.

The teens finished up not long later, the three of them carrying the final containers back to the car’s boot before they closed it up and climbed inside. Their movements were unhurried and confident, and I could understand why. The whole operation had been slick and organised, and if we hadn’t had a tip-off from Mickey, I couldn’t see how we would’ve ever found out what had happened. The garage would likely report the theft, of course, but not until long after it had all taken place.

They drove off quietly a moment later, the car rolling out casually like they’d done nothing more exciting than a trip to the shops. There was none of the tyre-squealing acceleration that teens usually liked to get up to, and the whole thing had seemed worryingly professional.

Stephen released a heavy breath beside me, which was part relief and part frustration, I would’ve guessed.

“Let’s hope that worked, then,” he said, rubbing his eyes. Even with the adrenaline of watching it all take place, I was similarly feeling leaden-eyed and headachy with tiredness.

“We can’t check on the trackers til the tech guys are back in in the morning,” I said before yawning widely. “We might as well get some kip.”

“I couldn’t agree more.”

Stephen mimicked my wide-mouthed yawn, and I chuckled. I drove us back over to the station to drop off the car. Stephen offered to drive me back over to Sam’s, and I was more than happy to accept. I could’ve run home, but I was stiff from sitting still for so long, and I didn’t want to tear anything, not to mention that I was pretty much asleep on my feet.

By the time my head hit the pillow, I was dead tired, but my mind continued to mull over the night’s events. I wondered whether the petrol canisters had been dropped off yet and if they’d even be taken to where the gang met up or where Alistair was staying. It’d already occurred to me that the petrol might end up stored in one of the lackey’s garages, probably belonging to the teenager’s unfortunate parents, but I’d considered the possibility worth the effort, anyway.

There wasn’t anything I could do right now to find out whether our plan had worked or not so, when Sam turned over in her sleep, I curled up closer to her and let myself fall asleep.

Eighteen

“Trackers are all up and working,” the tech guy told us when we went to visit him on Monday.

“Where are they?” I asked, leaning forwards.

“Over in Acomb, it looks like. They’re static now, not moving.”

“Alright, can you bring that up on google maps?”

He did so, and we looked at the street view on his computer. The house looked entirely ordinary, with a slightly scruffy front garden and a car parked outside.

“You think that’s where Alistair is?” I asked Stephen as I straightened up.

“Could be, but how’ll we know?” he said. It was a valid question and one I was still mulling over. More information was always what we wanted, but then we had to decide how to act on it.

The tech guy sent us over a link to follow the tracker ourselves, and we thanked him, heading back to our desk.

“Have you checked the chat yet today?” I asked as I logged on, sipping at my coffee.

He hadn’t, and neither had I. My first priority had been to see whether our ploy with the trackers had worked or whether they’d been discovered and, so far, the news on that seemed positive.

“There’s talk of a successful pickup, but that’s about all,” I said a moment later. I rubbed my hand over my chin and considered. “I’m going to give Mickey a call, I think. See whether he’s heard anything new after the burglary happened.”

“Go for it,” Stephen said without turning away from his screen, continuing to read over the teenagers’ messages from the previous night.

I got Mickey’s number up on my phone and gave him a call, prodding my bruised nose lightly as I waited for him to pick up. I’d put a spot of Sam’s concealer under my eyes this morning, where the worst of the purple bruising lingered, but otherwise, I was looking and feeling much better. My ribs still throbbed if I twisted the wrong way, and lying on them at night could be sore, but they too had healed up further over the weekend. Since walking was relatively painless now, I was tempted to try out running, but Sam had vetoed that idea immediately when I’d suggested it.

“You want to do exercise, you can come