Stephanie Shun didn’t steal cars. Her father had always told her if there was a car she wanted that someone wasn’t willing to sell, there were people they could hire to steal it for her. But she’d stopped listening to him long ago, around the time she decided that his criminal empire tucked into a corner of Chinatown, San Francisco, wasn’t the legacy she wanted to be buried under.
And yet here she was, crouched next to a car in a dark parking lot, prying the plastic cover off the side-view mirror. To anyone who might catch her, it would look like she was a car thief, and that was exactly what she wanted. This job was the first step to ingratiating herself with a crew of drivers who contracted out to the worst criminals on the West Coast, and it had to look perfect. Nobody could know she was stealing her own car.
Once she had the side-view mirror cover separated out enough to spot a collection of thin wires, she placed a plastic wedge in the gap and pulled a multi-tool from her belt. Even if it was her car, bought and paid for with the profits from her various investments, it was still a crime to threaten the bodywork of the sleek Mercedes. Striving to minimize any exterior damage, she selected one of the wires and stripped the insulation from a section using the knife of the multi-tool.
Footsteps froze her. It was after three o’clock in the morning, and still someone was up on the second floor of the private parking lot to retrieve their car. One of the hazards of committing crimes in a city as populated as San Francisco: there was activity at all hours. She coiled her body by the front wheel, in case anyone was searching below the chassis. The buzzing lights on the concrete ceiling created deep shadows for her to hide in. She knew she was undetected by the security camera, but an individual might spot her, even though she wore all black and carried a black bag.
The quick pace of the footsteps put her mind at ease. A guard would’ve been less direct, but this person had no intention of lingering in the parking lot. They got into their car and closed the door. Stephanie used the sound of the engine starting to mask her retrieving an electronic device from her bag. Headlights turned on three rows over, making her shift her feet so they were in the shadow of the wheel next to her.
But the other car didn’t move. Checking their phone? Waiting for the heater to kick in? The night was cold, but Stephanie shivered with a deeper chill. Her watch read 3:21 a.m. The instruction from the driving crew boss was that she had to have a stolen car on the road by 3:30 a.m., when he would text her the next move. If she botched this job, it would kill her chances to get in with the crew. And if that happened, the ultimate target could slip through her fingers.
This was the one shot to find human traffickers who’d eluded law enforcement for too long. And while Stephanie had access to the law’s resources, she didn’t have to play by their rules. That was the point of re-forming Frontier Justice over a hundred years after her ancestor had first helped create the organization. The vigilante group wasn’t exactly legal then, or now, giving her the space she needed to go after the bad guys.
The other car in the parking lot finally chugged into gear and crept up the aisle. It was a risk, but the clock was ticking, so she resumed her work on stealing the Mercedes before the other car completely descended this level. She attached a small metal clip to the exposed wire in the side-view mirror and plugged that into the electronic device in her hand. The dim screen immediately started scrolling with information taken from the central computer of the coupe. Pushing buttons on the side of the screen narrowed the focus of the data scan until she located the factory-set key codes for the car.
She adjusted a mode switch on the side of the handmade device, pressed another button to broadcast the captured code and the doors to the Mercedes unlocked. Of course, she could’ve done all that with the key fob that sat in her Pacific Heights condo, but that wouldn’t make this theft look legit to the driving crew.
After detaching the clip from the wire and replacing the side-view mirror cover to a near-perfect standard, she eased open the passenger-side door and pushed her bag into the footwell. She climbed over the seat and slid behind the steering wheel. A press of the button on the dash brought the Mercedes purring to life.
She was going to miss driving this car. Undoubtedly, once she delivered it to the driving crew they’d replace the VIN and sell it on the black market. All the registration paperwork was tied to a shell company she owned that could never be traced back to her, thus maintaining her reputation for the criminals.
The sleek two-door coupe slithered from its parking spot and down the aisle. She checked her watch; still on time. Barely. As she eased the car down the circular ramp, she wondered if maybe she should’ve stolen her Audi that was parked one floor away. Or the Subaru tuned for street racing in her condo garage. But as much as she loved the handling of the coupe, she was ready to move on from this Mercedes. One of the last passengers she’d had was a first date that had fizzled as soon as the tech entrepreneur’s eyes had lit up while asking her about her father. It wasn’t the first time a man was more interested in dating Eddie Shun’s daughter rather than seeing her as simply Stephanie Shun.
All for the best, she sighed to herself. She’d gotten her thrills collecting the pieces to Frontier Justice and shooting at armed guards on a multimillion-dollar estate near San Jose during their very first mission. The first mission of this century, at least.
And there was no way that date would’ve acted as lookout while she’d stolen her own car.
She drove to the front gate of the parking lot, which lifted automatically, and slipped through, casually using her hand to obscure her face for the security cameras. Any guard there would’ve recognized her, but the whole gambit had to be airtight. If the information Frontier Justice had collected from police and FBI communications, as well as underworld rumors, was correct, the driving crew was tied to human trafficking run by the Seventh Syndicate, and those bastards didn’t miss a detail.
One block away from the parking garage, the phone she’d bought and set up for this mission buzzed with a text from the head of the driving crew, Ronald Olesk. She’d never actually met Olesk, but had made contact through a friend of a friend of a friend. The message was simple. A time and address.
“Son of a...” Tension rang in tight coils up her spine. She had ten minutes to get there. At this time of night, it shouldn’t be a problem. The real trouble was the address. It was a warehouse owned by her father.
* * *
THE LAST TIME Arash Shamshiri had robbed someone, he thought he was going to die. Maybe not that night, but he’d known that if he’d continued with that life he would’ve wound up with a bullet in him. Yet here he was, letting his muscle memory take over as he picked the lock to an office on