Chapter 6 - THE PURPLE BICYCLE
The sun was directly overhead now, turning the concrete of my driveway into a blinding white mirror. My silk work blouse was soaked through with sweat by the time I dragged Lily’s old purple Schwinn bicycle out through the side gate. The chain was rusty, the rear tire half-deflated, and it made a loud, rhythmic clink-clink-clink against the gravel as I hauled it toward the rear of my station wagon.
At the corner of the street, the Dodge Ram’s brake lights flared red.
Rick had seen me.
I kept my head down, my breath coming in short, hot gasps as I unlocked the rear hatch of my car. I lifted the heavy bicycle, my corporate skirt tight around my knees, and shoved it into the cargo bay, the metal handlebars scraping against the plastic trim with a screech that set my teeth on edge.
I didn't look at the truck. I walked back to the side gate, grabbed a small, empty plastic storage bin from the porch, and carried it back to the car, dropping it into the back seat as if I were packing clothes. I was putting on a performance for an audience of one.
The driver's side door of the Dodge Ram opened.
Rick didn't march toward me this time. He stepped out, stood behind the open door of his truck, and rested his forearms on the roof, watching me through a pair of dark aviator sunglasses he had pulled down from the visor. He looked amused. The tire iron was gone, replaced by a thin, black cylinder he was rolling between his fingers—a heavy-duty vape pen or a small flashlight.
"That's a good girl, Olivia," he called out across the thirty yards of hot asphalt, his voice carrying clearly in the quiet neighborhood. "See? I told you we could be neighborly. You bring 'em out, we load 'em up, and everybody goes back to their own business. No harm, no foul."
I stood by the open rear door of my station wagon, my heart hammering against my ribs like a trapped bird. Where is Marcus? I thought, my eyes darting toward the main road at the end of the cul-de-sac. The street was completely empty. Mrs. Greene’s house was dark, the curtains pulled tight—she had likely gone back to her kitchen to make her phone calls or take a nap, completely oblivious to the fact that a federal crime was unfolding on the curb.
"I need twenty minutes, Rick," I called back, trying to keep the terror out of my throat. "The little boy... he’s sleeping. I need to get his shoes on."
Rick’s smile vanished. He leaned over the roof of his truck, his aviator glasses slipping down his nose, revealing the cold, fish-like blue of his eyes.
"He don't have shoes, lady," Rick said, his voice dropping its conversational tone, returning to that flat, dangerous register from the phone call. "I told you. I took 'em yesterday. Don't play games with me. You’ve got ten minutes until eleven, and then I’m coming up that walk myself."
He reached into his pocket, pulled out his phone, and held it up, his thumb hovering over the screen. He was showing me the weapon—the call to the county inspectors, or perhaps to someone much worse.
Suddenly, a low, smooth purr filled the air from the end of the street.
A sleek, black Audi sedan turned into the cul-de-sac, its tires quiet against the hot asphalt. It didn't speed; it moved with a slow, imperial confidence, pulling past Rick’s rusted truck and stopping directly behind my station wagon, effectively blocking me into the driveway.
The driver's door swung open.
Marcus Bennett stepped out. He didn't look like a corporate lawyer today. He wore a crisp white shirt with the sleeves rolled up to his elbows, a heavy leather holster visible at the small of his back beneath his open vest. His face was set in a hard, granite line that I had only ever seen in newspaper clippings from his days at the DOJ.
"Olivia," Marcus said, not looking at me, his eyes locked entirely on the man standing behind the truck door thirty yards away. "Get back inside the house. Right now."
Rick didn't move from his vehicle, but his hand dropped toward the door panel. "Who the hell are you?" he shouted, his voice cracking with a sudden, sharp note of suspicion. "This is private business, pal. Move your car."
Marcus didn't answer him. He reached into his pocket, pulled out a heavy, leather-bound gold badge, and held it out over the roof of his Audi, his voice carrying across the yard with the weight of a judge's gavel.
"Federal Bureau of Investigation," Marcus lied, his voice echoing off the brick fronts of the houses. "Rick, step away from the vehicle and place your hands flat on the hood. The perimeter is monitored. Do not reach into the cabin."
Rick’s face went completely white. For one split second, I thought he was going to run—his eyes darted toward the overgrown hedge behind his truck.
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But then, his mouth twisted into a snarl. He didn't put his hands on the hood. He reached into the driver's side cabin, his hand disappearing under the seat.
"Olivia, run!" Marcus screamed, drawing a heavy black semi-automatic pistol from his holster as he dropped behind the engine block of his Audi.
