THE CRAIG OWNED JUST ABOUT THE CRAPPIEST car Ethan had ever seen. It was an old beat-up Ford sedan. Either it was brown or it was covered in enough dirt to make it look that way. It was hard to tell.
The Craig saw his expression and laughed that sharp, abrupt laugh again.
"Lesson one, kid: Skip the fancy cars. Too easy to spot. Don't let your ride make you an easy mark. Someone sets up on you, they'll be looking for a fancy car."
Ethan shrugged. There was a kind of paranoid logic to what the Craig was saying. Plus, his right hand had sunk into his pocket again, and Ethan still couldn't decide what was in there. A gun? A knife? Even at four a.m., it was way too hot to be wearing a jacket.
Craig noticed the direction of his gaze. "You're not carrying, are you?"
Ethan clenched his jaw, not trusting the voice. He shook his head.
"Good." Craig looked both ways up and down the street, then opened the Ford's back door and slung the duffel bag across the seats. "For now, your job is to keep your eyes open."
Ethan nodded mutely. A trickle of cold ran down his spine. He was about to get into a car with a strange man—a really strange man—who was armed and probably a criminal, with a duffel bag full of who-knew-what, and head for someplace unknown.
He opened his mouth to let the voice take over. It could say whatever it wanted—lie, plead, beg—as long as the Craig let Ethan walk away, back to Ivy Street, where he could charm some clueless raver into a ride home instead.
But the voice didn't say anything. Which meant there was nothing to say and no way out of this, not without raising Craig's suspicions. Ethan wasn't sure what would happen if Craig called Taylor and found out that everything he'd said was a lie. But nothing good, that was for sure.
So Ethan shut his mouth and got into the car.