“Rina said no. Listen, they’re selling diluted gas and they have skimmers on all the pumps. They don’t want the police sniffing around.”

Stone said, “Maybe Rina should rob the place.”

Pike said, “I’m rolling.”

Pike pulled up to the pumps outside the mini-mart, giving the woman inside a clear view of his Jeep. He wanted her able to describe it accurately.

Pike went inside, and immediately saw a security camera hanging from the ceiling behind the glass. He wondered if it worked, then decided this didn’t matter. He gave the woman his name and told her he was there to give Mr. Darko a message.

She looked confused.

“Who’s Mr. Darko?”

“Doesn’t matter. He’ll still get the message.”

“You don’t want gas?”

“No. I’m going to adjust the pumps.”

“They didn’t tell me about this.”

“Mr. Darko will explain.”

The emergency cutoff switch for the pumps was on the wall outside the door. Pike cut the power, then pry-barred the cover off each pump register. They didn’t come easily, leaving the metal bent. The woman behind the glass expressed no surprise when she saw what he was doing. She simply picked up her phone as if something like this happened three or four times each day, and made a calm call.

Six pumps, two sides to each pump, twelve card readers.

The skimmer sleeves were obvious, having been fixed around the white plastic reader track with duct tape. Every time a customer slipped a credit or debit card into the reader, the card also tracked through the skimmer, which read all the same information, storing it in a green circuit board wired to the sleeve. Pike tore off the sleeves and circuit boards, and stowed them in a plastic bag. He left the pump registers broken and open.

A woman driving a silver Lexus SUV pulled up while Pike was working.

He said, “The pumps are being serviced.”

She drove away.

Eight minutes later, the skimmers were stripped from the pumps and Pike was finished.

They could wait around to see who would show up, but Pike wanted to maintain the pressure. He wanted to flush them into his sights.

They took a long break for breakfast, and hit the next station three hours later. Down Home Petroleum (proudly independent!) was a cheesy little station in North Hollywood that was older and smaller than the All-American Best Price, and so dirty it looked like a smudge.

Cole and Stone rolled in first, just as they had before, and this time it was Stone who spoke in his ear.

“Two dudes inside, bro.”

“Soldiers?”

“Dunno. Young, white, and skinny, but that doesn’t mean they aren’t packing.”

Cole, listening in on the conference, said, “Surrounding streets clear.”

“I’m in.”

Pike rolled, once more pulling up to the pumps.