Nick still didn’t know whose finger had touched the trigger. But the guard had ended up in intensive care with a bullet in his thigh, inches from the sort of artery that would have put Nick in prison for the rest of his life instead of five years. And the noise from the firearm had ended Nick’s string of good luck, alerting a passing patrol car. Not that Nick would have left the security guard to bleed out on the floor of the bank—or at least, he liked to think he wouldn’t have. Half a decade in prison made those sorts of calculations hazy.

In any event, as much as he’d liked to have been able to hit down at Hailey from the moral high ground, he knew it was a losing proposition.

Instead, he pointed at the building ahead of them.

“Are we going in? I assume we’re here for a reason.”

Hailey nodded but made no move to continue up the steps. Instead, she kept scanning the curb. Nick realized she was looking at the cars parked at the meters. Most were new models, probably expensive. Then her eyes settled on an older make—a nineties model Ford Taurus covered in bumper stickers beneath a bowed birch tree.

Hailey headed toward the car, gesturing for Nick to follow. As they got close, she looked around them to make sure nobody was nearby. Then she opened her purse, started digging through the contents. Nick caught sight of casino chips—lots of them. Mostly yellows. Christ, there had to be more than ten grand in there. But Hailey pushed past the chips and retrieved a flask.

As Nick watched, she opened the flask and dumped the contents on the sidewalk. Nick got a whiff of something familiar in the breeze.

“Is that apple juice?”

Hailey handed him the flask, then pointed toward the Taurus.

“I bet you’re good with cars.”

“My dad worked on them a little between jobs, and he used to take me with him.”

His dad had always been between jobs. The longest gig he’d held was when Nick was seven or eight. Roofing work at some construction site at Fort Point Channel. Until he’d gotten canned for drinking on the job. Which was great—it gave him more time to drink at home.

“Not fixing them,” Hailey said. “Breaking into them.”

Nick eyed her.

“You looking for a new stereo?”

“Not the stereo. The battery. I need about twelve ounces of battery acid.”

Nick raised his eyebrows.

“It’s a thermal flask,” Hailey continued. “I like my apple juice cold. So, it’s lined in glass. The acid won’t be a problem. And I’m guessing these older cars are easier to get into, easier to tinker with.”

“You want me to break into that car, take out the battery, and fill this flask with battery acid?”