Page 76 of Goose

“Yeah,” Baker responded. “I’m sure he called in this plate number. They’ll be looking for it.”

The thought of driving the vehicle five hours or more through the backroads with our legal plate on the rear made me more nervous than I already was.

But Baker was right.

Undoubtedly, they’d be looking for the plate that was on the vehicle. If a cop saw us with that plate attached, they’d be on us like white on rice. If we switched plates, we’d blend in with the other five thousand BMW SUVs on the roadway.

“I say we take the highway,” I suggested. “We’ll blend in with the other BMWs. After we switch plates. If we take the backroads, we’ll be the only flat black BMW SUV in existence.”

“Good point,” Baker said. “Find a place to pull over.”

My mouth had gone dry. My stomach was knotted. I realized I still had a death grip on the “oh shit” handle and released it.

Ghost’s absence was killing us.

I closed my eyes. I wasn’t worried about the night’s botched job. Nor did I care about any upcoming jobs. All I wanted to do was make back to San Diego alive.

I needed to leave a note on the board at my newfound favorite diner, Abby’s Place.

From there, I’d decide what my next move was.