Page 141 of Our Last Resort

Not even the Ara would bury a security guard underground twenty-four hours a day. Besides, the cars are safe in this locked garage. We’re in the desert, connected to civilization by a sole access road. It’s not like anyone can discreetly steal a vehicle from this hotel.

Keep moving.

Using my phone flashlight, I check my surroundings. I’m flanked by rows of cars. Here, five identical black SUVs, presumably the hotel’s. Next to them, a white Jeep parked on a spot numbered twenty.

Okay. Okay. The cars are organized by suite number. If I could just remember—

Six.

Sabrina’s lucky number.

I make my way down the parking spaces. Twenty, nineteen, eighteen—next row. I make a turn, then another, until—

Fuck.

I must have brushed too close to one of the parked cars. One of them—an Italian sports car, white with a couple of thick green stripes on the hood—is screeching so loudly I can feel the vibration in my teeth.

For god’s sake, shut up.

The car keeps blaring in outrage. There must be security cameras all around me. If no one was watching before, they’re certainly paying attention now.

In a minute, two at most, I’ll be busted.

I run down the last row of cars.

Finally, a few spots from the wall, I spot it.

William Brenner’s rental. So red. So recognizable.

I try a door: locked, obviously. The keys are nowhere to be seen. They’re probably in a safe, back inside the hotel. Which also explains the absence of a security guard.

I take a step back. Raise the rock to shoulder height. I tense every muscle in my body and hurl it forward.

And then I duck.

The rental’s alarm joins the Italian sports car’s in a frenzied chorus.

When I stand up, the rock is on the ground. It bounced back. There’s barely a nick in the window.

Car windows are built pretty solidly these days.

I try again.

Nothing.

Damn it.

My arm is getting tired. Mymindis getting tired. Both alarms are screaming. I glance in the direction of the entrance: Still nothing. Just more cars, and a wall, and—

Yes.

I step away from William’s car for a second, run to the fire extinguisher, and yank it from its spot.

One more time.

I lift the fire extinguisher. Shoulder burning, eyes shut, I hurl it at William’s window.

When I open my eyes, the fire extinguisher is halfway inside the car. The window has shattered—enough that I can wrap my hand in my T-shirt and punch off a few big pieces.

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