Page 7 of Curses & Keys (Curses & Gods #1)

PHAEDRA

A isles filled with crate after crate go on forever in the massive warehouse, but I’m not deterred.

This isn’t my first visit here. I pull up an app on my phone.

A small, blinking white dot shows my location, and a solid red dot indicates the crate’s location.

It’s to my left and up a couple of rows.

I step forward, and the white dot moves accordingly.

A good fifteen minutes later, I reach my destination.

Now comes the hard part. The locator only gives a general location.

I have to physically find the exact crate.

My eyes skip over the ones different from mine and settle on the remaining three.

Not too many, but they’re on the second, fourth, and fifth shelves.

I search for a nearby ladder, but don’t see one, which means I’m doing this the hard way.

Gripping the first shelf, I pull myself up until my toes are resting on the edge of the second shelf and shine the light on the top.

An unfamiliar address shines back. Not mine.

I look up. The next crate is over five feet and up on the fourth shelf.

I slide to the right and climb. When I get closer, I see it’s not mine either and barely suppress the groan at the edge of my tongue. The one on the top shelf is mine.

I contemplate the location and decide to go up before I go left.

If I’m correct, it should put me right beside the panel I need to access.

It’s not until I’m stretching for the next shelf that I realize it’s a foot higher than the previous ones.

I shine the light on the crates next to me, but there’s nothing to step on.

If I try to use the crates themselves, I might accidentally kick one off.

I dart a glance at the floor far below. That would be disastrous.

After taking a deep breath, I slip the light into my pocket, squat down, and spring up.

My fingers miss the top of the shelf but find the holes along the side of the metal lip.

Dangling by the literal tips of my fingers, I swing lightly back and forth.

Damn it. There’s very little room to maneuver and nothing to push off of to get higher.

Options. My eyes dart to the crates next to me. I might be high enough now to lift my foot on top of one and use it for leverage. It’s risky, though. I glance to my left and see the support for the shelving unit. Better. I can shimmy my way up the pole to the top.

Ten sweaty and agonizing minutes later, I reach the corner. Immediately wrapping my legs around the pole, I peel my fingers away from the sharp metal holes and throw my arms around it. Stable now, I take a precious minute to massage my fingers and get the blood flowing in them again.

After wiping the sweat away, I carefully use my arms and legs to climb the pole to the top shelf.

Thankfully, this shelf is wider than the others, and I’m able to walk along the edge by placing one foot in front of the other.

I get to the crate, and the Duke University address label makes me quietly sigh in relief.

With deft movements, I pull off my knapsack and get to work opening the outside panel.

Using a manual screwdriver sucks, but anything else would be heard.

I carefully unscrew and pull off the outer side panel, putting it on top of the crate.

Then I take out a large magnet. Placing it against the wood, I slide it up and to the left.

I do this three more times to unlock the secret secondary panel, then remove it, too.

Customs uses imaging and x-ray machines to examine the contents.

The only way to get it through was to build a hidden compartment in the crate that was solid and impervious to their scans.

It only works for small items, because the dimensions need to be the same on all sides of the crate, so it doesn’t arouse suspicion.

I carefully pull out the five items hidden in the crate and put them in my knapsack, then grab the five items of equal weight I brought with me and put them into the crate’s hidden compartment.

The gross weight needs to stay the same between entry and exit.

Reversing the entire process, I board up the crate and secure it.

While I could have brought these home on my private jet, I didn’t want to risk it. Transporting them in a crate directly from the museum allows me to easily add the items to the university’s shipment without anyone being the wiser.

The slight squeak of a boot against the floor alerts me.

I look down and see a dark figure moving down the aisle.

Frozen, I watch as they stride toward me.

My lips compress. Something’s wrong. No flashlight or uniform.

Whoever this person is… they’re not a guard or customs officer.

Another thief? Then, I see the faint green glow around their eyes.

Night goggles. Thankfully, the fabric of my full-body suit is designed to match the temperature of my environment at all times, rendering me completely invisible to infrared technology—a sweet little invention I picked up that’s come in handy so many times.

They’re moving quickly. I slip the knapsack on and start walking along the top shelf in the opposite direction. There’s a skylight at the rear of the building. It’s farther away from where I entered, but it offers roof access.

I peer over the edge and see the person has stopped close to where I was earlier.

My heart rate kicks up. Coincidence? Maybe.

But I don’t like coincidences. I pick up the pace and get to the skylight.

Scaling the nearest crate until I’m on top, I look down the row and see the figure reach the top shelf and my crate.

Definitely not a coincidence. Curbing my curiosity, I reach up, grab the edge of the skylight, and slowly lift myself off the crate and onto the roof.

Feeling a sense of urgency, I jump to my feet and run across the roof until I reach the rope I left coiled earlier.

With a quick flick of my wrist, I send the rope down the side of the building and follow its smooth descent to the ground.

Once I land, I press a button on my belt, and the rope cuts away from the hook at the top and falls silently to my feet.

My fingers deftly pluck it up from the ground and coil it back into a loop to hang on my belt while I listen intently for the slightest of sounds.

My eyes dart from one corner of the alley to the other.

I’m alone. Sliding the black nylon knapsack from my back to my chest, I press against the shadowed walls of the warehouse and make my way to the bike I left tucked behind the dumpster.

Matte black paint renders it almost invisible. I roll it into the alleyway.

After taking one last look around to see if I have any unwanted company, from either the person inside or nearby customs officers, I slide on the helmet, take a deep breath, and start the engine.

Even with the exhaust modifications I made to the bike, the rumbling of the engine is noticeable in the night air.

It can’t be helped. When you need speed and maneuvering, there’s nothing like the Kawasaki Ninja H2R.

Not wanting to attract attention, I keep the speed at a steady throttle as I leave the alley and enter the parking lot.

Movement on my right catches my peripheral, and I swing my head around to watch the figure on the roof raise his arms in a silent signal to someone on the ground.

That’s my cue.

With the slightest of touches, the motorcycle picks up speed.

I dart into a line of stacked containers and carefully make my way through the maze I mapped out earlier in case I needed a less exposed escape.

Blood rushes through my veins, making my heart pound.

Colorful boxes surround me, hiding me from view, but that doesn’t mean much.

Depending on their technology, they might have eyes on me right now.

Hearing a noise to my right, I stop the bike and listen. There it is again. A low whistle. Definitely not customs officers. Doors slam shut. They’re in a vehicle. Not wanting to be trapped in the sea of cargo, I rev the engine and shoot out from the next opening onto the main road.

“Call gate,” I state clearly and concisely into the Bluetooth intercom built into my helmet. The guard at the gate picks up on the first ring.

“I’ve got company. Not official. Open the gate. Do not interfere.” I hang up. The last thing I need is a human getting killed trying to help me, especially not a guard looking to make an extra buck.

I glance back and see a large SUV swing out behind me, the rev of their engine roaring through the night air.

Apparently, they’re not too worried about getting caught, which means they have power of some sort.

Unwilling to get into a fight unless absolutely necessary, I map the streets of Newark in my head, trying to figure out if I can outrun them and get to my destination or if I need to figure out a different escape plan.

Bright lights shine on me, almost blinding in their intensity, and I squint into the dark.

Wind rushes past my helmet. These guys aren’t playing around.

I kick up the throttle as I hit Port Street, flying past the guard at the open gate.

Minutes later, I’m zooming past the New Jersey State Police station, a blur to any cameras, but there is no way to disguise the sound of the screaming bike.

Troopers immediately race to their vehicles just in time to see the SUV behind me fly by too.

Sirens and lights flip on, and cars peel out of the lot. It’s a full-on chase.

I watch in the right rearview mirror as a cruiser pulls up behind the SUV, lights flashing.

Another takes the outside lane to follow me.

Subtly shifting on the bike to get into a more comfortable position, I push it to 200 mph.

The state trooper drops back a little but not much.

I weave in and out of cars, hoping to lose my trail of followers, then spot two semi-trucks in the right lane.

The perfect opportunity to hide. I slide into the middle lane in front of a car, then move over one more.

With the car on my left, I’m now covered on all sides.

The state trooper flies past. It won’t take him long to figure out I’m not in front of him, but that’s okay, because I see my exit.

At the last second, I slide right and take the ramp for the Newark Liberty International Airport.

Sirens sound in the night, but there are no blue lights shining in my rearview mirror.

Relieved, I make my way to the short-term parking lot where I’ve stored a black pickup and trailer.

As a precaution, I fixed the cameras in the garage before I left, so I don’t worry about someone finding the footage of me rolling the bike into the trailer.

All they will see is me entering the garage.

With a roll of my shoulders, I slide into the front seat, lean my head back, and heave a sigh of relief.

That was close. And puzzling. I still don’t know why they chased me.

Not wanting magical objects to be sent to Duke University, I always intercept them at customs. Different ports each time.

I pack and label the contents. If there are ten items on the manifest, there are ten items in the crate.

Nobody is aware of the additional items hidden in a false side. So why were they there?

I picture the figure on the roof. Definitely a man.

Did he target me out of gut instinct? Or did something tip his hand?

I’m certain it wasn’t the shipment itself.

There wasn’t enough time for him to get inside and get to the roof in such a short time.

What was it? Five minutes? Or maybe they didn’t need to if they had cameras set up. Again, why? How?

A crying baby jolts me out of my thoughts.

Plenty of time to think about these things on the road.

I quickly reach into the back and grab a change of clothes, along with a wig and hat.

A young man drove this vehicle into the airport a couple of hours ago, and the same one will drive it out.

I throw on my fake glasses and head out.

I switch vehicles in Washington D.C. Hitched to an older green truck, I pull the wrap off the trailer to change its appearance from solid black to white with a logo on it.

While I haven’t seen anyone suspicious in the last few hours, caution has been carved into my bones over the last three thousand years.

After all, nobody likes a thief, regardless of good intentions.

Hours later, I pull into an abandoned strip mall parking lot in a small town in the middle of nowhere, park the vehicle, then wipe it down.

Once I’ve changed back into my jumpsuit, I put on my helmet and leave the keys in the ignition.

Hopefully someone needs a truck. In less than a minute, I’m throwing my leg over the bike and heading to the vault hidden under an old farmhouse out in the country.