Chapter 22: The Sting
Jake’s trashed bike stared back from Tyler’s phone—tank crumpled, tires shredded, a note pinned under a rock: “Tomorrow’s mine.” Lunch blurred—cafeteria noise drowned by my pulse—and Jake’s text hit: “Rico’s at me. Midnight’s on—stay sharp.” May’s sun blazed outside, but dread chilled me. Cara’s list was our shot—Rico’s end, ours too if it flopped. After school, we scraped cash—Tyler’s $200 from his Jeep fund, my $150 from tutoring stash, Jake’s $150 from odd jobs. Five hundred, crisp and real, stuffed in my backpack. Ellie met us at Jake’s—Oak Street quiet, his house dim—handing over a tiny mic. “Cousin’s tech,” she said, pink hair glinting. “Tape Cara—cops’ll bite if it’s solid.” Jake paced, eyes shadowed, bike’s loss cutting deep. “She screws us, we’re done,” he muttered, taping the m
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