Read Online Leverage by Joshua C. Cohen - Free Book Online Page A

the long bench running between the rows of lockers. He pulls open the spout on his squeeze bottle. Without a second’s hesitation, he aims the spout up into the top vent of the locker and crunches hard on the plastic with both hands.
    Phhhhthththththththththt . . . The bottle sprays up into the locker vent, its contents disappearing on the other side, unseen.
    â€œSee how you like it now, bastard,” Bruce hisses. He seems to be getting angrier and angrier as he does it. The bottle gurgles and he tips it at a steeper angle, squeezing again.
    Phhhhthththththththththt . . .
    â€œStudblatz’s is over here,” Gradley calls softly from the next row. Bruce hops down off the bench and moves like a minitank, pushing past us to get to the next locker. He steps up on the bench and presses the spout up into Studblatz’s vent.
    Phhhththththththththt . . . shake, shake, shake ... Phhhththththththththth.
    â€œRefill,” Bruce calls out. Fisher is there, handing over Pete’s water bottle like it’s an ammunition clip for a depleted machine gun.
    Phhhthththththhtthth . . .
    â€œFound Miller’s,” Menderson calls out.
    Bruce finishes the rest of the second bottle, upending it, through the vent slit in Scott Miller’s locker. It feels good watching piss spray into the quarterback’s locker. I bet that cross-country runner he’d been harassing would love to be here watching. I think we’re done but Bruce pulls out a baggie from his pocket.
    â€œThe gift that keeps on giving.” Bruce smirks as he pulls the mushy squirrel guts and pelt out of the baggie and squeezes it as best he can through the vent. It smells bad and I lift my forearm to press against my nose.
    â€œShit, dude,” Gradley hisses. “Now they’ll know for sure it’s us.”
    â€œWhat are they gonna do?” Bruce asks him, and I see he’s challenging all of us. “They gonna cry that we didn’t play fair? That we used their own squirrel guts against them? They gonna cry to their coach? Screw ’em.”
    â€œYou just shafted us,” Paul says, and shakes his head.
    â€œRelax,” Bruce says, stubborn. No way he’s admitting he went too far.
    We hear a high piercing whistle. It’s either Pete or Ronnie.
    â€œGo, go, go . . .”
    We scramble around the benches, banging shins on the planks of pine and slamming shoulders on the thin metal corners of the lockers.
    â€œCome on, come on.... Go, go, go.”
    Paul leads the way, shoving the door open, and we pile out into the basement hallway, expecting ... the whole football team? A group of teachers? Cops?
    Pete and Ronnie stand in the deserted hallway, eyes big as a baby Pokémon’s.
    â€œWhat?!” Gradley asks.
    â€œJanitor down at the end of the hall, but he went into the boiler room,” Pete whispers. That’s enough for us. We sprint down the hall in the opposite direction, our sneakers squeaking against the smooth cement floors and the thighs of our jeans vvvrrrping with each stride.
    Upstairs, Bruce stops us.
    â€œOkay, guys. Wait!” he says. “We can’t all leave in a big group. Too suspicious. Go to your lockers or hang out for a sec.”
    â€œYeah, smart,” Fisher declares.
    â€œAnd not a word of this to anyone. I mean, anyone ,” Bruce cautions. “No matter what, just play stupid.”
    â€œPaul’s got that covered,” Fisher says. Paul shoves him.
    â€œThe squirrel’s fair game,” Bruce continues, still pleading his case, “but the piss will send them over, so don’t say anything.”
    We’re all breathing hard, partly from the run, partly from striking back and having a great secret that’ll get us creamed if anyone finds out.
    â€œPete,” Bruce says, “here’s your water bottle back.” He presses the empty bottle into the freshman’s chest. Pete looks down at it, slowly grabs the bottle