Total pages in book: 87
Estimated words: 81279 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 406(@200wpm)___ 325(@250wpm)___ 271(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 81279 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 406(@200wpm)___ 325(@250wpm)___ 271(@300wpm)
Even Mothman is alarmed enough to leave his phone and get up, heading for the entrance.
“What the fuck are you saying?” Otto roars and grabs me, shoving the muzzle of his gun at my cheek. I hear a click as he pulls off the safety, but for once I’m not afraid.
I slam the side of my hand against the chair, now glad that he made me high, and slip my hand out of the cuff. I’m sure it hurts, but I can barely feel anything as blood rushes to my head. All I know is that I can’t be Otto’s hostage. I need to clear the way for Saint.
When the door swings open with a thud, Otto’s gun leaves my face, and that’s the moment I’ve been waiting for. He’s standing close enough for me to kick him in the balls.
Time slows as I twist my body along with the chair and knee the bastard’s crotch. I spin and fall to the floor, but the bullet meant for my man hits the ceiling, making plaster rain down on us as Saint steps in, his handsome face sprayed red already.
I bet the two men downstairs are dead. He’s not even covering his face, because those bastards aren’t getting out of here alive. The shitty yellow lightbulb makes his eyes shine like liquid gold, and there’s bloodlust in the way he curls his lip.
He might be a hitman, but he didn’t come here for business. This is personal.
Chapter 26
Saint
Don’t get too sure of your skills. You might be a better shot and fighter than anyone else in the room, but you might still get unlucky. Minimize the risk.
My uncle taught me many things. How to be a man. How to take care of myself. How not to die on the job. He did die at work, of course, but that’s because he broke his own rules. And while this is personal for me, I’m being careful. Deliberate.
I didn’t care if the thugs I killed downstairs knew who I was or why I wanted them dead. They signed their own death warrant when they took my Rowan. And using the recording of my whistle as a ringtone on a burner placed in front of the house is a tactic that’s a personal favorite of mine.
I’m not a knight in shining armor. I don’t play fair. I only aim to be efficient and go back to my own home once everything’s over.
One of the bastards who took Rowan stands by the window, checking out the whistle, and I shoot the back of his head without hesitation. Brains and blood spray the glass around the web of cracks left by the bullet, and then his hulking body collapses to the floor, leaving me to face Otto one-on-one.
I step forward, taking in the scene in a split second. A coffee table, a sofa, Rowan on the floor. His face is sprayed with blood, but he’s very much alive, and that’s what matters.
I’m about to shoot Otto, no questions asked, when a massive arm swings at me from behind the door.
Fuck. A third guy, who I didn’t see during my brief survey of the house.
He’s trying to grab me by the neck, so instead of fighting it, I twist myself his way, and smack his elbow hard. He loosens his grip. But in the corner of my eye, I spot Otto aiming at me.
I dread what might happen to Rowan if he remains so close to the bastard who took him, but the smart boy is crawling behind the sofa.
The guy who lunged at me throws his head back, about to headbutt me, but I manage to twist us around in a deadly tango. Otto shoots, and I hug my enemy so he can become my shield.
His broad form trembles in pain, and I feel him weaken, but he can still be of use.
There’s something so strange in moments like this one. I’ve heard a travel vlogger say that moving to strange places, or making big changes to one’s life makes every day and night seem longer, richer. For me, it’s danger that does it. No other second lasts as long as one spent with a pistol aimed at my head. It almost feels as though I have all the time in the world to improvise.
I toss Brown’s cell phone at Otto, and as he ducks in an attempt to protect his head, I charge at him, pushing the injured goon in front of me, as if I were driving a bulldozer.
Otto tries to shoot at me again, but he’s too slow, too surprised. When his dead buddy lands on him, he loses his balance and pulls the trigger a second too late. By that time, his arm is already in motion and the bullet goes through the ceiling instead of my head. Plaster falls on us like snow, forcing me to squint so it doesn’t get in my eyes.