Total pages in book: 35
Estimated words: 33243 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 166(@200wpm)___ 133(@250wpm)___ 111(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 33243 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 166(@200wpm)___ 133(@250wpm)___ 111(@300wpm)
Relief washes over me in waves, and I slump in my seat, hanging my head low and gripping it tightly. Jesus. I let out a long ragged breath, my muscles beginning to relax. With trembling fingers, I run them through my hair, trying to ground myself.
After receiving Justin’s go signal, we all ride Jameson’s truck and head to the location—about three hours outside Ferncombe, but it might as well have been an entirely different continent. We just went from a highly industrialized city to a semi-abandoned town, filled with old, decrepit buildings, barren lands, and an overall depressing atmosphere.
As the old warehouse looms into view, a prickle of unease goes through me. The windows are boarded up, its windows sagging. Jameson parks by the rusted iron gates, and my gaze scans the tall grass and wildflowers. There’s nothing for miles. Even if someone manages to escape, getting out is just the first problem. Managing to get away is another.
The sense of unease grows stronger and wraps around me like a vise. I hate going to places like this, where there’s clearly been so much suffering.
But we have to do it. It’s just a step closer to stopping Jackson. Ever since we came up with a plan to destroy him a little over a decade ago, we’ve only successfully completed a dozen rescue operations.
Several leads get nowhere, some are false. Once in a while, though, we get lucky and find each and every victim unharmed. We have no idea where Jackson is. Someone reported he was in Vietnam, another claimed he was spotted in Bulgaria.
This thing we do? He’s bound to notice, which is good. He has to know we’re coming for him.
Justin meets us by the entrance and tips his head to one of the rooms. “Check this out.”
He leads us to a room that smells of dust and neglect. Rusted filing cabinets line one wall and a single desk in the middle is piled high with several papers. That draws my attention because the papers look like they were printed recently—no fading ink or whatever.
Sifting through the papers scattered across the desk, excitement pulses through me. Between the pages, I find a faded photograph, with one edge curling with age and the other blackened by fire.
Tiny hairs stand on the back of my neck, and my breathing becomes labored. My vision blurs at the edges, and I forget everything around me.
It’s a photo of thick chains attached directly to a wall. At first, it tugs at my memory like a half-remembered dream. Then, it clicks.
I was too terrified to remember every detail that night, but I’m sure this was it. This was the basement where they kept me. I was in and out of consciousness for a full day, and I spotted this at least once.
Justin rests a hand on my shoulder. “What is it?”
“It’s the basement.” My voice sounds too distant, like I’m listening to someone else speak.
“This must be one of his then.”
“Maybe.”
“There are shredded papers in the bin. I’ll get my men to tape it back together.”
Finally.
For the first time, I have hope. We ARE closer to him. All of the other operations didn’t yield any information on him or anything connecting to him. This is the first. This is a clear connection to Jackson.
We’ll get you, motherfucker. And we’ll make you suffer.
Jameson drops me off, and I make that long climb to my floor. The adrenaline has long fizzled out, and now the weight of exhaustion hangs heavy on my shoulders. I drag my weary feet and feel like I’m wading through thick mud.
My mind drifts to Zara. What’s gonna happen if she finds out what I actually work on every day? What if she finds out how I got burned and the kind of life I led for years? Being repeatedly beaten to an inch of my life?
Goddammit.
I am selfish because I can’t let her go. Not when I’ve claimed her as mine. Eventually, I’ll come clean and tell her everything. For now, though, I just want to be happy. Happy without the strings of my past dragging me down.
Zara makes me want to tell her everything. It’s always at the tip of my tongue. The gory details. The nightmares. The panic rushing at me from out of nowhere. The years of therapy. And the pain. Dear God, the pain I have to deal with every day. It’s nothing anyone can see, but it’s like someone reaches into my chest and squeezes my heart.
She asked me before if my scar still hurt, and I said no. It’s true because I suffer from a different kind of pain. The pain that no amount of drugs can cure.
I know she deserves a normal man with no baggage, but fuck, I can’t. Just thinking about her with someone else makes me feel like my veins are filled with acid. I don’t know when I started to be possessive, but it is what it is.