Total pages in book: 67
Estimated words: 63400 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 317(@200wpm)___ 254(@250wpm)___ 211(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 63400 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 317(@200wpm)___ 254(@250wpm)___ 211(@300wpm)
Despite being miserable bumping along on the metal floor of the cargo van, I somehow manage to doze in and out of sleep. Each time I wake up, my wrist trapped by the metal handcuff hurts worse until eventually I lose all feeling in my arm completely.
It’s impossible for me to know how long we’ve been on the road or what time it might be. The only hint I have that it’s getting late is the sun has gone down, with darkness replacing the light coming through the small slice I can see through the front windshield.
When I can’t stand it anymore, I call out to my captors. “How much longer? I really need to pee.”
“Piss your pants then. We aren’t stopping.”
Thanks jerk.
As despondent as I am, I have mixed emotions as I realize the van is starting and stopping more frequently. It’s a sign we’re hitting heavy traffic—off the highway and back to civilization.
I’ve tried to think of something, anything, that could slow us down in hopes of giving Z more time to find me, but with each passing mile, I feel my hope seeping out of me just like my pee. I try to console myself that at least I’m leaving behind more of my DNA to prove that I was here, but I know by the time anyone finds it, it will be too late anyway.
The men in the front become animated just before the van comes to a stop. I sit up straighter, hoping we might be at a gas station, or a truck stop… somewhere I can try to get a passerby’s attention.
But when the side door of the cargo van opens, I know I won’t be finding any help at this stop, because this is the end of the line for me. We may have never met, but the portly man only feet away from me has to be Vinny Luciano. I don’t need an Ancestry DNA test to tell me this man is related to the asshole I’d killed in my suite at The Whitney. Short of the age difference, they could be twins.
An odd calmness comes to me with the finality of it all. Our eyes lock as I wait for him to pull a gun and shoot me dead, but instead of a gun, he pulls a fat cigar out of the inside pocket of his cheap suit, looking me up and down as a goon next to him leans in with a lighter.
A long thirty seconds tick by, and while my pulse is skyrocketing, I will myself not to let him see how afraid I really am. I won’t give him the satisfaction.
He takes a few puffs of the cigar before finally speaking. “I’ve been looking forward to your visit, Ms. Worthington. I have a lot of questions for you.”
I latch on to the word visit. That usually means someone comes… and then leaves again. Is he implying I might be able to leave after I tell him what happened to his son?
I decide to play my cards conservatively, at least at first. “I’ll be happy to share any details you wish to know. That way once you get your answers, you can drop me off at home.”
His howl of laughter is not funny—it’s menacing, and cruel.
“We’ll be dropping you off, alright. Right after I let my entire crew rape and torture you until you beg me to kill you.”
Turning to the henchman standing beside him, the older Luciano gives his order.
“Drag her into my office. We’ll start there. I already had Mikey lay down the plastic tarp. We wouldn’t want to ruin the carpet now, would we?”
Chapter Seventeen
Z
I stare out over New York City from The Rooftop of The Whitney—our headquarters as we prepare for war.
This war will not have generals or commanders. This war will not be discussed and debated on the news channels. There will be no negotiations or mediations between politicians. This war will be quick, unforgiving, and lethal. It’s a war done our way.
I’ve been pacing back and forth like a caged lion since flying back to The Whitney on Dex’s chopper that picked me up from New Hampshire. He’s acted fast, we’ve acted fast, but I’m worried we aren’t going to be fast enough. Rowan is living on borrowed time—if she’s still alive. And if she is alive, no doubt the fucker is torturing her. Every second that passes is time working against Rowan one way or the other.
The waiting game is killing me. I know we have to be smart. I know we have to be calculating, but my heart is screaming for me to rage and act on instinct alone. Dex has been carefully orchestrating this attack, and we all have to sit and wait for word from his spies to give us the last bit of intel before we can act.