Total pages in book: 25
Estimated words: 23289 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 116(@200wpm)___ 93(@250wpm)___ 78(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 23289 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 116(@200wpm)___ 93(@250wpm)___ 78(@300wpm)
Gracie hops in the boat with a forced smile on her face and the other two follow her in. I stomp on the handle of the knife so hard it disappears into the moist ground, then, still clutching the leader’s arm, I walk him to the boat.
“Bring us to Hector Contreras,” I demand as I finally let him go and sit beside Gracie.
The young-looking one starts the engine and we take off up the river, heading the opposite way of the current.
“This is so fucked up,” Gracie says as she clings to my arm while the boat bounces on the waves.
“You got this,” I whisper in her ear. “You’re going to do great and I’ll be with you the entire time.”
She kisses my shoulder and looks a little bit more confident as we zip up the river.
The guy is holding his broken arm and cursing at me in Spanish. I just glare at him with a grin on my face.
Hopefully, he’ll tell his friends what happens when you try and touch my mate.
CHAPTER EIGHT
Gracie
Itake a deep breath, trying to annihilate my nerves as the boat pulls onto the shore of the river. Three male guards in civilian clothes with AR-15s slung over their shoulders approach and grab the boat, pulling it onto the dirt.
I’m trying to project confidence as I step out with Ryker by my side. I keep my shoulders back, my chin high, and I make sure to look all of them in the eye so they can see that I’m not afraid of them. I wish my pounding heart would get the memo that we’re not afraid.
The guy with the broken arm steps out, clutching his forearm and hissing out a string of harsh words that I can only assume are directed at Ryker.
Ryker grabs my arm and makes sure I’m standing close to him. He raises his nose in the air and takes a deep inhale.
“I smell wolves,” he whispers as the men glare at us.
“Wolves don’t live in the jungle,” I whisper back.
“Not that kind of wolf.”
That doesn’t sound good. “What other kind is there?”
He’s about to answer, but then a guy who could only be Hector Contreras comes strutting over with a big radiant smile on his face. He looks richer than everyone else in an expensive gray suit, shiny shoes, and a tailored white shirt. A gold Rolex hangs from his wrist along with all kinds of other gold jewelry—bracelets, rings, and a thin necklace. I’m sure just one of those pieces costs more than any of the countrymen he terrorizes can hope to make in their entire lifetime.
“You must be Gracie Windward,” Hector says as he walks over with a jubilant air. He offers his hand and I step up and shake it. I give him a firm handshake as I stare into his eyes.
“Thank you for agreeing to speak with me, Mr. Contreras. This is my cameraman, Ryker Dawson.”
“Cameraman,” he says with a little smirk of amusement as he offers his hand and sniffs the air. “Interesting.”
Ryker takes it, swallowing Hector’s hand with his and I’m sure he squeezes it hard because Hector looks like he’s trying not to wince.
“I’m sorry about the trip and the need for discretion,” Hector says once Ryker releases him. “We are a misunderstood little community and we like to keep our privacy.”
“Your English is impeccable,” I say, trying to get on his good side with harmless flattery before I start going at him with hard-hitting questions. “Where did you learn it?”
“I went to University in Oxford, England,” he says with a smile. “They taught me well.”
He’s in his mid-thirties and good-looking with a nice warm smile, but that doesn’t mean a thing. The thing about beauty in the jungle is—like the colorful poisonous frogs and the slick lithe snakes—the more beautiful, the more deadly.
“A lot has been said about me and my community that is just false,” Hector says as he waves us to follow him. We head up the path through the lush vibrant jungle to the large village up ahead. “I love philosophy, American cinema, and tennis. I’m afraid the rumors about me have been severely exaggerated. I am no killer. I am a man of the community. Welcome to the real El Nicanduras. Welcome to Valle de los Susurros.”
We step into the village and everywhere I look are well-dressed children running around and workers standing outside of their tiny shops, smiling at me.
“Start recording,” I whisper to Ryker as we walk up the dirt road. He pulls out the camera as I walk beside Hector. We pass tiny restaurants with diners sitting at the tables outside, their plates overflowing with food. They all smile at me as we pass.
It all feels… manufactured. It feels fake.
My bullshit meter is ringing off the hook. I can tell everyone is acting. The skinny people with the plates full of food, the children with their shiny shoes that look like they just came out of the box, and the smiles… These people are acting and they’re no Leonardo DiCaprio. Their smiles don’t reach their eyes.