Total pages in book: 58
Estimated words: 55375 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 277(@200wpm)___ 222(@250wpm)___ 185(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 55375 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 277(@200wpm)___ 222(@250wpm)___ 185(@300wpm)
“There’s a safe room at the rear of the property,” I tell her. “I’ll take you there. You’ll need to wait there with Rusty until I come back. If I don’t—”
“Jacob.”
“If I don’t,” I growl, “somebody will collect you in twenty-four hours. You’ll have enough supplies, but don’t worry.” I melt again, filling with fire. It’s so difficult to stay cold when I’m close to her. “I won’t let anything keep me away from you. Ever. I refuse to let that happen.”
She pulls herself against me one last time before I have to leave her, and we kiss. It’s deep. It’s passionate. We’re trapped in the kiss until my tablet gives another alert. It’s time to go to work.
CHAPTER SEVENTEEN
PETER
Cleaver hammers the big metal door as if it’s going to cave in. It sounds thick and heavy. I knew something was up the second we walked in here. It looks like a remote cottage from the outside, but the moment we busted through the door—this is the address Cleaver’s Mexican associate gave him—I saw we were fucked. The inside was gutted. Then, all the windows and doors slammed closed with metal shutters. A soft red light fills the room.
“Motherfucker,” Cleaver grumbles, kicking the door.
He was so cool when I was younger, around fifteen or sixteen. Cleaver. What a badass name. I thought it was awesome how he let me do blow and other shit with him. It was so much better than being at home and being Dad’s punching bag. When Cleaver broke my dad’s nose, I left with him and never looked back. Maybe I’m getting more mature, but Cleaver seems a little pathetic lately.
Six feet tall but strung out, not as bulky as he once was, his eyes bloodshot. He kicks the door and then falls back, his mop of black hair falling across his eyes.
“Fuck.”
“I think it’s locked,” I say dryly, tossing my gun from one hand to the other.
“You think, Petey?” he snaps.
Petey. I used to like it when he called me that, too. It made him seem almost like a father figure, but that was a mistake. I’ve been trying to get sober lately, get off that filth, and he’s been making fun of me. Mocking me for trying to do better with my life. What sort of so-called father figure does that?
“What is this shit?” Cleaver grunts, turning around the gutted red-lit room.
“I don’t know. It’s a trap, clearly, but other than that… What did your friend say?”
“There would be two men and a woman. We were supposed to hit them hard and fast before they could react. That was really important. He said some fella called Rafael wanted it slow, but the Cartel wanted it fast, so we do it fast.”
“The Cartel?” I snap. “That’s way over our pay grade.”
He pouts. “That’s you being small-minded. Have some goddamn vision.”
Cleaver thinks naming himself after a butcher’s tool and cooking meth in his aunt’s RV makes him dangerous and cool. I used to believe that, too.
“So we have no idea who this person is,” I say.
“No,” Cleaver grunts. “The only thing for us to do is to wait for these doors to open, then go at him with everything we have.”
“Jesus Christ,” I snap. “That’s not much of a plan.”
“It’s all we’ve got now,” Cleaver hisses.
“Who is this Cartel contact, then? How did you meet him?”
“On the forums.”
I cringe, hating the way he phrases it on the forums. That’s something else I’ve tried to bury, something I can’t ignore. I caught him on his laptop once. My hand clenches into a fist. Beaten as a kid, and then, this so-called father figure turns out to be… That’s where he met his contact—the forums.
“Don’t even mention them,” I snap.
Cleaver usually wouldn’t let me talk to him like that, but now, he glances away. The sick bastard. Or am I the sick one for not doing something about it?
“You think you’re some brand new coin, Petey? Newly minted, is that it?”
Cleaver likes to talk high and mighty like this. He thinks it makes him impressive. “I’ve dealt some shit and done some shit. I’ve been hurt and hurt people, but not that.”
“Don’t criticize a man’s pastime.”
Suddenly, my vision starts to blur. My balance begins to rock from side to side as if the world is trying to topple me over. That’s a good thing for Cleaver because I was about to shoot him to shut him the hell up. I’m sick of this life and of being nobody. I’m sick of earning my living by doing stuff like this.
When I peel open my eyes, I’m tied to a chair, sitting opposite Cleaver. He’s tied up too, shirtless, hands behind his back, and blood streaked down his chest. He’s got wide, terrified eyes, looking behind me. My hazy mind catches up to what’s happening. The bogeyman, whoever sprung this trap, is right behind me.