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)
“You’re awake,” he says, walking into view, a tall, broad unit of a man. He’s older with salt-and-pepper hair, but he looks cold and tough. He looks like he could be in the NFL. He sighs, tossing a bloody hammer to the floor. “Your friend has already given me the information I need: the name of the Cartel goon who set him on me and my family.”
He says family like he’s ready to tear us to pieces with his bare hands. Before this moment, I thought I’d been around dangerous men. Men like Cleaver and the other dealers, but I was wrong. This is truly a dangerous man. He makes Cleaver look like a child.
Walking over to me, he kneels, staring directly into my eyes. His eyes are a pale green shade that is haunting somehow. “Peter McCauley,” the man says. “You’ve had a hard time of it, haven’t you? I get it. My folks weren’t great, either. It’s easy to think men like him are the answer.”
“How do you know my name?” I ask.
“Your wallet,” he says.
“But, no, who I am. Not my name.” I shake my head, trying to clear it. “About my folks.”
“Did a quick background check. From your father’s series of arrests, it was easy enough to put it together. I’ve seen this dynamic before. Listen, kid, there’s only one way you get out of this. You have to be honest with me.”
Behind him, Cleaver moans, but the man leans forward, staring at me with an almost fatherly aura around him. “Do you understand?”
“Yes,” I whisper.
“Not one goddamn lie, understand?”
“Yes.”
Cleaver moans again, and the man turns, grabs some tape from his pocket, and wraps it layer after layer around Cleaver’s mouth and head. Then he returns to me, sighing. “Have you ever killed anybody?” the man asks.
“No,” I say.
“Have you ever assaulted anybody?”
“I’ve been in fights.”
“Was anybody seriously injured?”
“No.”
“But you’re a drug dealer?”
“Yes,” I say, feeling compelled to tell him the truth. Lying to him would be like lying to the devil. His aura is downright terrifying. “But I only ever wanted to survive. I didn’t want to hurt anybody. I just want… something. Something else.” I swallow, tears springing to my eyes. I never realized how badly I didn’t want to die until now.
“Then tell me this.” The man points at Cleaver. “Do you know what kind of monster he is?”
I almost lie, but the man’s unflinching eyes won’t let me. He stares brutally, leaving me no option except to tell the truth. “Yes.”
“How long have you known?”
“Recently.”
“Be specific.”
“This month.”
The man grinds his teeth.
“I was going to kill him,” I say, and Cleaver moans from behind him, muffled by the tape. “Right when you gassed us… I was thinking about it. I feel trapped. Please. I don’t want to die.”
“Peter McCauley.” The man leans forward. “If I let you leave here alive, what will you do?”
“Stay clean,” I tell him, “and do something worthwhile with my life.” I’m finding it difficult to speak. I’ve never been in the presence of anybody more frightening. He’s like a force of nature.
“Are you ready to kill this perverted sonofabitch?” the man snaps.
“Yes,” I tell him. “I’ll do it.”
The man looks at me for a long time. It’s like he’s staring into my soul. Finally, he stands, reaching into his pocket and taking out a pistol. “I’m going to keep tabs on you for the next few years, Peter,” the man says, casually cocking the pistol as Cleaver starts to shift and moan in the chair. My mind flashes to what I saw on his laptop. Cleaver was never my father figure. In a fucked-up way, this man is. At least, I think my life would’ve been better if I’d had a figure like him.
“It leaves a mark on a man,” he says, “even if the bastard deserves it. You can do better, Peter. I’m giving you a second chance. Make something of your life.”
He pulls the trigger, the gunshot blinding me, my ears ringing from the closeness. Then he marches over to me, grabs a black bag, and puts it over my head.
“Count to one thousand, then leave this life behind. No more drugs. No more dealing.”
“I swear.” I’m panting, a fight-or-flight instinct trying to take me over, the gunshot still ringing through my mind. “I will.”
“If you don’t, you’ll be seeing me again.”
A shiver of pure dread runs through me at that. I count to myself: one, two, three, promising myself I’ll do better; four, five, six, promising I’ll make a positive impact; seven, eight, nine, so I never have to see him again. The devil without a name. Cleaver. What a joke. He was never powerful. From now on—ten, eleven, twelve—whenever I’m tempted to take the easy path, I’ll think of him. I’ll think of the gunshot. I’ll think of how badly things could’ve ended up.