Total pages in book: 159
Estimated words: 161434 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 807(@200wpm)___ 646(@250wpm)___ 538(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 161434 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 807(@200wpm)___ 646(@250wpm)___ 538(@300wpm)
Will stands in front of his truck, nervously peering from side to side like he’s on watch. The untrained eye wouldn’t notice, but I watched Iranian special forces doing the same thing on satellite streams plenty of times, never knowing they were about to have a submarine-launched drone up their ass.
Just like the Iranians guarding their black ops, Frisk doesn’t know he’s being watched like a hawk.
The guys go back inside the warehouse. Will looks around one more time, nods to himself, and gets back in his pickup, stubbing out a cigarette with his boot.
That’s my cue. I hang the hose up and hop back in the SUV. I expect him to head back to the Winthrope worksite. He’s on the manifest for the whole day.
He doesn’t turn around, though, and keeps driving instead.
A few miles down the road, he pulls into a tobacco shop.
I sit in the turning lane until he’s out of his car and inside the store before I swing into the parking lot. I hop out of the SUV, open my trunk, and grab the tire iron.
Slipping the flat end under his trunk, I pop it open and cut across the tape on the top of the first box, wrestling it open.
Towels? They’re hotel quality, neatly stacked and imprinted with swirly patterns along the sides.
What the fuck? Frisk was awfully nervous for a guy loading towels into his trunk.
There has to be more to this.
Throwing caution aside, I start digging. It takes several rows before I hit something harder toward the bottom, grabbing what feels like a block of cheese.
I frown. When my hand comes up holding it, my jaw nearly hits the fucking floor.
It’s one of at least twenty white cocaine bricks holding the towels up. I move the next towel to find the same thing.
Fucking yikes.
Dumbest lowlifes ever.
I don’t have time to contemplate how easily they’d get busted at the slightest police search—or even if this kind of sloppy, half-baked bullshit is what got Abby into so much trouble.
I’m also willing to bet each of the boxes contains a line of towels or some other innocuous product being held up by stacks of blow wrapped in plastic.
I pull out my phone and take several quick photos, then clip a GPS tracker to the edge of his floor mat. I bought it for this reason.
Frisk and his drama end here.
He’ll come clean so Abby Halle walks free and gets her happy ending along with Reese. I just need hard evidence to seal the deal.
Moving swiftly, I stuff a brick of coke into my pocket for evidence. A backup in case Frisk and his associates manage to dispose of their cargo before I can tip off the authorities.
My phone pings, indicating the app attached to the GPS tracker is doing its thing.
It’s almost too perfect. Too easy.
I’ll be able to let the police know where he’s going and when he gets there.
Hastily, I rearrange the towels back into place, just enough to look natural. Nothing to be done about the cut tape, but with the sloppy job they’re doing, the box popping open on its own should be plausible.
If it makes him suspicious, tough shit.
I close his trunk, get back in my car, and drop the tire iron in the passenger seat.
Pulling out of the parking lot, it occurs to me I’m part-dumbass, operating on pure anger.
Swiping that brick wasn’t the smartest move.
Getting my prints all over a box of cocaine bricks and taking one for the road also doesn’t fall under brilliant moments in the life of Nick Brandt.
Fuck. But we need evidence, and I needed to get the hell out of there before Will returned to his truck.
My eyes flick to my mirrors. The same red pickup truck has been trailing me, up my ass for ten solid minutes.
My jaw clenches. Either I’m paranoid or I wasn’t as sneaky as I thought.
I swerve into a back alley to find out which is true.
The red pickup truck turns on my tail.
I pull up to keep from being rear-ended. The alley is too narrow to slip by a stalled vehicle, and backing up means sliding into a four-lane street. He could follow me home.
Whatever I’ve gotten into, I can’t bring it home to Reese and Millie. Better to confront him where he can’t back away.
We’re going to get this shit over with here and now.
I kill the engine and look back. I count one head in the truck behind me, but the windows are so tinted it doesn’t mean the driver’s alone.
With no plans to cower in my SUV, I glance at the tire iron next to me.
Should I take it with me?
I decide it’s too obvious and shove a pen in my pocket instead, a fancy metallic one Grandma gave the entire office last Christmas. It’s pathetic as far as weapons go, but I can put enough force behind it to cripple, if need be.