Total pages in book: 123
Estimated words: 116708 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 584(@200wpm)___ 467(@250wpm)___ 389(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 116708 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 584(@200wpm)___ 467(@250wpm)___ 389(@300wpm)
“Unfortunately, I’m not a prisoner of war, so that doesn’t apply to me. But I’m in no mood to listen to your cherry-ass wax poetic about a ribeye while he’s choking down cold chili mac.”
I shrugged. “Fine. Suit yourself. I just figured, with it being tradition and all, we wouldn’t want any bad juju right before we get out of here.”
He stared at me for a long second, his jaw ticking at the hinges. None of us were sure if it was OCD or superstition with him, but he was a staunch creature of habit. With a suffering sigh, he crossed his monster forearms over his chest. “Just fucking get it over with.”
His window of his patience would be short, so I rushed out with, “A burger from The Grille.”
His dark brows climbed his forehead, while Nutz and Steve-O let out a groan.
“Like a backyard grill?” Skytrash asked.
Nutz beat me to the response. “No. It’s a grease pit that asshole swore had the best burger on the East Coast. Talked about it nonstop for weeks. Over a long weekend, he convinced me and Steve-O to road-trip it back home with him so we could experience it too. We drove ten hours, refusing to eat anything to save room for this godly burger.”
“Let me guess, it was a frozen patty?” Skytrash deadpanned.
“We don’t know,” Nutz continued. “This idiot didn’t bother to call home or, say, check the Jersey weather in the middle of January before we left. By the time we got there, a huge winter storm had taken out The Grille’s power, so while they were still open, they couldn’t cook anything. Essentially, we drove twenty-plus hours round trip for a club sandwich and a bag of chips.”
That was all mostly true. The burger at The Grille was fucking amazing. They were so addictive I’m pretty sure old man Branning laced them with narcotics. Though I’d yet to piss hot on a drug test, so maybe not. Mainly, I’d just needed to get home that weekend and wanted a little company for the drive. With the storm approaching, I’d worried about my mom’s ancient generator being able to keep the house warm. It wasn’t my fault they were gullible. I mean seriously, who the hell drove ten hours for a burger?
“You two can talk all the shit you want, but it was a damn good club sandwich,” I lied.
“What do you expect? We were starving. I’d have eaten S’arnt’s biohazardous tuna at that point,” Steve-O shot back. “It didn’t even have the bacon on it. That is literally the only ingredient that upgrades dry-ass ham and turkey to club level.”
I waved them off. “Ah, quit your bitching. You should be thanking me. That was a damn good trip. Minus Steve-O’s shitty-ass music.”
Nutz scoffed, but Steve-O was quiet.
Eerily quiet.
Too quiet.
The hair on the back of my neck stood on end as the whole room went on alert.
“Whatcha got?” S’arnt asked.
“I’m not”—he paused—“sure exactly. Hey, Cherry, this guy one of your regulars?”
“The guy with the dog?” I asked. Snagging my binoculars, I went and stood next to Nutz so I didn’t crowd the rifle. “Yeah, that’s him. He walks his dog every day at thirteen thirty. Cleans up his shit and everything.”
“He usually got a phone open like that?”
The air in the room went static. Not that I needed oxygen as I zoomed in on his hand. My stomach wrenched as I saw the camera on the phone peeking through his sprawled fingers.
Aimed directly at us.
“Oh, fuck,” I breathed.
“S’arnt!” Nutz called, louder than we’d spoken in days. “We got a black sedan coming in hot from the southeast.”
“Oh, fuck,” I repeated as all the puzzle pieces in my head snapped into place, each one feeling like a rusty dagger carving my soul.
The phone.
His timing, right at shift change and the only time we were all in the room together.
Cleaning up after his dog so he could linger to take pictures.
Clearly, we hadn’t been the only ones running surveillance.
And somehow, I’d completely missed it.
“West!” S’arnt barked. Not Cherry. West. “Get on the sat phone with the TOC. Tell ’em we’ve got a black sedan traveling at a high rate of speed in our direction, and stand by until I can get a count of occupants and weapons.”
“Roger, S’arnt.” Adrenaline rocketed inside me as I raced from the room. My heavy footfalls echoed as I ran into the bedroom across the hall and snatched up the satellite phone. I spoke with an urgency, sharing the pertinent details, but I had no idea what I was saying.
My training had taken over as if the Army had installed an autopilot inside me, but my mind was a million miles away.
How had I missed the phone?
How the fuck had I missed him carrying a goddamn phone?
I’d never doubted my abilities as a soldier before, but after that, I’d never be able to trust myself again.