Total pages in book: 99
Estimated words: 96121 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 481(@200wpm)___ 384(@250wpm)___ 320(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 96121 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 481(@200wpm)___ 384(@250wpm)___ 320(@300wpm)
He’d passed sign after sign warning his ass not to proceed further. But he had a job to do and green to make. And a Ruger tucked in his waistband at the small of his back.
When he hit the first clearing close to the top of the mountain, he was shocked at what he found. A whole fucking compound of shacks and buildings, junk cars, and just junk in general. It looked like whoever lived there didn’t get rid of anything just in case they could use it in the future.
Like doomsday preppers.
Stella had mentioned the people living up on the mountain made moonshine and other shit. While he was there, if he ran into any of them, he planned on negotiating a deal.
But, for fuck’s sake, when he did run into them—when they heard his wrecker pulling up to the car he was supposed to yank—they all came out of the woodwork like a bunch of angry hornets, not only swarming his truck, but carrying shit like shotguns, AR’s, and clubs.
Not only did Trip’s asshole pucker at that sight, his brain screamed at him to get the fuck out of there.
He quickly smashed the clutch in, shoved the wrecker in reverse, and, grinding the gears, did a crazy K-turn to head back down the mountain as fast as the fucking truck could handle the ruts and holes.
However, as he was trying to escape, he not only heard the shots, he almost felt them as they struck the wrecker. Stupid thought at the time: he was glad he hadn’t spent the money yet on the body work. That relief quickly disappeared when the back window of the cab exploded behind him, covering him with shattered glass.
“Jesus fuckin’ Christ!”
If he hadn’t needed both hands to not only steer but to shift, he’d be holding onto his balls, so they didn’t roll down the mountain faster than the wrecker in their panic to escape.
Fuck them. They weren’t going anywhere without him.
In his need to flee, he also hit a rut so deep he bounced off the seat and his head cracked the roof of the cab.
“Fuckin’ motherfucker!” he shouted over the pinging of metal upon metal, still staying low, only keeping his head up enough to see where the fuck he was going. It would suck if he wrecked into one of the many trees that closely lined the treacherous mountain road. Then he’d have to abandon ship and hoof it out of the scene from Deliverance on foot.
And he certainly didn’t want to feel buckshot in his ass, or anywhere else for that matter.
His heart was racing, and his fingers soldered to the steering wheel as he finally hit the bottom of the mountain, the truck’s heavy-duty, but ancient, coil springs sounding ready to snap. He lifted his head enough to glance in the rearview mirror.
The lane behind him was empty.
For now.
He swore the wrecker took the left turn back onto Copperhead Road on two wheels and he almost went headfirst through the windshield when he slammed on both the brake pedal and the clutch. The tires locked up and the brake drums smoked as he came to a sliding stop. Only a couple feet from a black-and-white.
Leaning against that cruiser was a cop with both his arms and ankles crossed as he shook his head. He uncrossed one arm just to point at Trip through the windshield and then point to the dirt pull-off in front of the pig transporter.
He glanced in the rearview again. His options: deal with gun-totin’ hillbillies or deal with a gun-totin’ porker.
Oink. Oink.
He sighed, grumbled a “fuck” under his breath and shoved the wrecker into first gear, steering around the cop and parking it in the narrow pull-off.
He slipped his hand under his cut and into his waistband, pulling out his .40 and sliding it under his clipboard and paperwork that sat on the seat next to him. The whole time he’d kept his eyes on the pig using the side mirror. He wasn’t allowed to own or carry a gun, and he didn’t need the asshole in uniform reminding him of that in a way that might cause a bit of pain. For Trip, not the cop.
The cop remained next to his vehicle, but he’d turned enough to face the truck, his feet now spread wide, his hands on his hips, one way too close to his service weapon.
Great.
Two cops in one day was two too many.
“Any time now,” he heard through broken rear window.
Trip set his jaw, shoved the truck’s door open, and climbed down.
“Don’t forget your license, insurance and registration. As well as your repo license and, while you’re grabbing all that, make sure I can see your fucking hands the whole time.”
Which would be impossible. “Not askin’ for much.”
“Not asking for a conversation about it, either.”