Total pages in book: 78
Estimated words: 76309 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 382(@200wpm)___ 305(@250wpm)___ 254(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 76309 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 382(@200wpm)___ 305(@250wpm)___ 254(@300wpm)
“You saw my corpse burrito. You think that’s the best I can do?”
His smile sharpens. “I can’t wait to see how far you’ll go then.”
Chapter 18
Renata
Nerves jangle into my guts as I walk across the park. It’s chilly. I shove my hands into the pockets of my black zip-up hoodie, glancing around for a familiar face.
I keep picturing Burian. His bald head. Those dark, intense eyes. I imagine him jumping out from behind a tree with a gun and a scowl, ready to blow my skull to bits.
Instead, an old lady walking two yappy white dogs ambles past, barely keeping her little ankle-biters from trying to chew on my sneakers.
Lanzo’s somewhere nearby. Hidden, he says. I didn’t press him on the details. I feel exposed, watched, as I hurry down the path toward the bench.
The instructions are simple: gather the package and deliver it to the target. I don’t know what I’m transporting, but I’m guessing it won’t be good. Something illegal. Drugs, weapons. Something worse. I can’t begin to imagine.
There’s a bigger game happening. A dead FBI agent. A Russian assassin. If what Lanzo said is true, and Burian only ever leaves his home country for huge jobs, then more people are going to die before this is over.
I come around a bend and spot the bench up ahead. Per the text, it’s directly across from a street light, sandwiched between a drinking fountain and a huge oak tree. I slow, staring all around, not bothering to hide it. I keep reminding myself that if I were doing this for real, I’d still be paranoid as hell.
Nobody jumps out. No killers, no thugs, no spooky ghosts. I reach the bench and kneel down, my heart racing.
I find a box underneath.
It’s surprisingly small and lightweight. Something rattles around inside, something dull and lightweight. I frown, listening, but don’t hear anything. It smells faintly like metal.
The label at the top lists a house in a quiet, more suburban section of the city, out on the outskirts.
I hurry away. No reason to linger. Lanzo’s instructions play through my head in a loop. I cut through some trees, beeline toward the playground, skirt the swing set, and run back to the path. After taking a big, winding route, I finally leave the park and find my car against the curb. My hands are sweating when I climb behind the wheel.
“You got it?”
I yelp and jump, whirling around. Lanzo’s lying on the back seat, grinning at me. He’s in all black with his phone in his face. He gives me a little wave.
“Fucking holy shitting hell, you mother—”
“Easy there,” he says, putting a finger to his lips. “He’s watching, remember? Turn around and get moving.”
I clench my jaw, heart racing like it’s going to explode through my chest. “You could’ve told me you’d be in the car.”
“And ruin the surprise? You clearly don’t know me at all.”
“I wish I didn’t,” I mutter, starting the engine and pulling out. I’m trembling and have to concentrate to make sure I don’t get into an accident.
“Where’s the next location?” he asks. “Toss the box back here. Make it look casual.”
I do as he says, aiming for his face. His curse makes me smile.
“It’s not far,” I tell him, craning my neck to check the rearview. I keep thinking I can spot someone following me, but if Burian is as good as Lanzo claims, I doubt that’s true.
“You’re right. I put it into my GPS.” The robot lady voice spits directions into the car. “What do you think’s inside?”
“No clue.” I make a left, driving a little faster. “Think he’s still watching?”
“We’re probably good now.” He grunts and climbs up into the passenger side seat. The box remains in his lap. “Public records indicate a Mr. Craig Hicks lives at our destination.”
“That name mean anything to you?”
“Cursory search brings up nothing.” He taps harder at the screen. “Which is unusual.”
“Is there anything usual about all this?”
“People typically have footprints,” he says, ignoring my sarcasm. “Digital markers. Social media accounts. Posts on forums. Whatever. Once you know how to look, it’s pretty easy to dig stuff up.”
“Creepy.” I crane my neck, reading street signs. “This is a nice neighborhood. What’s the Russian assassin want with someone that lives out here?”
“No clue, but if I had to guess, it’s related to our dead Peirce.”
“Craig and Peirce. Those are FBI agent names if I’ve ever heard one.”
He grins at me, eyes narrowed. “You sound strangely calm right now.”
“Oh, I’m freaking the hell out, but chatting with you is distracting me.”
“You know what else would distract you?” He puts his hand on my thigh.
“My god, absolutely not.” I swat him away. “Didn’t you say Burian’s watching?”
“Not right now, and besides, maybe you’re an exhibitionist? I could get into some very freaky things if it made you happy.”