Total pages in book: 109
Estimated words: 103719 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 519(@200wpm)___ 415(@250wpm)___ 346(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 103719 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 519(@200wpm)___ 415(@250wpm)___ 346(@300wpm)
It was like staring at an image of a son he’d never have: He felt like he’d aged an entire generation since the bureau had provided him with the fake ID.
Splitting the wallet’s interior slot wide, he said, “Oh, I’m rich. Two twenties.”
Going back into the drawer, he patted around the socks and underwear—until he was shoving what felt like half his arm into the space—and that was when he felt the key. The slip of metal was smooth and cool as he took it out, and as he put the motorcycle’s magic wand on his palm, he took a deep breath. Then he looked out toward the bedroom and thought about the guard who had been killed. And the fact that Lydia was refusing to stay inside.
He respected the confidence in herself, he really did.
It also made him nauseated with fear.
Two minutes later, he was pulling his leather jacket on, shoving his wallet into the ass of his too-baggy pants, and tucking a gun into an inside pocket by his chest wall. When he checked the rest of what he had in the coat—
He found a pack of Marlboros.
It was like getting pummeled from behind, and he even weaved on his numb feet.
Staring at the cigarettes’ eye-catching red-and-white label, with its iconic lettering, he was filled with a piercing regret—and the emotion found expression as he crushed the pack in his fist.
He tossed the ruined mess in the wastepaper basket on the way to the door.
Down at the kitchen, he grabbed a bagel to go that was set out on the sideboard in the little dining room, and then went into the kitchen, following a fast chopping sound that made him wonder if Chef was having a seizure. Sure enough, the guy was bouncing a knife on a cutting board like the thing had cast aspersions on his manhood.
“Is C.P. around?” Daniel asked.
“Do I look like her secretary?” The man glared over the scallions he was slicing. “And no, she’s gone. Said she would be back tonight or tomorrow.”
“Okay. Thanks.” The grunt he got in return was like a fuck-you left in the holster of the throat. “Listen, did Lydia have breakfast?”
As Chef looked up, Daniel held his palm out, all whoa-Nelly style. “Yeah, I know you’re not her secretary, either.”
“No, she didn’t have breakfast. She took a traveler of coffee with her.”
“Cool. Thanks.”
Another grunt. And Daniel turned away because he was not ready to have that knife trained on him.
Back in the little dining room, he packed up a second bagel in a napkin and took a couple of the mini-tubs of cream cheese from the basket of jams and spreads. Then he stole a sterling silver knife.
“Borrowed it,” he corrected under his breath as he left.
At the front door, he gave the security camera a little wave—and sure enough, the lock was sprung for him. As he stepped outside, he told himself he was glad the house was so tight—but then he looked over the lawn to where the body of that guard had lain.
And felt like they were all sitting ducks.
Down at the garage, he entered through the side door and then squared off at his Harley. He wished he could check in with Gus about what he was contemplating, but the guy hadn’t returned the call he’d made late last night—and honestly, his motivation for such a touch-base, outside of an I’m-really-going-to-miss-you, was bullshit. No one, not even his (former) oncologist, could tell him whether he was going to have enough energy to drive into town on his bike—or whether he was going to wrap himself around a tree on the way there.
Or get shot by someone. Anyone.
Maybe his old boss.
After Daniel hit the door opener, he threw a leg over his bike—and kept thinking about that mechanized soldier. He wouldn’t put it past Blade to have created subordinates that were automated. The control-freak fucker would appreciate the utter lack of insubordination—and it would explain why those hellish creations kept showing up wherever the operatives who worked for the guy were.
Then again, maybe they were a third party.
Either way, he’d never trusted his boss.
Putting the key in the ignition, he wondered whether the Harley was going to start. He wondered if he was going to remember how to shift. He wondered whether he was going to have the strength required to drive it at all. He wondered—
Started on a dime. With just one jam of his leg.
And then he was leveling the Harley on its tires, kicking free the stand, and revving the engine. The smell of gas and oil brought tears to his eyes, and so did the sound of the RPMs rising and falling.
Easing things into first gear, he was petrified, like he was an eleven-year-old taking something of his dad’s.
But oh… you never forgot how to ride a bike.