Total pages in book: 115
Estimated words: 132962 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 665(@200wpm)___ 532(@250wpm)___ 443(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 132962 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 665(@200wpm)___ 532(@250wpm)___ 443(@300wpm)
“It’s there, you just didn’t retain it,” Mitch shot back.
“I don’t miss things.” Connors stared at him in defiance now. Great, boy wonder had an ego.
“You missed that,” Mitch scoffed, meeting his stare and cocking a brow. The expected turbulence hit at that moment, jolting the plane. Another big bump caused the wound-up-tight Tyler Connors to barely save his laptop before the computer hit the cabin floor. Honestly, Mitch was impressed with the guy’s reflexes until another strong jolt hit, bouncing Mitch out of his seat.
“Damn,” Connors swore, clutching his laptop.
“We’re getting a little air turbulence. Please remain seated, with your seat belts fastened,” the pilot announced rather calmly.
“Shit, this sucks,” Connors declared, and Mitch took a good long look at his temporary partner. He was turning green with all the rocking they were doing. Shit, he had a hurler on his hands, motion sickness at its finest. As quickly as he could, he grabbed the laptop while reaching for the vomit bag. To Connors credit, he didn’t hurl until he got the bag open, but the heaving never stopped.
Unfortunately for Connors, the turbulence continued for the rest of the trip. The violent storm raged over eastern Kentucky, causing them to circle the airport, waiting for their turn to land. He stayed sick the entire time, and finally confessed under a shroud of bad vomit breath, that he never flew well. It hadn’t taken long for Mitch’s initial pity to turn to irritation. How could Connors be an FBI agent and not be able to ride in an airplane? Mitch spent half his life flying from one assignment to the next.
By the time they landed, the severe weather threat had ended, but the rain was falling in sheets. Traveling in a private jet had a much different landing and exiting routine than a commercial airline, and Mitch didn’t even have his ball cap to keep him from getting soaked. All he could do was hunker down and let the rain pound him until he was met with an umbrella carried by a driver.
Connors moved slower, not exiting the plane until Mitch was already tucked in tight inside the passenger seat. Mitch hadn’t thought to mention to the driver that there were two of them. He watched as Connors took each step in the pouring rain as the driver scurried to get his wet umbrella from the backseat. Connors was already around to Mitch’s side of the car, soaking wet, motioning him to the backseat.
When Mitch figured out Connors planned to come to his door, he hurriedly locked the car door before Connors could get it open and let the rain inside. After a minute of the guy standing firm, dripping wet and staring down at him, Mitch lowered the window about an inch or so.
“I have motion sickness. I need the front seat,” Connors yelled above the pounding rain. Mitch didn’t ride in the backseat, but he was also sick of watching the guy throw up and whining that little moan he made every time something came up. Shit!
He looked over at the driver. “Who are you in this deal? Who do you work for?”
“I was hired to drive you two to the police impound yard and wherever else you needed to go,” the driver answered.
“Change of plans. You’re in the backseat. I’m driving.”
“Nah, man. This is my personal car,” the driver started to argue, but Mitch gave him no choice as he reached past the driver to open his door for him as he scooted over the center console to avoid getting back out into the heavy rainfall.
“It’ll be fine. I’m a deputy US marshal.” Like that meant anything to this situation, but he pushed against the guy’s hip as Connors got into the passenger seat. On a frustrated string of cuss words, the driver got in the backseat, and seconds later, Mitch sat behind the wheel.
“Don’t fuck up my car,” the driver said irritably.
“Where am I going?” Mitch asked, looking back in the rearview mirror. His phone began a series of vibrations, finally getting enough signal to catch up on everything he’d missed while in the air. Mitch ignored them as he put the car in drive. The driver leaned forward, pointing to the center of the dashboard.
“The address is programmed in there. Hit the volume on the right. I keep it turned down.” Mitch focused on driving, and Connors began working the GPS.
“No, man, your other right.” The driver said as Connors started pushing the wrong buttons. “Damn, man, you recalculated the trip.”
“He’s FBI, they don’t make enough to afford nice cars like these,” Mitch tossed out, laughing as Connors grunted and leaned his head back against the headrest, holding his stomach, clearly still recuperating.
“I’ll just tell you where to go. Take a right at the entrance of the airport,” the driver said. Using the back of Mitch’s seat, he pulled himself forward and began reworking the address into the GPS. Mitch laughed again when he caught the very clear what the hell look he gave Connors as he sat back.
Luckily, the rain let up the farther they got out of town. Mitch pulled into the police impound, right up to the front of the chain link fence, and parked. He got out, surveyed the yard, and recognized Kreed’s booted feet sticking out from under what looked to be a severely burned shell of a small car located inside a single car garage.
Mitch never looked back at Connors as he went through the steps of showing his badge and gaining entrance into the secured facility. From what Mitch could see, it was an incredible escape by the Greyson kid. That reality hardened Mitch’s resolve. He hunched down by Kreed’s boots, everything else forgotten. Kreed shoved himself out from under the mangled car, dirt and soot covering his clothing. He held Mitch’s same intense look and didn’t waste time on greetings.
“It’s a well-constructed vehicle IED. No clear trigger visible, except there had to be a trigger from underneath and it was set purposefully for one death. It’s wired for a remote detonation. The size and placement are foreign styles. I saw this in Iraq and Afghanistan. We don’t do it like this in the United States. We fill our shit up for anyone to see. It’s a completely different style than Bennett’s. Whoever did this is well-trained,” Kreed said, picking up a rag and trying to wipe the dirt from his hands.