Total pages in book: 86
Estimated words: 83519 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 418(@200wpm)___ 334(@250wpm)___ 278(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 83519 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 418(@200wpm)___ 334(@250wpm)___ 278(@300wpm)
“Angel Guerra.” The man I became the day my mother was taught her final lesson.
His fingers fly over the keyboard, and it only takes a second for his eyes to lift back to mine, brow scrunched.
“As I was say—”
I clamp my jaw closed, and I take a deep breath to calm the irritation forming in my gut when a knock at the door echoes in the room.
The door is opened by the same guy who held the man back who wants my head on a spike.
“This is club business,” Kincaid hisses, and the door is immediately snapped closed.
Without even seeing her, I know it was Lauren Vos who knocked on that fucking door. The woman plays her parts very well.
In El Salvador, she was the perfect victim, acting scared around the men, assuring the women they would be fine when no one was watching. She didn’t hesitate to insert herself in both mine and Thumper’s way once it was disclosed that she was also working a case and the house in El Salvador was her way of getting to whatever location she was ultimately aiming for.
I am surprised that another knock doesn’t sound throughout the room, that she doesn’t barge in here and demand to be involved.
Her presence here throws me off a little, but I do my best to remain stoic. I’m the cat walking along the fence that’s keeping a pack of wild dogs at bay. I’d be a fool to think any different. I’m good at my job but being cocky and overconfident will cause problems. I knew I wouldn’t be welcome here, but I have a problem in my truck I’m not going to deal with on my own.
“You were dead,” Thumper says again as if he can’t believe that I’m in the room with him.
He hugged me when I first arrived, but as he looks at me now, it’s not with relief.
That job wasn’t my last job, and his teammate glaring at me right now, sucking in rapid breaths, is proof of that. I doubt he can reconcile the two.
I fucking blame Lauren for that as well.
I was a dark and dangerous man before El Salvador, but being left for dead and subsequently held captive myself because she couldn’t be bothered to press her fingers to my throat to check for a pulse turned me into the monster I am today.
Before, I’d make sure that undue stress wasn’t suffered by the women in my care.
Before Lauren Vos discarded me like trash, I was ready to kill Thumper for what I thought he did to her.
I operated under the guise that broken women don’t bring as much money before finding out he was FBI. I knew I couldn’t always stop the abuse. I knew they’d endure more once they were sold, but I never wanted to bear witness to it. Out of sight, out of mind kept me from fucking up my own jobs.
I’m different now.
Now the paycheck is all that matters.
I no longer look out for others because there’s no one looking out for me.
I’m not some goddamned martyr.
I shove all that shit down and lift my chin another inch, my dark eyes scanning the room.
I knew what coming here meant. I knew Cerberus thought I was dead. I knew Lauren thought the same thing. I just never thought she’d be here.
I pictured her dead herself, carved up by some sick fuck, because as much as she liked to pretend to be the victim, that fucking mouth of hers always got the best of her.
“Takes more than two to the chest to get rid of me,” I tell Thumper before turning my attention back to the leader of the group.
It’s a warning for all of them. I’m not easy to kill, and I’ll pop up and invade at any given fucking time.
Be warned, motherfuckers.
“Can someone start from the top for those of us who have no fucking clue what’s going on?” a guy to my right asks.
The club president runs both hands over his slick bald head before answering. “Angel is a mercenary that was on the same job that Thumper was on when he worked for the FBI. Traffickers showed up, shot Angel, and took Thumper. It was revenge for the death of another trafficker. Thumper killed one of the guys who raped one of the women in his care. The brother wasn’t happy about it.”
That has to be the simplest explanation to so much tragedy, bloodshed, and torture I’ve ever heard.
It’s succinct. I like it.
“I’m working a case,” I say.
“Earning a paycheck,” the angry man counters, making me wonder just how much control this man has over the group.
I don’t even bother looking toward the other man. He isn’t wrong. Money is the only thing that feeds me. It’s the only thing that keeps the real demons at bay.