Total pages in book: 107
Estimated words: 98561 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 493(@200wpm)___ 394(@250wpm)___ 329(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 98561 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 493(@200wpm)___ 394(@250wpm)___ 329(@300wpm)
He kissed her one last time, then released her. They murmured some things in low voices that I couldn’t hear and she wrote something on his hand. Then he opened the trunk of his car and took out a bicycle, and she hopped onto it and pedaled off, heading out of town. The man grinned to himself as he watched her go, then turned to us and leaned back against his car. “Let me guess,” he said. “Two more for O’Harra’s Irregulars?”
Now I knew why he matched the car so well. His accent was British. London, but not the London of gleaming skyscrapers and exclusive restaurants. This was the London where men fought bare-knuckle for money in the cellars of pubs, where market traders hawked not-quite legal goods, where tight-knit communities hung on through all the bombs Hitler could drop on them and then demanded is that all you’ve got?
He strolled over, crouched and gave Rufus an expert scratch behind the ears. “Alright, boy?” Rufus pounded the ground with his paw in approval.
“Danny,” the man told us as he stood.
He had black hair, just long enough to be tousled, and bottle-green eyes. I liked him immediately: he was completely unpretentious. I looked down at his hand where a phone number was scrawled in blue ink. I nodded in the direction the woman had cycled off. “How long had you known her?”
Danny considered. “‘Bout four and a half minutes. She pulled up next to me at the traffic lights and started giving me an earful about how my car was killing the planet.” He grinned. “So I offered to show her what a V8 could do.”
I could see him working through Mount Mercy’s entire female population, with his cocky charm and that accent. Cal must have had the same thought because he put a possessive hand on Bethany’s back as they introduced themselves. Then Bethany kissed Cal goodbye and headed back into the trees. I guessed she and Cal lived not too far away.
We wandered across the street and I cautiously pushed open the door. Whoah.
The place had been a factory, once. There was a big open area with marks on the floor where huge machines used to sit, doors off to what must have been workshops, big wooden workbenches and an upper level that I guessed used to be offices. At least half the windows were broken and the floor was covered in dust, dirt, and discarded beer cans from when kids had hung out here. “What is this place?” I asked aloud.
Kian appeared out of the shadows. “Our base,” he told me. “We’ve got to have a place to plan, store our gear, and train. This place’ll be perfect.” He nudged a broken bottle aside with the toe of his polished shoe. “C’mon, use your imagination.”
A pigeon, startled by the bottle, flapped noisily into the air. We all followed it with our eyes as it flew out through a car-sized hole in the roof. “Not sure my imagination’s that good,” I muttered.
Kian bristled. “When I bought the place, I thought we’d have another six months before we needed it.”
I put my hands up placatingly: fair point.
Kian beckoned someone from the shadows. The guy who stepped forward was the most solidly built guy I’d ever seen: there wasn’t an ounce of fat on him but he was wide, a walking wall of muscle. He must have weighed two hundred and fifty pounds, even though he was about the same height as me. He had a thick black beard and a Ranger dagger was tattooed across one huge bicep. He was wearing a rock band tank top and he could have passed for a roadie at a gig, or a biker at some outlaw meet. But there was something he reminded me of even more. He stooped very slightly when he moved, his knees bent, and I’d seen that quirk before, in guys who’ve wrestled: he was so used to keeping his center of gravity low that he did it all the time. He was like a bear, huge and shambling and almost sweet, but I bet he’d be unstoppable if he ran at you.
“This is Colton,” Kian told us. “Part-times as a bounty hunter. He’s our close combat and prisoner transportation specialist.”
“That’s a fancy way of saying I hit people and slap cuffs on ‘em,” said Colton. His voice was a low growl with a definite southern twang: Missouri, maybe.
Kian turned and nodded to someone else. The guy who stepped forward couldn’t have been more different to Colton. While Colton was hulking and wide, this guy was stripped down and lean, a panther next to Colton’s bear. While Colton was slow and even a little awkward, this guy moved with silent grace: he seemed to flow between the shadows without making a sound. And while Colton was distinctive, with his beard and his accent and his rock band t-shirt, this guy was instantly forgettable. His clothes were dark blues and grays, not shabby but not brand new, either, and I couldn’t see a single brand or logo anywhere. I’m good at reading people, but I got nothing from this guy: he was a brick wall. If I’d had to describe him to a police officer, I wouldn’t have been able to give them anything useful…and I realized that that was the point. Someone who’d mastered the art of blending in…what was he, a spy?