Total pages in book: 80
Estimated words: 76501 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 383(@200wpm)___ 306(@250wpm)___ 255(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 76501 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 383(@200wpm)___ 306(@250wpm)___ 255(@300wpm)
“You should keep your ears and mouth closed, Denny, and worry more about yourself.”
“Sure, Luca, sure. All I’m saying is, maybe you give me the money, and my crew and I don’t get involved anymore. I don’t want to get in the middle of a Valverde civil war. You understand.”
“Yeah, I understand.” You’re a fucking coward.
I gesture at Niccolo, who tosses Denny a duffel filled with the cash. I walk around to the front of the Rover and climb inside. Denny stands at the window with the bag over his shoulder, looking pleased, probably happy to be rid of a stolen car, a bunch of stolen guns, and out of this messy situation.
“Address to the house is in the GPS already. That’s where they took her. All you gotta do is start the engine and drive, I got it all worked out for you, Luca.”
“And you’re sure she hasn’t come out?”
“Unless they smuggled her somehow, I’m positive, totally positive.”
“You did good.” Niccolo and Tony get in, already gearing up and going over the weapons. “Lie low for a while. I don’t know what the Russians know, and they’ll be pissed if they realize you were involved with me.”
“Don’t worry, Luca. I know better than to stick my fucking neck our further than I gotta.” He pats the bag tenderly. “You boys waste no time getting your shit ready, huh? Throwing on vests already?”
“You’re dismissed, Denny.”
He laughs and walks off. “Gotcha, fucking off. Good luck, boys.”
“I hate that guy,” Tony says, cocking back a rifle slide and nodding appreciatively. “But I love his guns. There’s good stuff in here.”
“Denny’s a survivor.” I put the car in gear and pull out, the GPS guiding me toward the Hollywood Hills. “There are a dozen guys like him in every major city. Slimeballs, but reliable. You know practically what he’ll do before he does it, he’s that predictable.”
“Yeah? And what’s he gonna do?”
“Whatever he thinks will keep him alive.”
Tony laughs and exchanges a look with Niccolo.
“That’s the opposite of us,” Niccolo says. “Seems like all we do is rush into danger.”
“We’re a much rarer breed.” I smile to myself and step on the gas. “We do what we think is right, even if it’s hard.” Kacia’s out there, waiting for us, and I don’t want to keep her waiting.
LA is like a giant suburb. It sprawls, leans back like a tired giant, nestled up against the hills and edging down toward the ocean. It’s lean, and spread out, and packed together with so many fucking cars it’s unbelievable. There’s something both sterile and seedy about it, simultaneously clean and filthy, like everything gets painted over with white every few weeks, except the graffiti is still there beneath the surface, you just can’t see it. You only feel it in your soul.
That’s what I love about New York. Yeah, it has its problems, and there’s plenty of sterile shit back home, too. But New York still has grit and heart and humanity and history, unlike this place. New York is where the old and the new worlds mix together to create something special. LA is just the new world, period, dressed up in glamorous outfits, wearing too much make-up. It’ll never have the drive and the hustle of New York in the summer, never have the beauty and the heart-breaking cold of New York in the fall and the winter. LA is perpetual spring. LA is soft.
The GPS takes me down a side street, away from the main roads. I’m not sure why, but it says this is the programmed route. We’re in a bad neighborhood and it seems like we’re getting further and further away from the Hills, like whatever Denny programmed into this thing is trying its hardest to go the most circuitous direction possible. Niccolo and Tony are too busy strapping on vests to notice anything’s off, but I’m frowning around and wondering why the hell we’re in Watts, which is basically in the opposite direction of where we want to be.
Cars are packed on either side of the street. The houses are mostly rundown with fences around everything. You know a neighborhood’s rough when there are bars on second-story windows. Maybe Denny’s trying to give us a tour of the local scenery, or maybe he’s trying to take us on a route that won’t be spotted by the Russians, but either way something’s not adding up.
“I need to reenter this address,” I say and start to pull over right after an intersection in front of a big fence with metal spikes at the top. Very cute. “Something’s fucked up.”
A second later, a truck slams into our tail, and everything goes wild.
The Rover spins around until we’re on the sidewalk and facing the wrong direction. Both Niccolo and Tony don’t waste any time, they roll down the windows and start looking around. I curse, put the car in gear, but the truck roars at us again and bumps its nose against our rear, pinning up between a parked Cadillac and the fence.