Total pages in book: 68
Estimated words: 66977 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 335(@200wpm)___ 268(@250wpm)___ 223(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 66977 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 335(@200wpm)___ 268(@250wpm)___ 223(@300wpm)
He flashes an annoyed grin in my direction, opens a pouch to retrieve his zip ties, and proceeds with apprehending the traitor.
We’ve now got the unknown poacher’s inside source.
Their accountant.
And the target of their attacks all secure.
Whoever this individual is?
They’re out of moves and are about to fucking feel it.
Chapter 14
Slater
Clamping the industrial grade pliers on the lower portion of The Accountant’s pinky, I slowly pull the digit away from his other fingers, crunching sounds along with gut wrenching howls reverberating around the sector c enhanced interrogation room.
Why hasn’t Reynolds checked in yet?
Were they tailed?
How far?
For how long?
Did they have to reach the outskirts of the city?
Further?
What number of evasive maneuvers did they have to execute to get free?
Are they free?
Hell, have they been home and just forgot to fucking give me a status report?
I abruptly give the appendage a hard twist, not only breaking the knuckle but igniting louder, blood curdling screams.
Did he fucking forget?
Did that asshat forget to inform me she’s secure?
That she’s fine?
That she’s back to reviewing data and drinking afternoon coffee and listening to cheesy Hallmark Christmas movies because it’s that time of the year?
Releasing the digit is followed by me moving the tool over to the space between his thumb and index finger as he pointlessly tries to thrash his strapped down frame around.
Even if Reynolds forgot – which I will chew his ass about the second I know my woman’s safe – Angel Cake wouldn’t have.
She’d call.
Or text.
Or both if I didn’t answer.
She wouldn’t be this quiet or distant.
Not willingly.
Squeezing on the handle is accompanied by meeting his teary blue-eyed stare. “Applying enough pressure here – to your median nerve – could make you piss yourself in pain.”
“He’s probably already close, honestly,” Blu comments from his position near the requested tools.
I release the force to build a false sense of security before using my other hand to unsheathe my tactical knife and jam it straight through his forearm so that the tip sticks in the wooden chair. The Accountant’s screams reach deafening levels lessening his chance of hearing my proclamation. “That is your radial nerve.” One small tweak is delivered to ensure it remains in place. “This type of damage to it is gonna make it hard to straighten your elbow…your wrist…your bony little fuckin’ fingers for typin’…”
“Forgive him,” my second in command dramatically insists. “He gets like this when he’s hangry.”
There’s no hesitation to execute another round of pain with the pliers in the very spot they’re lingering.
Our captive cries out to the same steady rate blood is seeping from his arm, prompting Blu to shout, “You did keep us from having lunch!”
“S-s-s-st-st-stoooopppp!” the individual begs, word barely coherent. “Motherofgodpleasejust stop!”
I don’t.
I lower my brow.
Move the device over to the nail of his middle finger.
Let it gradually clasp down to add to the agony of anticipation.
Keeping my expression stoic during the process only pushes him to plead hastily. More hopelessly. “I’ll tell you what – what – whatever you wanna kn-kn-know! Just…just…just please,” his head rapidly whips back and forth, “please no fucking more!”
I allow my chin to tip a little higher at the same time the tool smashes into the sensitive space.
“Stop! Stop! Stop!”
“I think he wants you to stop, Wahl,” Blu impishly pokes during his stroll closer. “But I’m just guessing, man.”
Swinging my attention in his direction has me catching a glimpse of Britt who’s at this time only sporting the one patched up wound and showcasing a smirk so smug that I’m tempted to have Angel Cake delivered here just to slap it off.
But that would be against procedure.
And possibly add more damage to that beautiful soul of hers.
More damage she doesn’t need.
Not if I can help it.
Not if I can prevent it.
My glare pastes itself onto our other hostage. “You think this shit is funny?”
Martindale rolls her head around to meet my gaze.
“You think this shit won’t happen to you?”
Her amused expression remains.
“Can’t happen to you?”
Mirth sustains its residence.
“You think because we had somethin’ once upon a fuck, you’re gonna make it out of this shit alive?”
All of a sudden, the sound of a cellphone starts ringing, yet the fact there’s no vibration attached to it means it’s not mine.
And considering the confused look on Blu’s face it’s safe to assume it’s not his either.
“I think…” Her red stained lips slowly expand into an even cockier beam, “if you ever wanna see that talking crayon box you call your girlfriend again, you should answer that.”
Dread drips along the back of my throat prompting me to wordlessly instruct Blu to retrieve the ringing device.
“Front pocket!” Martindale villainously giggles, clearly aware of something we aren’t.
She can’t be.
She can’t be ahead of us because the decision to grab her was last minute.
She wasn’t a part of the original op, which means she shouldn’t have had a contingency plan for this situation unless of course it’s just a standing arrangement upon her unexplained disappearance.