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)
There’s no stopping a sardonic expression from crossing my hardened face. “You had a gun.”
“People don’t listen the same when you point a taser at them.”
Fair point.
“I-I-I demanded half of the payment now or it wasn’t gonna fucking happen. Few minutes later…th-th-they asked for the banking information.” His wincing when attempting to suck in air increases. “Few minutes after that…and…and…there was a shit ton of money in my offshore account from The Agama Foundation.”
“The Agama Foundation,” I mindlessly echo, unfamiliar with the company.
For the moment that is.
Choosing to come after my woman gives me all the motive in the world to get very fucking acquainted with them now.
“Huh,” Reynolds unpredictably grunts and inches a little closer. “I’ve heard that name before.”
Delaying the speed at which my attention soars in his direction isn’t possible. “Where?!”
His retort is attached to a mindless shrug. “Dontknow.”
“What. The. Fuck. Do you mean you don’t know, Reynolds?!”
“I mean,” he tosses his hands innocently in the air, “I’ve heard it somewhere I just don’t remember where. Or why. Or when. Or-”
“How about you fuckin’ figure that shit out?!”
“Roger that.”
“And you,” my narrowed vision returns to the assailant strapped to the seat in front of me, “where’s the keycard you used to get onto the property?”
“Back p-p-p-pocket.”
“And the burner phone?”
“C-C-Car.”
“Keys?”
“Fr-fr-front,” his gasping grows in volume, “poc-c-cket.”
A single nod of acknowledgement appears before I tilt my head to the side in a taunting fashion. “Chest feelin’ a little tight?”
He attempts to nod.
“Heart feel like it’s beatin’ a little fast?” My body lowers itself to a squat. “Maybe a little too fast?”
Crackling noises multiply in numbers as he pushes himself to reply. “Yes.”
“You’ve got a punctured lung.”
His eyes enlarge at the same time he fights to draw in a bigger breath.
“Sounds like it’s on the left side.”
Panic pierces his gaze further prior to him repeating the previous action.
“Interestin’ thing about havin’ a punctured lung? It’s typically not an instant death sentence.”
Relief makes the mistake of flashing in his expression.
“But tryin’ to kidnap my woman? Is.” His jaw barely has time to twitch before I’m ramming my fist into his ribcage on his right side, splintering the already sharp, severed pieces into several more. Keeping his broken bones wedged against the rigged metal, I angle my curled fingers upward, using the momentum and fragments to perforate the aforementioned organ. “I give you six minutes.” Tears begin to fill the brims of his swollen lids prompting me to push the shards in deeper to ensure maximum suffering. “Three to four if you start strugglin’.” I rise to my feet and toss an order at Reynolds, “Get that keycard and his keys and sweep-”
“Wait, wait, wait,” he cautiously interjects, disbelief dancing around his open mouth expression, “did you really just kill a guy with his own fucking ribs?!”
The first set of bloody knuckles is removed without blinking. “Like I told Guggenheim, I’m not jus’ trained to save lives, Reynolds.” Yanking off the second pair occurs next. “I’m trained to take them.”
And when I finally locate the person trying to kill the love of my life, that’s exactly what the fuck I’m going to do.
Chapter 3
Arley
I can’t believe I almost killed someone.
Er.
Got someone almost killed.
That someone was almost killed because of me.
Because I’m too analytical.
Too thorough.
Too comfortable spotting patterns and using them.
I know Slater said what happened to Yi isn’t my fault, but how can it not be?
Afterall, it was me he was protecting when he was attacked by the taser man.
It’s my stupid ability to see what’s not there, what lingers just beneath the lines that has evidently stamped an expiration onto my back.
You know…I honestly don’t know what’s more terrifying.
The fact that it’s there or the fact I can’t see exactly how many days I have left.
“Hey,” Harvey gently nudges me in the arm, brushing the sleeve of my light pink dress, “where’d you go?”
Seeing his shaky wording match the shading of my dress only further solidifies the feelings of guilt.
Great.
It’s not enough that I’ve put someone in the medical wing.
I’ve managed to break the unbreakable boss too.
This day can’t possibly get any fucking worse.
Opening notes to “Careful What You Wish For” by Bad Omens immediately begins pouring from the speaker like some shitty scene change in a b class action movie prompting me to deliver a hard eye roll.
Ugh.
I knew I should’ve switched to a different playlist.
My reluctance to answer causes Harvey to place his palm on top of the files I’m struggling to review. “Arlette.” He instantly chortles over the sneer he’s conjured up. “I realize how much you hate hearing your full name, but at least I know I have your attention.”
“It’s like Pavlov’s bell for me.” Leaning back in my seat is accompanied by a small smile. “You say my full name and suddenly, I’m twenty years younger, having to pull a thesis worthy statement about different types of music affecting social psychology out of thin air.”