Total pages in book: 131
Estimated words: 122609 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 613(@200wpm)___ 490(@250wpm)___ 409(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 122609 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 613(@200wpm)___ 490(@250wpm)___ 409(@300wpm)
“Let’s say you do get out of that tie, and maybe even out of that chair. Your ankles are bound, and there’s three locks, not including the electronic one, on that door, and no windows. I can see and hear your every move. Where the hell are you gonna go, Honey?”
The speaker crackled and fizzled once again. She ignored his taunts and kept on. I refuse to make this easy for him… I refuse to make this easy for him… She kept repeating that to herself, ignoring the blood, the blistering and stinging, the agony…
James sat in his dimly lit office at the back of the warehouse. He kept his iPad open as he watched Honey struggle to break free for what had to have been her hundredth attempt. He’d seen her doze off several times, but now she was fully alert, and the little energy she had left, she was using it to try and escape the prison he’d put her in. He’d played it cool at work, still keeping her intrusion under wraps, giving off an illusion of calm. This was just what he expected from her, the little fighter. However, what he didn’t foresee was what he found on her computer and phone once he was able to get inside of them.
From all signs and signals, the woman had been completely clueless when she’d stepped foot onto his property. It had been, just as she stated, an accident—a strange coincidence that she’d landed where she had, at just the right time. The problem, however, though less severe, remained. Now it was too late for her. She knew.
She was a journalist. A member of the press. A person he hated immediately, just from her credentials alone. It didn’t matter that her main claim to fame was photographs versus words online or spread across a magazine. In fact, pictures were worse. The world was filled with those possessing short attention spans, therefore picture books did far more damage to the human mind, had faster impact, and caused far more harm than printed work ever could. Printed work made room for interpretation. There could be a lack of reading comprehension, or misunderstandings. A perception could be skewed. Words could be translated into hundreds of different languages, dissected and argued. A photograph? Not so much.
As the saying went, ‘A picture is worth a thousand words.’ On top of it all, once she figured out what she’d seen in those photographs she’d taken, there was no way she was going to let sleeping dogs lie. She was presented an opportunity, and damn if she wasn’t going to utilize it to her own advantage. To get more fame, more of everything she ever wished and dreamed for. By some unbelievable stroke of luck, she’d managed to stumble upon what the police and his enemies had not in a matter of seven minutes…
I’ve killed people for far more minor impositions.
He got up and headed to the warehouse floor, ensuring everything was as it was supposed to be. A few hours later, the place was cleaned out, barring boxes and wrapping paper, forklifts and the like. A caravan of trucks was headed to various counties in Texas, Arkansas, and Kentucky, holding thirteen types of beer, twenty-eight brands of wine, and top-notch whiskey, rum, gin, and vodka. He’d selected them all himself—only the best of the best. He was in the trade where poor men would spend like rich tycoons for a pint of something good and strong. Bars. Restaurants. Stores. The goal was to avoid the high tariffs and taxes levied on them by the government, to always have their hand in the cookie jar.
Not to mention the dry and moist towns across America. No matter where, thirsty patrons were willing to pay a hefty penny to have a full supply, all days of the week.
His phone rang, and he answered.
“Archer, the back road is closed off Interstate 80. Construction.”
“Is Dustin in Joliet to meet you yet?”
“Not yet. Seventeen minutes out.”
“Exit. Contact him and give a thirty-minute check spot. Take Richards Street.”
“Got it.”
He ended the call.
James had mapped out the routes for his men to take, the specific times to drive, which police officers were in the know, and safe spaces to rest. If something went against the plan, they had strict instructions to contact him on his burner phone. James had done all of the runs himself when it was only him and a skeleton crew many years ago, until he had them all perfected. Timing was essential. Following instructions could be a matter of life or death.
Once the coast was clear, he shut off the last few lights and headed back home. He kept things quiet as he drove, his mind working on how to handle Honey…
Once he got back to his estate, he checked the cameras once again. Honey was breathing hard, as if she’d been in a wrestling match with herself for several hours straight. He showered, changed into his pajama briefs and slippers, and made his way into the control room. He peered at her on the camera, then zoomed in.