Total pages in book: 145
Estimated words: 138274 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 691(@200wpm)___ 553(@250wpm)___ 461(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 138274 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 691(@200wpm)___ 553(@250wpm)___ 461(@300wpm)
A shot of paranoia had him glancing around, and he expected to see Evan trailing after him like a beat-down dog.
Nothing. Other than the gnarled trees, looking like they were an unholy army sprung from contaminated ground.
Fine, at least he didn’t have to worry about the dummy.
With the storm’s light show and grumbling guiding him, he kept going, pushing branches out of his way. When one snapped back and caught him in the ass, he wondered why the bastard he was going to kill tonight wanted to live out here in the fucking sticks. Then again, “Nathaniel”—chrissakes, what a street name to pick—was fucking weird. Never said much. Didn’t mix with nobody. Didn’t fight for the good jobs. Youda think he wouldn’t be no problem, but Uncle liked the guy too much for his being an outsider. Hell, for being anybody. Natty-whatever-the-fuck was getting assigned the eliminations, the real work, not the banging-on-doors, nickel-and-dime runs.
Mickey hated to admit it, but the slick SOB knocked people off and got away with it like nothing no one’d seen. Last seven years or so? There was no counting the bodies, and there were ones who hadn’t been found, no doubt. Most of the wet work had been done in Caldwell, but there had been some in NYC and Boston. Rumor had it that Uncle had asked him to go down to Florida and South America, but he’d nope’d the out-of-town trips. It was like he didn’t want to get too far away from the core of the business, and sure, it could be ’cuz he had the Caldie cops in his pocket and that was how he’d evaded complications for so long.
Except it was more than that. Mickey could sense something just wasn’t right, and he was done fucking worrying about it. Time to solve this problem and look like a hero to Uncle—
Up ahead, a ratty old log house appeared in a clearing, and talk about dumps. The place needed to be condemned, the roofline bumpy, one of the chimneys collapsed, shutters with evergreen cutouts hanging like bad teeth in the mouth of a suck-ass MMA fighter. The windows were boarded up, there was no car in the shallow drive, and the barn out back wasn’t in any better shape.
If Mickey hadn’t been one hundred percent sure of his intel, he wouldn’t have believed anybody lived here, much less a hired killer. Then again, keeping a low profile was something Uncle appreciated in his contractors.
“But this shit is frontier land,” Mickey muttered, his breath drifting off like he was vaping.
Fucking. Weird.
And not something he needed to think about. At the moment, Nathaniel was downtown with Uncle. Mickey was sure because he himself wasn’t invited to the Thursday-night hangouts. So he was going to get in this crappy cabin, wait for good ol’ Natty to get home, and then one bullet later, he was going to take the USB drive to Uncle and provide proof that the golden boy wasn’t so golden, and Mickey was a fucking family hero who deserved respect—
His body stopped on its own, no conscious thought involved in the lockdown, every survival instinct he had starting to scream.
Someone was behind him.
And it was not Evan.
Trying to stay cool, he snuck his hand to the gun holstered just inside the hem of his parka. “You’re not supposed to be here right now.”
As he turned around, he brought the… weapon… out…
Tattoos. All over a bare torso that had more muscle in its pecs and arms than Mickey did in his entire body. With a freshly shaved head, a face that made women double-take and drop digits, and a six-inch wound that had been stitched closed by an amateur on his shoulder, Nathaniel was like a lifer in a prison yard. Or someone who should have been kept behind barbed wire for public safety.
“Where are your clothes,” Mickey mumbled as his head started to hurt.
Another round of lightning burst free of the storm, and if he’d lived, he never would have forgotten what those eyes looked like as they met his own: Dead. Nothing behind them. The blue so dark it was like staring into black glass, and in the reflection? Mickey’s own horrified face.
In that moment, he knew he should have listened. Not to idiot Evan, but to his own instincts, back when he’d gotten out of the car, up on Rte. 149—
“Uncle sent me,” he mumbled, trying to course correct. “He tried to reach you. When he couldn’t get through, he sent me. You want we go into your place while I tell you what’s goin’ on?”
Nathaniel lowered his head, those dangerous, gleaming eyes staring out from under the kind of brows real men grew, the kind that were a warning well-heeded on their own, no ski mask required.
“You’re lying to me, Mickey,” came the low voice.