Total pages in book: 158
Estimated words: 151469 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 757(@200wpm)___ 606(@250wpm)___ 505(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 151469 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 757(@200wpm)___ 606(@250wpm)___ 505(@300wpm)
My eyebrows slowly rise. No diamond. No girlfriend or wife? “How would sir like to pay?”
“With sex.”
I stare at the windscreen, and he hums again. It’s low. Raspy. I discreetly force myself out of my tense body, hearing him drawing breath to speak.
“But you already have a knight in shining armor,” he says.
I look across to Reg, who has a freshly lit cigarette in between his lips. His beard has a few remnants of food nestled in it, his bulbus nose is an angry shade of red, and his baseball cap probably hasn’t been washed since 1980. Reg obviously feels me inspecting him and turns toward me. He grins, revealing a total of five teeth. I shake my head and smile back. “I do,” I reply. “I’m being rescued at this very moment.”
Reg hitches an eyebrow as we rumble off down the road, and I silently contemplate that notion. Of being rescued. Of really being rescued.
“Then I’ll stop calling you,” he says flatly.
“Enjoy your sex party.”
“I will.”
And then he’s gone.
3
JAMES
I place the phone on my desk slowly, like distance between us would be wise. It would. I look across to the pad on my desk where her number appeared next to my new contact, courtesy of Goldie. Calling her once? A stupid mistake. Twice? Silly. A third time? That would be suicide.
I reach for the pad, turning it a fraction. The two numbers noted down—Beau Hayley’s and the contact—suddenly align to the correct names. I take a pen and scribble across Beau Hayley’s, eradicating any chance of me fucking up again. Then I face the screens that blanket one wall and turn them all on. Each one blinks to life, showing me mug shots of all the men on my list. I don’t need the screens. Each and every one of these men are etched on my sick brain. Along with the gory details of their deaths. Or impending deaths.
Kicking up my feet on my desk, I relax back with my keyboard on my lap and tap out some words across a face.
DECEASED
My eyes drift across to my next target, my lip curling. The Fox. Polish. A man with a fondness for selling young girls. Another contact of The Bear, and further proof of his reach. Of the control he has over the criminals in this city.
My email dings, and I bring up my inbox on the largest screen in the center of the wall. I open the attachment. And suddenly, lost amid the surrounding faces of criminals, is Beau Hayley.
I stare at the photograph of a young woman on the pavement of a Miami street. She’s the image of her mother, the woman who relentlessly tried to hunt me down. Jaz Hayley lost her life as a consequence. And now her daughter is about to lose hers too.
“Let it go, Beau,” I whisper, stroking over my Cupid’s bow slowly, my stare fixed on her. In this shot, her mask is off, and her grief is embedded on every inch of her fair skin. Her eyes, eyes bordering on black, are infinite pits of sadness. She’s beautiful. But eerily so.
Beau Hayley projects darkness.
And I am responsible for that darkness.
I tear my eyes away and make a call to the right person. “Hi, it’s me,” I say when the call connects.
“Who?”
I can’t help laughing at myself. Sandy is a bloke. I didn’t question the name. I didn’t question the fact that my new contact appeared to be a woman.
“I asked a question.” His accent is thick. Russian.
“That’s irrelevant. I need some stock.”
“I only do business with men I know.”
“Don’t take it personally. No one knows me, and since you’re new to the area and business, I would have thought you’d take every buyer you can get.”
“Name.”
“You can call me The Enigma.”
He inhales, and I smile. “Your real name.”
“Don’t tell me you were christened Sandy.”
“Moot point,” he drawls.
“Do you want my money or not?” I ask. “And as an added bonus, I’ll kill The Bear. Or I could just kill you, take your guns, and leave The Bear filling The Brit’s boots.”
“I’m listening.”
Of course he’s listening.
4
BEAU
Trying to make it to the front door is like fighting my way through a rainforest. Masses of hydrangeas line the pathway, creeping into the middle, narrowing the path. With my arms full, I resort to turning and backing my way through to avoid being smacked in the face by branches and beautiful pompoms of white and pink. I make it to the front door unscathed, and with a lack of a free hand to retrieve my key, I swing a pot of paint so it hits the wood. I hear her, singing her way to let me in. Aunt Zinnea. The woman is the epitome of sunshine and smiles. Someone around here needs to be.
“My darling,” she says as she flings the door open. “I was getting worried, you said you’d be back hours ago.” She opens the way, relieving me of the paint, and I pass her, stopping briefly so she can kiss my cheek.