Total pages in book: 139
Estimated words: 141281 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 706(@200wpm)___ 565(@250wpm)___ 471(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 141281 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 706(@200wpm)___ 565(@250wpm)___ 471(@300wpm)
“Think about it!” he calls after me. “We’ll talk again tomorrow. I know you’ll come to your senses. I spent my whole life raising you to be better than—”
Than what?
That’s so rich I want to throw up.
If he knew anything at all about Chris, he’d know no one else in this house is fit to tie his shoes.
I cover my ears and rush through the house, the whole world going shaky and red.
There’s a figure sitting in the nook outside their bedroom—the queen bitch herself—basking in the pale moonlight with a fresh drink in her hand that’s almost drained.
I know by the amber color it’s no mocktail.
She’s hitting the bottle again, right under Dad’s nose, just like she somehow smuggled in that bag of blow.
The sneering, triumphant smile she gives me confirms it.
I won’t look at her.
I just bolt inside my room and slam the door, my only safe haven from this prison my house has become.
I can’t give up.
Can’t let them win.
Can’t let them destroy the love of my life.
I’d give anything to talk to Chris. I promised I wouldn’t bother him when I know he can’t answer, but it’s been too long and I’m being strangled in slow motion.
So I pull up his contact and start texting.
Hey, are you all right? It’s been a week. I know you’re busy, but if you can even send one word...
I sigh.
Where the hell is he?
I open my browser tab and start scanning the news like always.
Definitely not a wise decision right now, but it’s the only thing that makes me feel better—until I spot the headline a little ways down the international news page, one more tragedy in a whole litany of bad.
BREAKING! Six American Security Contractors Go Missing In Mexico!
My stomach churns before I even click the link.
When I do, I have to cover my mouth, holding my breath as the whole world spins.
Chris’ face is front and center. It’s an old photo, along with a few other men I don’t recognize, a brief list of their pre-Enguard military ranks under their names.
My eyes jump the article, skimming but not understanding.
Details are scarce.
There’s just a few words about a hazy operation with Federal approval, a cartel, a statement from the security company by a man named Landon Strauss, vowing he’ll bring his men home.
“Oh, no. No, no, no, no.”
After that, I completely lose my voice.
The phone slips from my hand.
A few minutes ago, it would’ve been insanely hard, but I might’ve kept it together.
I had hope.
I had a cause.
I was ready to fight tooth and nail to stay with him, even if I had to skip the next semester.
Now, I feel the sky caving in, and with it goes any hope of ever reaching heaven.
How could I forget what those sick men in Vegas almost did to me?
What Chris implied they do to women, helpless girls, so many times?
What will they do to grown men who tried to serve them justice?
I can’t breathe.
Especially not when the doorbell rings, reverberating through the house, and I drag myself to the top of the stairs so I can listen in.
It looks like it takes all of Dad’s effort to keep standing while Evie rubs his shoulders.
A tall, older man who looks more like a movie star than any CEO—Strauss, I guess—tells them Chris is missing in action. Likely still alive in cartel hands.
Likely.
I barely stumble back to my room after a few more hurried words float up, crawling along the wall for support.
Maybe I really do need therapy.
For the first time in my life, I think I’m going crazy.
20
White Terror (Chris)
If I had a wish for every fracture in my body, I’d be king of the universe.
It’s dark.
So fucking dark, even if I’m sure my eyes are wide open.
For a second, I think they’ve buried me alive in some pit until I hear footsteps.
The shrieking hinges of a heavy, reinforced door.
Then a strip of light so intense it’s blinding, coming from outside wherever the hell I am. The lights hum loudly behind the small group of shadow men standing in the doorway.
They mutter back and forth in Spanish.
There’s another wish. If only I understood more than the awkward snatches and fragments every white boy who grows up in California absorbs by osmosis.
When the tallest figure steps forward—the only one whose face isn’t hidden behind a balaclava mask—I already know what’s on his mind even before he stomps on my chest and starts snarling in my ear.
“You. I chose you because you brought it back.” He thrusts his fist down to my face, and it takes my throbbing eyes a few seconds to catch the glinting, ornately carved metal on his finger.
The ring.
The second ring I kept from those bastards in Vegas that I didn’t turn over as evidence.
The same cartel prize I brought for good luck, now wrapped around his finger. He brushes his other hand over it the same way you’d caress a lover.