Total pages in book: 89
Estimated words: 84913 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 425(@200wpm)___ 340(@250wpm)___ 283(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 84913 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 425(@200wpm)___ 340(@250wpm)___ 283(@300wpm)
When I was on a job where there were no victims to alert the police, it sometimes took weeks or months for the bodies to be found. Usually by then, the remains were horribly degraded, evidence swept or rained or hauled away by scavengers looking for a meal.
Which, well, was good for me.
I was careful. But modern advances meant that even careful people could get caught by a stray hair or drop of blood.
"What happens after the guys are taken care of?"
"Do you mean do I bury bodies?" I asked, watching as he shrugged. "I clean up any obvious signs of my being there. Which is hopefully not a whole hell of a lot. I wear gloves. My hair is relatively short. I try to avoid bleeding all over the place. So I just open a door or window and leave."
"Open a door or window?"
"To let scavengers in, to let the wind in."
"Wouldn't it be better to leave them closed so things don't start to smell?"
"Ever smell a decaying body?"
"Can't say I have."
"They smell for like a mile. You know when you are in the vicinity of one. Even if the windows are closed. Air escapes eventually. If the house is in a relatively congested area or something, I might forego the window or door. It really depends on how worried I am about evidence."
"Meaning how much blood you left behind?"
"You'd be surprised. Even with the odds against me, sometimes I manage to get away with just some bruises. These kinds of guys are generally more used to using guns, not hand-to-hand combat."
"Well, let's hope for that this time."
"No promises. You want to follow me in there, it could get dicey. You might be sporting some new scars when we get back to Navesink Bank."
"Lucky I got myself a girl who seems to dig scars, huh?" he asked, climbing on his bike, turning it over, cutting off any objections I might have had about him calling me his.
Because, well, I wasn't.
One sex session did not a relationship make.
And I wasn't exactly a relationship kind of girl anyway.
There was no denying, though, as I got on my bike and led us out of the parking lot, that there was a part of me that was buzzing with the idea of him claiming me. Even if the other part of me knew it couldn't happen, that he would revoke his feelings as soon as this job was done, that he was a good man and I couldn't subject him to being in a relationship with someone like me.
"Where is the coffee place?" Vance asked when we finally reached the town we needed, but I had driven us right up to a patch of dense woods.
"Through the woods. We're hiding the bikes in here so no one sees them," I told him, climbing off mine, leading it into the woods a of couple yards, flipping up the seat to dig around in the storage compartment. "Here," I told him, handing him a pair of gloves I hoped would fit him. "And here," I added, giving him one of my spare knives.
"West gave me this," he told me, showing me the hunting knife.
"Nice." It had a good blade. Thick enough to withstand multiple stabs if need be, not likely to break off in the bone. "But take the backup too. I always have a few even though I prefer my karambit. You never know what might happen in a fight."
"Got it," he agreed, slipping the extra knife into his boot which was a decent place for it. I kept one there as well. "So this is it? We walk through the woods, we sneak into the building, and we get to work?"
"Pretty much," I agreed, rolling a crick out of my neck, trying to take a few breaths in, chasing away the familiar surge of adrenaline. It could be useful in the right amount. It made your reflexes faster. It made you sharper. But too much could make you lightheaded, could make your heart race, could convince you that you were having a goddamn heart attack. "You need a couple minutes to prepare yourself?"
"I've had hours for that," he told me. "I think I'm good."
He wasn't.
And I hated that he might never truly be good again.
Because of me.
Because he felt the need to protect me.
Because my father made sure he did.
It was too late for regrets, though. This was going to happen. We would have to deal with the fallout after.
A few minutes later, we stood at the other end of the woods, looking at a building that had seen better days—white siding splattered with green, chinks taken out in more places than you could count, the back screen blowing around in the wind, creating an eerie clapping noise every few seconds. It would made good sound cover.