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)
There looked to be a light on in a back room facing us, away from the road where someone might see it and report it.
"Ready?" I asked, feeling the fire start to burn through my veins. Strong. Familiar. Effortless.
The planning, the waiting—I sucked at that. And maybe an argument could be made for me sucking at the aftermath sometimes as well.
But this?
This, I was good at.
This was why I had worked so hard to turn myself into a weapon.
"Yes." There was certainty in his voice, something I found comfort in.
"Hey Vance?" I called, looking at his lovely profile for a moment, not wanting to feel anything, but getting a stab of need so hard it nearly brought me to my knees.
"Yeah, Ace?" he asked, looking over at me.
"These guys?" I started, jerking my chin toward the building. "They aren't just normal traffickers."
"No?" he asked, brow furrowing. "Do they have a specialty or something?"
"Yeah," I agreed, jaw so tight it was hard to even get the words out. "Toddlers."
As soon as the shock on his face faded to rage, I knew it was time. I knew he was at my level. I knew he could do it.
Finding the back door locked, I slit the screen, crouching in the open space to work on the lock while Vance clapped the metal against the building so no one suspected anything was amiss.
Feeling the lock disengage, I tucked the kit away, giving Vance a nod.
He pushed the door hard against the other side of the building as I pulled the handle.
And just like that, we were in.
Vance moved in at my six, both of us holding our chosen weapons, glancing around the darkened space.
My footsteps—this time, our footsteps—always sounded like thunderclaps when I was tip-toeing through an abandoned, nearly silent space.
There were voices coming from the back where we'd seen the light.
From the sound of things, a poker game. If you took a deep breath, you could smell the cigars, the cheap vodka.
A door opening right between me and Vance nearly made gasp erupt from me.
"H..." the guy started, jerking back at seeing us in the shadows.
I went to move, but Vance proved faster, clamping a hand over the man's mouth, jerking him back against his chest, holding his head arched backward by the top of his hair.
Then he did it.
He gave me a nod.
He gave me permission to bleed a life out right there on his chest.
Not much of a life, one that lured children out of cars, pulled them right out of grocery carts when their parents looked away, and then sold them to the highest bidder to endure hell until their bodies gave out. But a life. Something Vance likely held as more valuable than I did.
There was a moment's hesitation before I saw him go to reach for his own blade.
But I couldn't let that happen.
It was my kill.
If he thought he could handle all my ugly, I had to show him, to prove him right or wrong.
It doesn't take long to bleed out.
Longer than the movies, of course.
It wasn't a slice and instant death.
If you are good at what you do—and I am—you sever the trachea below the larynx, something that prevents the initial shocked screaming. But the killer was making sure you got that carotid and jugular, preventing new oxygenated blood from reaching the brain, and making the blood flow easily from the brain until there was unconsciousness and then death.
If you are standing there watching it happen like we were, it felt like hours passed as you waited for the body to slump, for the life to leave the eyes.
I usually didn't wait.
I trusted my ability to accomplish the task, then went ahead and lowered them to the ground, leaving them to die there alone like the beasts they were as I went in search for more prey.
But there was simply no way to communicate in the darkness with Vance, so he held the body until it went heavy, life leaving it, then he slowly lowered it down to the ground, not even paying any mind to the blood soaking through his shirt.
Standing, he gave me another nod, jerking his chin toward the end of the hall.
There was no more time to think, to analyze, to make a mental plan.
Because a man was pulling the back room—an old storage space, metal racks and all—open, moving into the doorway, casting us in light.
"What the fu—"
My arms went up, grabbing the back of his neck, jerking it violently down as I slammed my knee upward, landing my mark to his nose with relative ease, sending pain shooting through his system, distracting him.
I shoved him to the side, leaving him to Vance, as I charged into the room as men started to gain their feet, cards and chips flying.
From there, it was all instinct.