Total pages in book: 86
Estimated words: 80014 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 400(@200wpm)___ 320(@250wpm)___ 267(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 80014 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 400(@200wpm)___ 320(@250wpm)___ 267(@300wpm)
“That all depends on Jack, and how cooperative he’s feeling.” I started to walk away, and since we were fastened together, he had no choice but to leap up and follow me.
There was still a chance he might make a scene, so I decided to get out of the bar as quickly as possible. I headed for a door marked “Employees Only,” and we cut through the kitchen before exiting out a back door into the alley.
In the minute I’d been gone, some dumb-ass with a death wish had decided to try hotwiring my car. I didn’t have the time or energy for this shit, so I pulled the gun from my waistband, pointed it at him, and said, “Hell no.” He stumbled from the driver’s seat and took off at a sprint.
When I felt a tug on the cuffs, I turned to look at Jack. He’d stepped back as far as he could on his short tether, and he definitely seemed concerned. I returned the Baretta to the back of my waistband and told him, “As long as you play nice, you have nothing to worry about.”
I led him to the car and bent him over the front fender. Then I kicked his feet shoulder-width apart before giving him a thorough pat-down. Okay, so I’d had this done to me a time or two in the past, and I knew the routine.
After confiscating everything I found on him—which only consisted of a slim wallet, a phone, and a set of keys—I asked, “Where’s the watch, Jack?”
He straightened up and fixed his hair as he said, “I don’t currently have it in my possession. It was taken from me, but I spent this whole week trying to get it back. I actually planned to return it to you, not that I expect you to believe that.”
I didn’t, not even a little. The fact that he held my gaze steadily when he said it just proved he was an excellent liar. “Okay. Then tell me who has it, and we’ll go get it from them.”
“I can’t do that.”
“Why not?”
“I just can’t.”
I asked, “Do you fully understand how much trouble you’re in right now, and that giving me the watch is the only way to get out of it?”
“I really fucking do.”
“So, what do you propose?”
“Let me go, and I’ll bring you the watch. Scout’s honor. I know I can get it back, but I just need more time.”
I rolled my eyes and asked, “Do you think there’s any chance whatsoever I’ll agree to that?”
“I figured the odds were slim, but they’re never zero.”
“Oh, believe me, they’re zero.” I led him to the passenger door and opened it. Then I found the keys to the handcuffs and unlocked my end.
When I went to fasten the cuff—and therefore Jack—to the door handle, he made a move so quick and smooth that I didn’t have time to stop him. He snatched the Baretta from beneath the hem of my suit jacket, and both of us froze. He looked at me, then at the gun in his hand. But instead of pointing it at me, he threw it as hard as he could at a blue dumpster, which was maybe fifteen feet down the alley.
Thank god he missed. The gun bounced off the side and fell to the ground, and he muttered, “Shit. I was hoping it’d land inside.”
It was all I could do to hide my smile. What an awful idea! Anyone else would have used the gun to negotiate their release, but not Jack. I told him, “That was a terrible throw,” and fastened the cuff to the door handle before going to retrieve the weapon.
“Well excuse me for not being LeBron James.”
“I’m not complaining. In fact, I’m thrilled you missed,” I said, as I picked up the Baretta and returned to the car with it. “I would have been fucking pissed if I’d had to climb into the dumpster.”
“In that case, you’re welcome. And for the record, I probably would have made it if my right hand was free.”
“You’re left-handed. I remember that about you,” I said, as I slid behind the wheel and stuck the gun under my seat.
“Fine. I’m left-handed and just can’t throw. Happy?”
“Ecstatic,” I muttered, as I pulled everything from his wallet. “Now let’s see what we have here.” It contained about a hundred dollars, three condoms, two lube packets, the business card I’d given him, a punch card for a coffee chain called Dutch Bros, and a Nevada driver’s license. I held the ID toward the security light on the back of the pub and read out loud. “Jack Murphy, from Reno, Nevada of all places. This is a high quality fake ID. It must have been expensive.”
“What makes you think it’s fake?”
I shot him a look. “It says you’re twenty-seven, when we both know you’re thirty-four.” He scowled at me, which made him look like an angry kitten. “What’s your real last name? Because it sure as hell isn’t Murphy.”