Total pages in book: 99
Estimated words: 94527 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 473(@200wpm)___ 378(@250wpm)___ 315(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 94527 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 473(@200wpm)___ 378(@250wpm)___ 315(@300wpm)
He squeezed me to him and kissed the side of my head. “That’s sweet of you. I hear he can be difficult.”
“Like father, like son.”
Man, it felt nice to hear his laughter again.
Chapter 18
This was more personal than ever.
Day four and counting. Still no sign of the funder. I’d gotten precisely fifteen minutes of sight-seeing, the day we drove into town, and that was it. I hadn’t seen the cliffs. I hadn’t been to the boardwalk. I hadn’t seen the sunset. I hadn’t even gotten a lousy restaurant dinner with my man.
Instead, I was stuck in an attic apartment of an old, German-style timber house. There were oddly many of those houses here. All low buildings, tourists all over the place, and street signs pointing to various attractions.
If binoculars could make you blind, I was surely gonna lose my eyesight any moment now.
Why couldn’t this Western Union agent work regular bank hours? Why did it have to be a corner store that closed at fucking midnight?
I’d forgotten how much stakeouts infuriated me.
They tended to turn me into a chain smoker too.
I should’ve been in a nice hotel right now, preferably naked and writhing under Shan as he fucked me raw. But naaah, I was standing in the dusty window on the fourth floor in a guest apartment without air-conditioning, I’d worn the same dark clothes for three days, I had an ugly fake tattoo that slithered up my neck and jaw, my binoculars would have to be surgically removed at this point, I had headphones pumping out Irish punk rock so I could stay awake, and I was waiting for Shan to come back with another takeout meal.
“Come on, you son of a bitch.” I peered through the scopes, wishing we could’ve found a location closer to the transfer place. I was three cobblestone streets away, which meant there was a building blocking most of my view on the western side of the corner store. I could only see about thirty feet of the narrow sidewalk. The north-south route to the store was much better; I had an unobstructed view of that entire street.
The music in my headphones died abruptly, followed by a ding to alert me of an incoming message on my laptop on the chair next to me. I scanned the streets once more, then squatted down to check the server.
GET TARGET BEFORE TRANSFER. BEFORE TRANSFER. Details follow.
We intercepted a dispatched file going out to three recipients. A map with fourteen SoM locations marked, including some home addresses. Yours, Finn’s, mine, Colm’s. The office, Mick’s bar, JJ’s wife’s coffee shop, Old Phil’s bodega, four associate underground clubs, and two loosely affiliated bars.
I cursed and shot up again, immediately returning my attention to the streets below.
If Eric had intercepted the plans recently, then shit was in motion. Both on the Italian side and ours. Finn and Eric would evacuate, send our families into hiding, and meet up at a safe location to regroup.
A new song blared out from my headphones with a furious beat, and it lasted all of two seconds before my phone began ringing. I pressed the accept button on the left side and said, “Oi.”
“Your friend found the addresses to the stateside motherfuckers,” Eric said in a rapid rush, and it sounded like he was running. “Finn and I are rounding up some guys, then we’re in pursuit. Can you confirm you got my message?”
I stiffened and adjusted the sights, sure I’d just seen shoulder-length gray hair crossing the street on the northern route. I held my breath and found the man again, and it sent my pulse through the roof.
Fuck, fuck, fuck, he was too close to the corner store.
“Eyes on target. I’m on the move.” I tore off the headphones, threw them somewhere behind me along with the binoculars, and I darted out of the apartment.
I fucking leaped down the stairs, jumping over the rickety railings, knowing I had only seconds to pull this off.
Adrenaline got my blood pumping, and I flew out of the building and straight into a German tourist mob.
“Occupy another country for a change!” I yelled.
Push it, push it. You have one shot. End this today.
Down the cobblestone sidewalk, past street vendors selling French delicacies and crap made in China, off the beaten tourist path, I ran for all I was worth, and a bolt of triumph fueled me when I spotted the man. There was still time. I could do it. He was picking up dog shit with a fucking napkin right outside the store.
Everything else disappeared from my vision—cars, people eyeing me weirdly.
Right before I reached the tiny intersection, I yanked the hood over my head and grabbed the gun from the base of my spine, tucking it into the sleeve of my hoodie.
He wasn’t paying attention. He didn’t know he was being hunted until I crashed into him, eliciting a shout of shock from him, and shoved him up the street. His fluffy little white dog started barking, and the man dropped his cane.