Total pages in book: 92
Estimated words: 88215 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 441(@200wpm)___ 353(@250wpm)___ 294(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 88215 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 441(@200wpm)___ 353(@250wpm)___ 294(@300wpm)
I’m tired. Worn the fuck out. Revenge is fucking exhausting.
I feel older than my thirty-five years.
I pause because something about that doesn’t seem right. I double check the year on my phone and roll my eyes.
Probably because I’m thirty fucking six.
Chapter Twenty-Two
I’ve been going about this all wrong. Escape isn’t a long-term solution. Not for me anyway. It’s impossible. I’m trapped inside a prison, after all. Human workers are long gone, but overgrown brush and mangled fences now stand guard watching over a single prisoner.
Me.
All I need is time. A few hours. Just long enough to get to a computer before I’m found out.
Consequences be damned.
Smoke’s on the phone on the front porch. He’s left me uncuffed so I can shower and change. I’ve only got a few minutes. I’m dressed in a pair of short black athletic shorts and a fitted, white, Beatles t-shirt from the storage container. I take an extra thirty seconds to rip the collar off the shirt so it hangs off my one shoulder just like my favorite Veruca Salt shirt.
A shirt I’ll probably never see again.
I look out the bedroom window. All I see are weeds. I climb up on the dresser and stand, craning my neck to see what might lie beyond the tangled green and brown mess. I see something off in the distance just beyond the prison fence, and unless I’m seeing things, I’m pretty sure it’s a roof top.
Now, if I can just find a way out of this damn house.
I shove my feet into my chucks and peek my head out the door down the hallway. I spot Smoke through the open front door. He’s still on the phone, puffing away on a cigarette.
I creep toward the back door. It’s locked and, just as Smoke had warned, it’s also bolted shut.
There’s got to be some other way out.
There’s a potted plant in the corner. A plastic twin palm in a gigantic clay bowl. It’s not the tree that interests me so much, but what I see that’s hiding behind it.
A plastic doggy door.
No bolts.
I use all the power in my legs and ignore the pain shooting down my spine as I dig my toes into the carpet and push the plant from the wall until there’s just enough room for me to shimmy behind it and crawl through.
I have no time to celebrate my short-lived freedom because there’s an entire field of brush and debris to navigate.
I make a run for it.
Smoke
The house is quiet. Too fucking quiet.
I run to the bedroom, but I already know it’s empty. I dart back out and spot the plant and the doggy door, the plastic panel in the center flopping in the breeze.
I’m calm as I grab my gun and walk out the front door. I’m whistling as I round the house and spot her stumbling across the prison yard.
Game on, Hellion.
I’m a product of sin and violence. I was born with rage sizzling through my heated blood. With every crack of my knuckles, it consumes me until it is me.
I can’t be the good guy, and I don’t wanna be. Frankie Helburn is the only thing standing between me and Frank Helburn and I won’t let it all go because of pussy.
I’m the arrow. Frankie’s my target.
I never fucking miss.
Chapter Twenty-Three
Beads of sweat fall into my eyes. I wipe them away with an even sweatier palm. My limbs shake as I lift my knees as high as I can, navigating my way over the tangled vines. I stumble a few times, scraping my hands on short spikey thorns.
I cannot fail.
I will not fail.
I step over the downed sign for Broward County Correctional Facility where the ground is smooth. My breaths are labored. My chest burns.
I make a beeline for the house, running and tripping over a hose. I growl at my own clumsiness and leap up the rickety porch steps.
I hear something inside and I hold in a scream of relief.
Footsteps!
I bang on the door loudly and wildly, checking over my shoulder every few seconds. “Come on. Come on. Open the door,” I chant to myself, shaking out my hands and jumping from foot to foot.
“What’s the trouble, my dear?” A woman comes to the door, wiping her hands on her apron. She’s older, maybe in her late seventies or early eighties. I’m just about to tell her everything when I stop.
If I tell her too much or the wrong thing, I could be putting her life in danger too.
Shit.
“Uhhh…no troubles exactly. I’m just lost and a little winded from walking over all the twisted weeds,” I tell her. “I’m staying with my…boyfriend in a cottage around here, but I went for a walk, and now I can’t find my way back.”
“Oh my. Well, come on in, dear. I’m Zelda, it’s very nice to meet you.” She stands aside to usher me in.