Total pages in book: 71
Estimated words: 67518 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 338(@200wpm)___ 270(@250wpm)___ 225(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 67518 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 338(@200wpm)___ 270(@250wpm)___ 225(@300wpm)
A warm heartbeat and a failing memory. I almost like the sound of that.
4
VICTOR
With his sour face set in stone, Burt internally tallies my indiscretions. The commercial flight. The five-star hotel.
Comfortably back in his penguin suit, Burt swipes a white-gloved finger on a milk glass lamp in the living room of the Delacroix penthouse suite. “There’s dust pouring from every gaudy surface.” He points to another lamp that's chunky gold. Then his mouth opens wide.
“If you sneeze one more time, Burt!” I snap, coming down the three steps that separate the master suite from a V-shaped sunken living room. Floor-to-ceiling glass walls give us a 360 of the entire downtown area. On one side, the Empire state building is a dominating historical force. The Hudson River is visible from another side.
“Do your bloody worst,” he mumbles at my threat after a few sneezes. “Actually, let’s kill Whitson before brunch.”
“Let's?”
“You do understand what I've inferred, Duke of Arlington.” I laugh at his tone. I mouth my title with the same grunt of irritation.
“Ah, but you are an avid sharpshooter. Kill Whitson for me,” I reply, slipping the last button in its hole on my black shirt.
“I told you we should have opted for the vault.” Burt glares at my cufflinks.
“This is the best Manhattan has to offer, Burt. If anyone steals my cufflinks, they earn my respect.” I give a soft chuckle.
“And then you will find and shoot them because that's all you do. Bait and shoot. Bait and shoot.”
“Of course, I’d be obliged to avenge the injustice.”
Bert’s scoff resounds in my ears as I head down the private lift with a duffle bag containing my sniper rifle.
In the backseat of an Uber, I chuckle at how Burt would’ve felt sitting where so many others have. Burt purchased a Mercedes and had it waiting at the airport when we arrived. Though not the crème de la crème of luxury vehicles, he still doesn’t comprehend that we mustn’t flash money.
After putting on sunglasses and leather gloves, I look up. We're about two feet from Hotel Delacroix.
Bloody traffic.
I open the door and get out.
“Hey, you don’t want the ride?”
“Not at all.”
Along with blueprints to both places, I memorized the distance from the Delacroix to Greco Technologies during the plane ride. It takes a certain level of disconnect to delight in every aspect of murder. However, I won’t allow myself to become consumed with the kill.
I’ll scope out the scene. Learn Whitson’s schedule. Glean what irks him, what pleases him, because there’s something about killing a chipper bloke.
Musing over murder has become one of my favorite pastimes.
My father forced me to hunt with him when I was younger. Mother would reprimand us—as if I had any bloody say in the matter. Father would remind her how he outranked her at birth. Nothing on this green earth was untouchable or beneath him unless he deemed it as such. Hunting quail entertained royalty, but Mother knew Father was psychotic. He only delighted in the dynamics of taking lives—human or animal—which was never important. How? Now that drew his interest.
It’s all about opportunity. The kill is of no significance. Quality over quantity. The details all the way down to the most infinitesimal, now that’s what is fundamental. Father’s credo wove through my brain as I took my first life. A tiny bird. But a life, nonetheless. Then the stakes grew higher.
Minutes later, I stop before a skyscraper with mirrored walls. A horde headed to lunch buzzes around me.
A blonde in a short red dress seizes the opportunity to give me the go-ahead.
“Hey, what’s that?” She twirls her straight platinum-blonde hair.
“A really big gun.” I bare my teeth. It’s not a smile. But women like her have an affinity for crazy.
The blonde laughs, touching a hand to her chest. Too exaggerated. The desperation is beyond revolting.
My eyes lock onto a child. A flurry of shockingly copper spiral hair obstructs my view of her face. She’s holding some sort of flowers while rushing across a bustling street.
A bike courier weaves down the road. My eyes roam from the child to the lean, agile rider. Fuck. The courier will hit the absent-minded girl at the rate she’s walking across the street.
5
LUXURY
My mouth opens in a piercing scream as I’m shoved onto the curb. The rose bouquet tumbles into the air. Petals of silky ebony flowers dash around me, and I glare at the brawny chest of a brooding figure.
“Hey, what’s the fucking deal?” Stinging radiates from the sides of my fists as I pound them against a devastatingly muscular chest.
“What? Stop it, kid!”
“Hey, don’t you dare make fun of me!” I shout. As a shy youth, only slightly reformed, I cringe at the thought of calling attention to myself, but I stick to my guns. Get witnesses, Lux. “I. Don’t. Have. Any. Money. Get a job, asshole!”