Total pages in book: 67
Estimated words: 63046 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 315(@200wpm)___ 252(@250wpm)___ 210(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 63046 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 315(@200wpm)___ 252(@250wpm)___ 210(@300wpm)
“Oh, mate, get your pain medicine. With any luck, you’ll have assistance in . . . I’d say . . . sixty seconds. Take care of yourself.”
“That’ll be very well then. However, if they’re intent on taking me—”
“Burt, of course! You must visit a hospital.” I tight fist the wheel, glaring at an oncoming firetruck. If Burt weren’t out of commission, I’d allow the whole lot to burn down. Whoever planted the bomb for the sheikh was present last night during Queen Mary’s rant. At any rate, could my very own mother have had a liaison with the sheikh? I suppose if she wants something done. I clear my throat and fortify my response. “Old chap, you’ve assisted Luxury by arranging my travels. You’ve done enough.”
“Rubbish! I’ll take medication. I refuse to be indisposed until Paul rings me.”
Why did he call Paul? And when? I just left the estate a few precious minutes ago. “Elaborate,” I growl.
“Victor, I will not allow you to go on a death mission—”
“I hear the ambulance in the background. Do as you’ve been told, Burt the Butler. And apparently, you’ve forgotten our squabble.”
“Vic—”
“That’s exactly what I prefer. Death wish. Solo mission,” I hiss, toggling the stick shift. The sports car almost hydroplanes, but I right the powerful vehicle just in time.
Burt utters something unintelligible, perhaps about me or to the first responders who’ve arrived. He barks, “Paul’s searching for adequate help—as in Jackson Redfield.”
If I were a lesser man, I would insert my appreciation here; however, I disconnect the call. Taking a deep breath, I pray that Paul can find him. Jackson, a fellow hit man, is out of commission. He no longer works for the assassination corporation known as X-Member. That’s where Jackson and I met on bad terms, with me filching his missions. The only way to become the best was to beat the best—Jackson.
Nevertheless, he went against protocol and advised me of a mission with my name as the target. We aren't mates, nor are we associates, but we have a mutual understanding. And his excellent marksmanship would be an asset. If needed, I suppose I could persuade him to kill a few people.
I’ve known a great deal of tragedy. Almost didn’t survive the last bout of devastation. I have more money than I can even fathom spending in a lifetime. Yet, hand over fist, I’d give it all away for Luxury’s safe return. As I sit in the rear of my jet, laptop before me, I observe aerial footage of Al Rafi’s territory. The plane jets along the tarmac. Before we even lift off the ground, I glance at a text message from Paul. Per Burt’s orders, he’s found Jackson and offered to patch me into the hit man’s communication system.
A window pops up. Jackson’s on a couch with a remote in his hand. He keeps clicking and then finally says, “What the fuck?” as I become clear on a smaller square in the corner of my screen. Evidently, Paul’s patched me into the telly.
“Well, I'll be damned. Didn’t think I'd see your pasty ass ever again,” he snorts.
“Who is that, Uncle?” a young, dark-skinned girl asks.
“Hello, beautiful,” I say.
“Macy,” he begins, then whispers something in her ear. She gets up from the couch and exits the room.
“I inherited a family, Victor.” He gestures to her retreating form. “I reckon you got some sort of request?”
“Yes, I need a highly skilled individual.” I pause as the girl ambles back onto the couch, supporting a swaddled baby.
Jackson says, “Now before you tell me about this mission, see this baby? She is the little lady I told you about a few months back. My first child. Shit, to be honest, I didn’t even know I had myself a little girl until one day I got a call from a one-night stand.”
Ice slams my veins. I know where this discussion’s bloody headed.
By the way Jackson’s shoulders slump and how his face tugs tightly, I know precisely what his next question will be.
“Will this mission put me in danger?”
As he speaks, I’m torn between humbling myself and leading like the businessman I am.
Leading with hefty monetary compensation.
I run a heavy hand over the back of my neck and offer a curt nod. “Full disclosure? The notion of coming home isn’t highly likely. Even if you don't survive, your gorgeous little girls will have anything in the world they’d ever want.”
“But no uncle, no father?” he asks. “Vic. I don’t know what’s up, man, but by that bitter look on your face, it sounds serious. Shit, honestly, it sounds like my kinda gig.”
“Tell me you’re in.” The pit of my stomach drops before he even has a chance to respond.
After our conversation ends, I take a glimpse out of the window. Where’s the gloomy sky? When had we stopped?