Total pages in book: 77
Estimated words: 75640 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 378(@200wpm)___ 303(@250wpm)___ 252(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 75640 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 378(@200wpm)___ 303(@250wpm)___ 252(@300wpm)
And that’s coming from a man who has an impressive amount of in the field linguistics capabilities.
I rarely ever let my guard down.
I even fuck within reach of a weapon at all times.
Whether it’s a public place or hers.
Post mentally noting markers of my surroundings along with the exits – gotta always have an exit strategy – what can be used to defend me or us in an attack is always next.
Most people have this false sense of security wherever they go.
This thought process that no matter where they are in the world, they’re going to get back home without a hitch.
Lucky them.
Some of us had a different type of reality check before they even started kindergarten.
Hell, some of us didn’t even get to go to kindergarten.
Clearing the corner allows me to creep down the stairs in a prompt execution that provides me with the advantage on the attack. I don’t hesitate to unload one bullet into the first approaching assailant’s forehead nor is there reluctance to lean slightly to the side and unload two into the next. Blood splatters across the nearby white walls and then the fallen bodies when two more rounds are fired, clipping the taller oncoming aggressor’s arm rather than his dropping him like the previous men. A kill shot is temporarily delayed to pump three into the leg of the male covering his six; however, the instant that man is crumpling in agony, I’m unloading one up through the chin of the first. He falls with a heavy thud, giving me a clear line of fire to the other. An execution shot is taken in passing and heading for the room they were pouring from hastily occurs afterwards. Inside, there’s only one member of security left to guard the target and eliminating him is infinitely easier than those I met in the hallway. Squeezing the trigger just once shifts him from comfortably sitting in the white corner chair to slumped over on top of the magazine he was lazily thumbing through.
The small, boy child in the middle of the bed immediately pulls his legs to his chest, curls his arms around him, and buries his face from sight.
While I hate how much this probably scared him – both the shooting of his bodyguard and the Creature From the Black Lagoon gear I’m sporting – I’m simply grateful he’s still alive.
And hopefully unharmed.
Removing my facial equipment is done prior to cautiously announcing, “I’m not here to hurt you, pal. I promise.” I opt out of moving closer to further reiterate that and keep my bright blue eyes planted on his shaking frame. “Is your name Gentry by chance?”
At that his tiny head full of chestnut brown hair moves to meet my gaze on a small nod.
“Nice to meet you, Gentry.” My southern accent seems to lower his tense shoulders. “I’m Wahl.”
No reaction.
“Do you know your last name?”
“Timbers.”
“Are you three-years-old?”
“Four!” he feistily corrects like I hoped.
“Good. Can you show me that many fingers?”
He does, which allows me to spot inspect that he still has all his digits, meaning the tiny fingers mailed to our client belonged to another child.
A child, I unfortunately wasn’t hired to find or save.
Shoving down the sadness the thought conjures is swiftly done to verify I have the right target. “Great job, Gentry. I’m much, much older than that. I don’t quite have enough fingers or toes to show you though.” His tiny snicker inspires a brief smile. “Do you know your daddy’s name?”
He hesitates to nod.
“Is it Gilbert Timbers?”
The next happens with no vacillation.
There’s more excitement.
Enthusiasm.
It’s full of life and light and all the indicators that I’m not too late.
That he probably hasn’t been touched in the way they were swearing he has.
That the disgusting insinuations, like the mailed fingers, were just a bluff.
“That’s great, big guy, because Gilbert is a good friend of mine, and I’m here to take his youngest son, Gentry, home.”
Huge lie.
I mean, I am abso-fucking-lutely here to take his kid home, but we’re not friends.
I’d never be friends with a piece of shit like that.
It’s bad enough that I get paid to work for douches like him.
And just to be clear I take cases for assholes like him for two reasons, the first being to save an innocent child and the second being that they pay well enough that when those with less money empty their life savings to hire us to recover their kid, I still have more than enough funds to buy the expensive tequila I like versus the cheap shit.
I merely chose the word friend because it’s the most appropriate and comforting and will dissipate any lingering fear the kiddo might have regarding the rescue situation. I need him to be compliant and calm, not stubborn and skittish.
“Ready to get out of this place?” I warmly ask, open palm extended his direction. “Maybe go take a nap in your own bed?”