Total pages in book: 68
Estimated words: 66977 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 335(@200wpm)___ 268(@250wpm)___ 223(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 66977 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 335(@200wpm)___ 268(@250wpm)___ 223(@300wpm)
No further argument is made.
“Blu,” my attention shifts back to him, “order a tactical sweep of the entire area after you call Reynolds. I want the other offices on this floor emptied and secured. Personnel sent home. I want the ones right below hers, emptied and secured. Personnel sent home. Pairs stationed at every point of entry on this floor and leading to this floor from the one below and above. If my woman so much as sneezes, there better be a small army’s worth of firepower locked and loaded and ready to hunt down those germs like they’re starring in a fuckin’ John Wick sequel. Is that clear?”
“It’s descriptive,” Arley spiritedly inserts.
“Affirmative,” Blu acknowledges yet again.
I redirect my gaze to the brown pair that I’m so thankful are no longer flooded with fear. “You gonna tell me goodbye?”
More relief fills her expression at the same time she slowly shakes her head. “You know I don’t say goodbye to you.”
“And you better not start now.”
The corners of her lips finally reach her ears. “Stay safe, Cowboy.”
“Stay sweet, Angel Cake.”
“Stay funny, Blu,” he states to himself in a playful nature, immediately receiving a quirked brow from me. “What?” His innocent shrug doesn’t affect the aiming of his weapon. “I wanted to feel included!”
Laughter from Arley successfully smothers out the lingering tension the way he knew it would.
The way he knows I need it to.
The way only she can.
With a much calmer, along with a much clearer, mindset I release a slow breath of focus and begin dragging the prisoner by the foot away from Arley’s office towards the elevator. Despite the fact there are faster ways for transport and that the transport itself would go much quicker if I had someone simply assist me in the carrying process, I deliberately choose the slower transferring method. Not only do I want him to endure additional bumps, bruises, and broken bones that will come from banging his frame into every hard surface I cross paths with, but I want to make an example out of him.
I want every man, woman, and fucking bug in this building to know that it’s a grave mistake to come after the love of my life.
Literally.
Chapter 2
Slater
Reynolds leans his back against the nearby wall. “I don’t think he’s breathing.”
“He is.”
“His chest isn’t moving.”
I slide on the first set of brass knuckles while quietly insisting. “It is.”
“You’re not even looking at the motherfucker!” squawks the other member of my interrogation team.
Not that I need a second to get shit done.
It’s simply protocol.
And a good reminder for why he should stay in my good graces.
“He’s not breathing, Wahl.” Another heavy sigh echoes around the barren room. “And we both know the dead don’t talk.” The opposite pair being wedged into place precedes an amused grunt. “Okay, dead people, not ghosts. Wait. Ghosts are dead people, huh?” My eyes land on him just in time to see misplaced contemplation conquering his expression. “Do you believe in ghosts? You think they’re more Casper or like Bruce Willis? I kind of think it’s fucked up in both those movies kids were being haunted. It’s like…don’t kids have enough shit to deal with already without making Scooby-Doo nightmares real?”
I don’t entertain his ramblings.
I don’t even waste the breath it would take to remind him to shut the fuck up.
I merely wait for him to arrive at the conclusion on his own before turning my attention to the man slumped over in the metal chair that’s stationed right above the drain located in the center of the room.
His tattered black clothing is the result of the material getting caught on the edges of the elevator and corners of chairs and random decorative structures we passed during the transferring process. The scrapes from the sidewalk are only slightly less apparent than the burns from the concrete and gravel; however, the blood splatters that have managed to seep through both the front and back of his outwear – courtesy of making sure to rotate him along the way like a rotisserie chicken – are impossible to ignore even in the dark colored fabric. Additional streams of crimson trickle along the sides of his oblong head to meet and mingle with the other splotches as do the droplets creeping out from the corners of his duct taped mouth.
Reynolds is right.
I can’t interrogate the dead.
But this asshole isn’t there.
At least not yet.
Tightening my hold to ensure I have a steady grip doesn’t take long nor does letting my fist fly through the air to connect the jagged metal edge of my weapon with his already bruised jaw. Sounds of bones cracking and gargled groans instantly reverberate around the underground box we use for our “less ethical” information inquiries informing me of what it is I already knew.
“See,” I heartlessly grunt. “Still breathin’.”