Total pages in book: 73
Estimated words: 68688 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 343(@200wpm)___ 275(@250wpm)___ 229(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 68688 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 343(@200wpm)___ 275(@250wpm)___ 229(@300wpm)
“I don’t know,” he said. “I just started here—”
I pulled out my pistol and shot him in the head. The sound of the blast was deafening in the enclosed space, even with the silencer on.
One of the other guys gave out an uncontrollable shout.
The other—the one who’d pissed himself—had wet eyes.
I turned to the next one. “Your turn.” I aimed the gun at him.
This one didn’t play games. “Godric.” His eyes were down because he couldn’t look at me, couldn’t face down the barrel pointed at his head.
“Good,” I said. “Where can I find him?”
“I—I don’t know. I really don’t know. You can ask the boss—”
“Who’s the boss?”
“The man I work for…his name is Peter.”
“Peter what?”
“Peter Astinoff.”
I kept my gun on him. “Call him.”
He hesitated, like he couldn’t believe the request. “I—I don’t have his number.” He looked at his dead comrade. “He hired me—”
I pulled the trigger, and he fell out of the chair.
“Please don’t kill me.” The man with the wet pants immediately started to beg for his life, trembling so hard in his chair that the tapping of the legs against the concrete was audible.
“Get me Peter, and you won’t have to die in your own piss.”
“I don’t have his number, but I can get you to him.”
“How?” I continued to hold the gun to his face.
“I think I know where he lives.”
“You think?”
“He was having a party and wanted us to bring the girls…for entertainment.”
I kept the gun trained on him, but for once, I was intrigued by this information. “Address?”
“I don’t—don’t know the address, but—but I remember how to get there.” He could barely talk, afraid his brains were about to get blown across the floor. “It’s the 4th arrondissement. I can take you there now.”
I finally lowered the gun and nodded to one of my guys to cut him free.
When his wrists were unbound, he closed his eyes and released a heavy breath.
“Change your pants,” I barked. “My car isn’t going to smell like piss.”
We drove across town to the 4th arrondissement, the roads empty at this hour. My witness was in a different car, a gun held to his temple. With the window cracked, I smoked a cigar, passing the old buildings and seeing Notre-Dame come into view, the cranes still in place because the renovation would take years.
Fleur texted me. You awake?
I’d been simmering in the back seat, burning underneath my clothes. The women I’d liberated were being taken to a safe house by the guys. After they showered and changed their clothes, they would be given money and papers to head on their way or be reunited with the families from which they were stolen. Most of the girls weren’t even legal adults yet. I wanted to ignore Fleur’s message and let her think I was asleep because I was in a pissed-off mood, but I respected her too much to let her message go unanswered. Working.
She seemed to read my clipped tone because her response was brief. I’ll talk to you later.
I should just leave it at that because I had other priorities right now, but I couldn’t. Are you okay, sweetheart? I was pissed as fuck right now, ready to burn down that house and force my enemies to breathe in the smoke, but all of that paused the second my concern for her grew.
Her three dots came right away. I’m fine. Just want you in my bed, is all.
Normally, I would have smiled, but I felt nothing right now. Tomorrow.
Okay, be safe.
Once I knew she was fine, I put my phone away and watched the line of cars pull up to a building behind an iron gate. It must be the place because my crew hopped out with the crowbar then proceeded to break down the gate with a couple swings.
I got out of the car as the guys formed a perimeter around the house, while the others carried the crowbar to the double front doors. They planned their coordinated attack in silence, and once the wordless cue was given, the attack happened simultaneously, the windows behind blown out with gunfire while the door was knocked down.
The men moved through the house, shooting down the security guys who had failed at their jobs. Blood splattered the walls, smoke bombs were thrown into hallways, screams were silenced by death. It happened quickly, framed family photos on the walls shattered by bullets.
I heard a woman’s scream from upstairs, probably the wife or the mistress or the whore, who fucking knew.
I waited downstairs, listening to her scream as she was dragged into another room and then locked behind the door with her children. Minutes later, Peter was dragged down the stairs and to the center of the living room, forced on his knees like an execution.
“Wife and children are barricaded upstairs,” one of the guys said as he approached me. “No injuries.”