Total pages in book: 26
Estimated words: 23745 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 119(@200wpm)___ 95(@250wpm)___ 79(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 23745 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 119(@200wpm)___ 95(@250wpm)___ 79(@300wpm)
“Yes.” I nod. “Yes, it will.”
It’s not like Clint is famous or anything – one of those wannabe gangsters who goes around flashing his face on YouTube for reputation. The only reason I even know it’s him standing in front of me is from the media coverage when he was tried with ordering the murder of a family of five around ten years ago and ended up beating the case when one of the state’s key witnesses changed her story in the middle of the trial.
People who believe Clint was guilty say it was due to witness intimidation. Those who believe Clint was innocent say he was being framed by a rival crime family or someone inside the family. I say it’s pretty obvious he was guilty.
He saunters over to me real casual, like we’re old friends or something, and puts a hand on my shoulder.
“I know about you and my daughter,” he says.
“Sir, I–”
“Don’t try and deny it,” he says, shaking his head. “I’ve had men watching your house since she moved in. I’m no dummy, understand?”
The chill in my veins hits my heart and expands through my chest.
If he’s telling the truth, there’s no telling what he’s seen between us. Did he have men following us to the restaurant that night? To the quarry?
But so far, he doesn’t look angry. There’s just an intensity in his eyes – an intensity that even if I didn’t know who he was – would have me watching my step.
“I understand.”
Clint nods and smiles. “Good!” He takes his hand off my shoulder and walks out in front of me, circling casually as though we were just chatting about the weather. “So what I need you to do, Blake, is end this…thing you have going on with my daughter. It’s just not right. You get me?”
I almost laugh. Clint Stryker trying to lecture me on morality? On what’s right and what isn’t? If this was five days ago, I don’t know what I’d say right now. But it isn’t. And what’s done is done.
“Well, I’ll have you know your daughter already ended things between us. So there’s really nothing for me to do.”
Clint spins to face me, and I can see the surprise plastered across his face, despite his attempt to mask it. “Is that right?”
“It sure is.” I nod. “A few days ago. I’m surprised your men watching the house didn’t let you know.”
It’s a bit of a dig, and I’m stepping over the line a bit, but I can see that Clint is pleased enough with what I just told him that I can probably get away with it.
“Well, ain’t that just something.” He grins, dragging his cigar. I take a few steps back to avoid the smoke. He points to the McLaren. “Well, boy, I guess all that’s left for you is to finish the job I brought you here for!”
He reaches into his pants pocket and pulls out a thick roll of cash and tosses it to me like he ‘s throwing me a tennis ball. I catch it in awe. I’ve never held this much money before in my life, and he just tossed it to me like he couldn’t have cared less.
“Now, if you’ll excuse me,” he chuckles. “I’ve got two Victoria’s Secret models inside waiting for me, and I wouldn’t want them to get bored. Just let one of the boys know when you’re finished with the brakes–”
The blast from behind me is deafening – like shattering metal scraping against more metal combined with a bomb going off behind it all.
My first instinct is to cover my ears and flinch, and my second instinct is to whip around to see the source of the ear-splintering sound.
And what I see shocks me.
A massive black armored truck crashes through the gate at high speed, tearing it from its frame and sending it spinning aside like a piece of plywood. The two armed men at the door of Clint’s house immediately raise their guns as the truck speeds forward and skids to a stop just in front of the steps.
“Oh, shit!” Clint bellows, dropping his cigar. It’s then I see, imprinted on the side of the truck, the bright yellow letters that read F.B.I.
Gunshots ring out into the night as a door on the back of the truck opens and armed men, fully suited up in tactical gear, leap out, flooding the compound.
I don’t know why, but I put my hands up. I guess to let them know I’m not one of Clint’s gang.
Beside me, Clint starts to run.
“Freeze, you son of a bitch!” someone calls out, aiming a rifle at him.
“Don’t you fucking move!” another agent bellows, causing Clint to change course, but all this does is cause him to end up staring down the barrel of another assault rifle.