Total pages in book: 98
Estimated words: 95732 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 479(@200wpm)___ 383(@250wpm)___ 319(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 95732 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 479(@200wpm)___ 383(@250wpm)___ 319(@300wpm)
It seemed Reilly had some sort of “connection.” And not of the broke-ass kind of association like Warren.
After getting the address, Deacon had done some digging and the property appeared to be owned by a company. R. Ackerson, LLC.
Sounded like Reilly had friends in high places. If so, maybe she could afford a bodyguard to keep her safe. Because Deacon’s sole purpose of being parked at the bottom of a mountain outside of Mansfield, Pennsylvania, was to find and capture Warren, then deliver him to Bianchi.
That was it.
Nothing more. Nothing less.
He was not a bodyguard. He was not a babysitter. He was not a hero.
Well, the last one could be debatable.
He’d been known to be like Superman in bed.
He grinned.
Right now, he needed to reevaluate his plan. He’d go into town, casually ask questions, possibly show pics of Warren, and find a motel to set up his “base.” And maybe he could find a woman to warm his bed and help him keep an eye out. It always helped to create some networks in town.
He was hungry. He was thirsty. Even a bit horny.
It was quite possible he could scratch all those itches in the bar he just walked into.
Not exactly a dive, but it wasn’t some kind of stuffy martini bar, either. It was casual, served good homemade grub and cold beers. At least, that was what the cashier said at the local dollar store after Deacon showed her the picture of Warren and got an answering shrug. Then he’d asked her where the locals went to unwind.
Turned out to be a locally-owned sports bar, the Mill Creek Bar & Grill. It wasn’t the type of establishment that would need to hang a sign stating, “No Colors Allowed,” but he left his cut in the Ford anyway. But then, he never wore his Fury colors while hunting a skip.
Potentially, doing so could make his club a target. Instead, he wore a pair of worn Levi’s, his BFMC belt buckle, his boots and a plain off-white thermal since the night had gotten a bit nippy.
Conveniently located a couple of blocks down from his motel, he left his truck there and walked.
He kept his head on a swivel while he hoofed it down the sidewalk, on the off chance he’d spot Warren. He had burned that fucker’s face into his memory. He also made sure to wear his black paracord bracelet since he had nowhere to hide cuffs or zip strips on him to secure a fugitive. Like a Boy Scout, being a bounty hunter, it paid to be prepared.
Most fugitives weren’t going to stand there and wait for their captor to find something to secure them with. They would go into fight or flight mode. Not simply get on their knees and interlock their hands behind their heads like a good little boy or girl.
And Deacon sure as fuck wasn’t running after anyone and preferred not to get into a damn scuffle, if he could avoid it. His face was too pretty to risk getting fucked up like that.
When he walked inside the bar, the building was bigger than what it appeared since it was a lot deeper than it looked on the outside. An oval-shaped, double-sided bar sat lengthwise in the middle of the space. Along the sides in that front area were high tables. The back was more of a dining area, which was pretty full for the time of night. But then, there were different types of sports being shown on big screen TVs hanging along the walls. Whether those games were live or taped, Deacon had no clue. He wasn’t into sports except for the NFL. He was a Steelers fan since he’d grown up watching all the games with his dad. However, at the beginning of April, football was a distant memory.
He spotted an empty stool down at the other end of the bar and made his way to it, scanning the patrons sitting around the bar and surrounding high tables as he went.
None of the patrons looked like Warren.
He doubted the fugitive would just be chilling in a bar, drinking a beer and eating fried mozzarella sticks, anyway. But, hey, the dude could be so whacked that he didn’t care who saw him.
He settled on the stool, ignored the male bartender three customers down and caught the eye of the female one across from him. He gave her a crooked smile and a chin lift. She immediately broke away from the woman she was talking with and hurried over, throwing a cardboard coaster onto the bar top in front of him.
She leaned over just enough to give him a nice peek at the top curves of her tits, which were stuffed into a bra a size too small. Her tight tank top, which advertised the bar and grill, also did nothing to hide her assets.