Total pages in book: 94
Estimated words: 88918 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 445(@200wpm)___ 356(@250wpm)___ 296(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 88918 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 445(@200wpm)___ 356(@250wpm)___ 296(@300wpm)
The door shut, slamming Tate’s pulse into overdrive.
“Goddammit.” He spun, searching for shoes, a gun, his phone… “She’s not walking away from me again.”
“She just did.” Van threw a bullet-resistant shirt at him and shoved on his own shoes.
“I need you to stay here.” He dressed at breakneck speeds and grabbed a burner phone. “Watch the guards from the window and call me if there’s trouble.”
“You’re going to get yourself killed.” Van gripped the back of Tate’s waistband and wedged a gun against his butt crack.
“Dude, get your dick beaters away from me.” Twisting away, he moved the weapon from his ass to the front of his jeans.
“Dick beaters?”
“Your fucking hands, man. We’re gonna talk about boundaries when I get back.”
“Are you sure you want to put the gun there?” With the arch of an impish brow, Van stared at Tate’s groin. “It would be a shame if you shoot your dick off.”
The thought made his balls shrivel, but it was a helluva lot quicker to draw a gun from the front than to reach around the back.
“My dick isn’t your concern.” He crouched to lace his boots. “I’m going to follow her, find out how she enters her apartment, and come right back.”
Cole had said there was only one way in and out of her unit, but that couldn’t be right. How did she slip past the guards at her door?
She had too many secrets, but he’d find a way to unwrap her, crack her open, and expose all her mysteries.
I’m dying.
That one had hit him sideways, and he still felt off-balance and outraged from the blow. And doubtful. She seemed pretty fucking resigned to die, but he wanted proof, validation from a professional, someone not connected to Badell. There were ways to go about that, but the logistics would be tricky and could put her at risk.
“Now we know why Cole couldn’t find medical records on her.” He tied the second boot and stood.
“Badell figured out how to hold her captive,” Van said, his voice eerily calm, “without locks or shackles.”
“Doesn’t mean I can’t get her out.”
Maybe he could get a blood sample and ship it to a lab? Could it be that easy? Not likely.
Gun, phone, armored shirt… He had everything he needed and raced to the door, pausing with his hand on the knob. “Did you record her symptoms?”
“I captured the entire conversation.” Van held up a small recording device. “What about you? Any luck with the tracker?”
“I stuck one on each of her Berettas when she handed them to me.” He opened the door and scanned the vacant hall.
The trackers—courtesy of Cole—were also listening devices. A spy camera on her body would’ve been ideal, especially since Tate had no choice but to let her return to Badell this morning, but wearable cameras were bulky, and the battery life was shit.
Putting audio transmitters on her weapons was risky enough. If someone discovered them, Lucia would pay the price.
“Try not to die,” Van called after him as he closed the door.
Down the stairs, out the main entrance, and along the empty street, he sprinted to catch up with her. The half-light minutes just before dawn was the sleepiest time in Caracas. There were fewer gunshots. No passing motorists. No people anywhere. Just the pound of his boots hitting concrete and the heave of his lungs.
He rounded the first corner of his building, ran a block toward her apartment, and slowed at the next bend. If he turned right, he’d walk into her alley and the guards who waited for her.
Removing his phone, he pulled up the tracking program and pinpointed her location. She’d gone around the block? Why? Maybe to circle the rear of her apartment complex to enter a side door? But how would she get in from there? He’d seen the blueprints of the building and her one-room unit. The front door was the only way into her living quarters.
He followed her moving location, veered left, and ran two blocks out of the way, which spit him out at the rear of her T-shaped building. Sticking to the shadows, he kept his senses sharp and aware. But he couldn’t watch his back while sweeping the shadows in front of him.
And that was how he ended up with the unmistakable press of a gun against the back of his head.
He froze, spine twitching and pulse thrashing in his ears. For a hopeful second, he thought Lucia was behind him, aiming a Beretta with irritation twisting her gorgeous face.
Couldn’t be her, though. This gunslinger was a mouth-breather, hacking air with a scratchy throat and reeking of cigarettes.
The string of words that followed were spat in Spanish. A man’s voice. A tall man, given the height and direction of sound. His impatience was evident in the jab of the gun against Tate’s head.