Total pages in book: 68
Estimated words: 64662 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 323(@200wpm)___ 259(@250wpm)___ 216(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 64662 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 323(@200wpm)___ 259(@250wpm)___ 216(@300wpm)
I hear one guy call the other Ghost. Definitely a nickname, but it’s a name. The name is unfamiliar to me, but who knows what kind of items are in the trailer, and who knows if these guys are gangsters or tweakers in need of a fix? Either way, they want what I have.
The Charger slows, and I’m sure we’re exiting the freeway, but I have no fucking clue where we are or where they are taking me, never mind why strangers would kidnap me.
When the trunk finally opens, I attack immediately, kicking at the first figure I see without regard. He falls back, and I leap from the trunk, but I overestimate just how long I’ve been in there because my legs give out almost instantly. “Fuck!”
An arm wraps around my neck and then my waist, effectively restricting all movements except my legs as they drag me away from the Charger and to something behind me that I can’t see.
“Calm down you crazy bitch.”
“I am calm,” I shout, knocking my head back, hoping to knock that fucker’s teeth loose.
“That’s a problem,” the guy behind me says, stopping at the bottom of the steps. His grip on my waist falls away, and I try to make a run for it, but his forearm muscle tightens around my neck, and I freeze.
“Good girl,” he damn near purrs before covering my mouth with a disgusting-smelling cloth that knocks me out within seconds.
CHAPTER TEN
Diesel
I walk up to the guy waiting beside his tractor/trailer. “We got a few more pallets to load up,” I tell him. “You wanna come up here and get the paperwork signed?” Then I scan each pallet ready to leave Morgan International. Aria has made plenty of changes to how the business operates. This makes it more efficient but also difficult for the wrong people to know what the fuck we’re shipping. Good thinking.
“I’ll be right there,” the trucker replies, smiling as he smokes a cigarette and stares at the clouds.
The door on the other side of the warehouse smacks against the wall, and my brother stomps across the cement floor with a dark scowl. “What the fuck?” he shouts to no one in particular, so angry smoke is practically wafting off the top of his head.
I shrug because with Lucky, you never know. Maybe he and Aria fought over something, or maybe it’s some club shit that has him all riled up. I finish with the driver because nothing leaves late on my watch. I wait until the driver is gone before I turn to Lucky.
He’s still pacing up and down the warehouse, obviously waiting for me. This gives me pause because I can’t think of what I could’ve done recently to piss my brother off like this.
“Diesel,” he growls.
“Lucky,” I growl back. “ Why you so fucking riled up?”
“That chick didn’t make the goddamn delivery,” he barks, still pacing. “It’s about a four-hour drive and should have already been delivered. Yesterday. Did that bitch fuck us over?” He glares at me like this is somehow my fucking fault.
“Whoa, man.” I step forward, frowning as I get in my brother’s face. “I hope you’re not saying what the fuck it sounds like you’re sayin’, man.” Sure, he’s got me in age, but I’m bigger and thicker. Everywhere.
“So where the fuck is that shipment?”
“I don’t know,” I sigh. “Let me see what’s goin’ on.” I pull my phone out of my pocket, but the goddamn battery is dead. After that shit yesterday with the Bloodthirsty Devils, I bunked at the clubhouse after church and forgot about everything. “Shit. I need to charge it.”
“Convenient,” he snorts, shaking his head.
“Fuck you. Cassidy might be the only new person that’s been around lately, but it’s not like we don’t have plenty of people who want to fuck us over.” I know he’s angry. Fuck. I’m angry too—and worried—but his attitude isn’t helping.
Lucky nods, but his anger is still simmering and ready to blow.
“Do we know what the shipment is?”
“Fuck, yeah, we know.”
I nod. It could be drugs, guns, or something legit. Something a trucker with an entrepreneurial spirit might find the perfect load to steal. But Cassidy’s not that stupid. She knows we’d kill her.
“Okay,” I say when I power up my phone and find Cassidy’s name. “Shit. Is there something in that truck the law might seize?”
“That’s subjective,” he answers in a perfect non-answer that tells me nothing.
I call her about six times straight, but the phone rings and rings. “Cass, it’s me. Call me back. It’s important.” Each message is a variation of that, asking, pleading, and demanding that she call me back.
There’s no answer, but instead of being pissed off like Lucky, I’m worried. Sure, there’s a strong possibility that Cassidy just ghosted me and stole our shit, but on the second day of calling her, the voicemail is full.