Total pages in book: 145
Estimated words: 136731 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 684(@200wpm)___ 547(@250wpm)___ 456(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 136731 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 684(@200wpm)___ 547(@250wpm)___ 456(@300wpm)
Straightening in his chair, he observed me guardedly. “Actually, yes, I think we could.” Damn. The chief was getting cocky again. And that sounded like a challenge to me.
I always did love proving people wrong.
In the early hours of the morning, in the partial darkness of the semi-lit bullpen, I unlocked my cell with the key I had accrued from the very first day and walked out of the lockup that was acting as my current residence. I scanned the key card I’d stolen this afternoon from—I looked down at the ID—a cadet named Janet Nolan and made my way out of the back entrance. A small smile hit me as I wondered how long it would take them to realize I wasn’t there.
That night, I ate a juicy steak and baked potato loaded with sour cream, slept in a decent motel bed and showered without an officer watching my ass like I was about to shoot explosives from it. And it felt damn good. Silence was good too. But my leaving was never meant to be permanent, more of a lesson learned the hard way.
I wake early that morning, shower and dress then walk to a diner to get myself a coffee and breakfast before returning to the station. The young Janet Nolan at the reception desk stands suddenly with her mouth gaping as I enter. Taking my sunglasses off, I ask, “He in his office?”
She nods quickly, and I drop her keycard onto the laminated counter. Suppressing her shock, she steps forward to frisk me before buzzing me into the cop shop. I wink at her as I walk inside, my head held high, and already I hear the commotion.
“You goddamn moron, you just let him leave?” This has me pausing just before I make it to the chief’s office. I can’t place the voice. I don’t know this person. “Have you any idea what you let pass through your fingers? The information this guy might have had would be invaluable. And what do you do? Fucking taunt him!” A harsh exhale. “Jesus fucking Christ!”
The chief sounds tired when he responds, “It wasn’t a taunt. I thought it was fact.” He pauses before adding, “Never had anyone escaped the hold before. How was I supposed to know he would?”
A scoff of disbelief sounds. “Gee, I don’t know, Peterson. Maybe because”—his voice rises to a shout—“he fucking told you he would!”
“Shit, Ethan, they all fucking gloat. This is the first time it’s actually come to fruition. I didn’t know.”
Ethan, whoever the fuck that is, lowers his voice mildly. “You have no idea what you’ve done. Heads are going to roll, beginning with yours.”
For a split second, I think about walking away just to spite the chief. It takes only that split second to remember the woman—the angel—with long brown hair and smiling eyes, and my need to get back to her has my pride fading fast.
Placing my hand on the knob, I turn it and step just inside the office, standing tall, making my entrance one of impact.
Both men swivel to face me, and they say nothing, just stare. A full minute passes and not a word is spoken. The chief stares hard, blinking in confusion, as if I were a mirage about to fade away at any moment.
I move forward and take a seat on one of the cushy guest chairs in the chief’s office before lifting my coffee to my lips and speaking to keep the mood light. “I would’ve got you a coffee, Chief.” I sip. “But I really didn’t want to.”
The exact moment he implodes, I see it. And it makes me snuffle a laugh under my breath.
His face turns bright red and the veins in his neck bulge when he moves to close the office door behind me. The second that door is closed, he lets loose. “Where were you? We had a deal. You help me, and I do what I can to help you. You do not leave!”
My shoulder bounces. “Those are your policies, not mine. Besides, you should know by now that I don’t follow the rules.” My gaze hoods. “I make them.”
This does nothing to quell his fury. “Goddamn it, you son of a bitch.” The chief comes at me, rage blazing red in his eyes, but the other man in the room places a solid hand on his shoulder to stop him. Chest heaving, the chief stills before changing directions, moving to sit behind his desk, flexing his hands in a nervous gesture implying he has the need to fuck shit up.
I glance at the other man before jerking my chin up at him and muttering, “And who the fuck are you?”
The man’s gaze meets mine a long, somber moment before his eyes crinkle in the corners, and I can’t help but feel he might be holding in a laugh. Holding a clear note of authority, dressed in a charcoal gray suit with a plain white shirt and black tie, his salt-and-pepper hair cut and styled neatly, with his black dress shoes so shiny you could use them as a mirror, I immediately dislike him. It’s not necessarily his fault.