Total pages in book: 61
Estimated words: 59119 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 296(@200wpm)___ 236(@250wpm)___ 197(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 59119 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 296(@200wpm)___ 236(@250wpm)___ 197(@300wpm)
Fuck me, fuck me, fuck me.
“I’m assuming you’re with Elliott Jones,” he said. “You’re part of his rescue team?”
“What?” I played dumb, but I heard my voice falter. I was stuck. What the fuck should I do? Dig my heels into the sand? Deny, deny, deny? No matter how ridiculous I sounded?
My ears felt hot all of a sudden, and I dropped my gaze to my phone.
Oh my God, I was screwed. Again!
“Mere hours ago, you acted like you didn’t know anything about the cartel,” he told me. “Now you know who the boss is? How the members rank?”
Jesus Christ, I hadn’t asked him to clarify who Luca was.
“Don’t worry, this is actually reassuring to me.” He grimaced as he pushed himself to sit up straighter. “At least I know what side you’re on.”
“You don’t know shit,” I insisted.
“I know more than you think,” he assured. “People talk in DC. And as furious as I was at Jones last year, he was just doing his job. I wasn’t surprised for shit to find out he was with the Hillcroft Group.”
Oh my God.
A cold chill ran down my spine, and my brain threatened to spin out of control. What did this mean? Was his actual name Adrien Mercier? Was he a federal agent undercover?
How much would a man like Rafael Delgado know about the private sector? On the legal side of things, that was. How much would he know about the FBI?
“What’s your name?” I demanded.
He was the picture of calm, and it infuriated me. “Adrien Jackson Mercier.” He tilted his head while observing me. “Now to figure out who you are. I’m guessing…former Army? The Marine Corps? You have zero experience in intelligence work, but I’m sure you’ve had to be quick on your feet in a semi-related field. Maybe special recon and infantry? How do you know Elliott Jones?”
I couldn’t look him in the eye even for a second. Mortification flooded my face, and I wanted to shut him up. Could I shoot him again? Knock him unconscious? He was so spot-fucking-on that I didn’t know what to do with myself. How to move, what to say, whether to react at all.
“You’re not a PMC,” he said.
No. I really wasn’t.
I was a fucking loser.
I pretended to type on my phone.
Lekjglasda lkflksdja kljlkwdja jks klaja
Things were going well for me.
“Not in the mood to talk anymore?” He was mocking me. Great.
Where the hell was Ryan?
I climbed out of the water and went over to the rock where I’d put my towel and sweats, and I checked my watch again. Almost two PM. At one, I’d told myself to wait another hour before I went out running.
It was hot as balls, so I couldn’t say I looked forward to it.
After putting on my sweats, I returned into the house while I dragged the towel over my head.
“Are you gonna run to wherever you have reception?” Delgado-Mercier asked.
I shouldn’t have given him more water, much less fed him an egg. He had enough energy to speak, and I didn’t like that.
“Yeah, it’s a ten-mile run, so…” I blew out a breath and took a few minutes off my average time since I only had boots and no running shoes, and another few minutes because I had no desire to sprint. “I’ll be back in about an hour and twenty minutes.”
“A leisurely stroll, in other words.” He eyed me and lingered a little on the tattoo across the left side of my rib cage.
Like what you see, fuckface?
I headed to the kitchen, ’cause I didn’t wanna be near him.
Knowing him, he was gathering more information about me. My ink had been visible last night too, and who knew what conclusions he’d drawn from tattoos of family tributes. No names or anything, but a kilt and a family crest to represent the Finlay heritage, a big rusty truck—with which my old man and Uncle Angus had started their company after leaving the service. The words “Guarding the ridge” for my Uncle Greer, who’d found his happiness on a farm in Virginia. It sat at the bottom of a ridge. The Hollywood sign was for my youngest uncle. He was a famous documentary filmmaker and podcaster. Brooklyn Bridge was for my parents. Dad had proposed to Mom there, and I was a sucker for my folks being happy. So what.
The whole point of my ink was to remind myself that my family was so much more than the killing machines my dad and uncles had turned themselves into after 9/11. We had moved on. My youngest brother and I may have followed in their USMC footsteps—Maverick was still active—because we were proud of that choice too, but that wasn’t all we were.
To be honest, I didn’t know what the fuck I was anymore.
I’d only aced the Marine part of my life.