Total pages in book: 44
Estimated words: 40484 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 202(@200wpm)___ 162(@250wpm)___ 135(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 40484 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 202(@200wpm)___ 162(@250wpm)___ 135(@300wpm)
Fear sat on El’s back like a demon ready to capture his soul as soon as he took his last breath, but he wasn’t ready to die yet and approached an ancient wooden bookshelf that had been there when he’d first moved in. It wouldn’t budge when he attempted to knock it over, but the sudden silence outside meant that the truck had parked, and the frenzy of panic sent him between the piece of furniture and the wall.
He pressed his back to the dirty plaster and placed first one, then both of his feet on the side of the shelf. His whole back ached, muscles threatening to tear, and his nape gave a weird creak, but he pushed through the discomfort, and the piece of furniture fell like an ancient tree, in front of the door.
El yelped when someone on the other side pushed down the handle. He ran into the bedroom, just to be farther away from the intruders, but wasn’t delusional about his fate. At least three men stalked outside, and since his house sat right in the middle of a massive expanse of flat land, trying to run off on foot would have been pointless. They’d gun him down if he was lucky, or shoot him in the knees if he wasn’t.
He grabbed a straight razor from his bedside table and scooted into the corner, desperately chewing on his lip while sweat dampened his clothes. This was it. He’d be taken and made into an example for anyone who ever considered trying to outsmart the Moreno Cartel. Would he end up boiled in a giant pot, like that woman found last year, or cut open and left to the dogs? What if the chase angered them enough to come up with something even worse?
He choked on air when the door in the main room burst open and his mind filled with images of blood and torn flesh. When his gaze moved to the blade in his jittery hands, it became clear that he only had one chance to escape the torture.
He pushed off his leather jacket, extended his bare forearm, and pressed the razor to flesh. The world stopped for half a second when he focused on letters spelling out forearm across his skin. All his acquaintances believed it was random ink he’d gotten along the way, so he’d kept its true meaning secret. The second half of the word, earm hadn’t been a part of the original design and was a later addition, fueled by bitterness. The tattoo used to read for, while a man from El’s past bore the letters ever. Unless he’d covered it with some other ink since.
So much for a forever.
All good things came to an end. El’s and Trig’s love. Money. Food. Safety.
When the bedroom door was kicked in and a man in a yellow shirt yelled, “He’s here,” El sank the razor into his skin.
Blood pounded in his ears, making the world sound as if he were underwater. If he died fast, they couldn’t make him suffer. He might be gone before his time, but at least on his own terms, without extensive suffering. Safe.
Still, his hand shook, and as he pushed the razor into flesh, making several cuts that had blood drizzling out, something stopped him from going deep enough, as if there was another person deep inside him, desperate to keep him alive, regardless of what might happen. He took in the spots of mold on the walls, the dirt and trash littering the floor, the mismatched furniture, and even though the intruders were there with murderous intent, a part of him was ashamed of them seeing how hopeless his life was.
But as the three massive shadows stepped in, exchanging words he didn’t understand, his brain blurred with panic, and, despite the pain in his wrist, he placed the blade at his throat.
“You won’t take me alive!”
An older, moustachioed man, who had been introduced to El as Carlos, yelled something to the others, but El lifted his chin high to make cutting easier. So maybe the old ceiling that had long started cracking wasn’t the nicest view to die to, but—
A bit of plaster fell onto El’s face in a cloud of dust that was painfully close to making him sneeze despite the imminent danger. Something creaked above, but just as Yellow Shirt approached, his massive hand reaching for the blade in El’s hand, the ceiling burst open.
Wood and old straw were like sharp teeth around the hole, spitting out stuff that the owner must have stored upstairs for years. In a cloud of dust, the cartel men were like shadows, disoriented by the onslaught of different objects hitting the floor. Glass smashed nearby, sending shards all the way to El, but despite the chaos, his eyes were pinned to Carlos’s twisted features above him.