Total pages in book: 87
Estimated words: 79020 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 395(@200wpm)___ 316(@250wpm)___ 263(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 79020 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 395(@200wpm)___ 316(@250wpm)___ 263(@300wpm)
Chapter 1
Hemlock
It takes several very long seconds for the roar of my motorcycle to fade out into the echo of the surrounding mountains, leaving me with nothing but the faint sounds of music coming from the small bar.
The Lost Kitten.
My lip twitches in irritation as I stare at the flickering neon sign. It's like evil men don't even try to hide what they're doing these days. Either they think they're operating with impunity or they're so egotistical they think they will never get caught. Either way, I hate the owner of this bar already, and I've never even lain my eyes on anything other than a picture of him from the dossier I was given earlier today.
Ace, or Special Agent Eddie Yarrow as he's known in more recent years, suggested I take a day or two to acclimate myself to East Tennessee before getting to work, but I've never been one to do well with idle time.
I stay stock-still when the front door of the bar opens, the twang of country music following the man out, meeting my ears just in time for it to fade once again when it closes behind him. The shadows cover most of me, and I've learned from experience that there aren't many people as willing to talk to a sneering man sitting on a bike as they are to one under a floodlight with a smile on their face. I'm the epitome of unapproachable. Those words were verbatim from the good Dr. Alverez, the shrink all members of Cerberus were required to see on a regular basis.
"Your mental health is as important as your physical health."
I do my best not to snort my derision at the memory of Kincaid, the Farmington, New Mexico Cerberus club president, telling me that when I assured him there wasn't anything a head doctor could do to help me.
The pink neon in the sign flashes, going completely black, leaving me in total darkness.
I count four seconds before it starts working again.
Silence swarms around me, my heart pounding harder than it should.
It isn't nerves or excitement. I'm not jittery at the prospect of the job laid out before me.
Hell, I'm not even happy that my transition from Cerberus MC to East Tennessee went so smoothly.
I wish things were different. I wish I didn't crave the things I do, but we all have our crosses to bear, don't we?
I press one boot into the gravel, lifting my other over my bike, wondering if the lack of lighting out here is intentional. If the shadows serve a purpose for the type of business it's suspected they're operating out of the back.
The Lost Kitten was found on a list, along with over half a dozen other locations all around the United States. A list of bars isn't something that would normally raise any suspicions if it was say in the hands of a man collecting matchbooks from hole-in-the-wall bars, but this list was found in the belongings of Nathan Adair, a criminal notorious for human sex trafficking.
Adair was in the wind, somehow disappearing while under fucking surveillance by ICE. It seems the man is more skilled than whichever Immigrations and Customs agents who were responsible for following him that day. No one asked me, but if they did, I'd wager those agents were paid very well to be less skillful that day. Nathan Adair has a history of being extra slippery when he needs to be.
His stepdaughter was out of his control for over a year and ICE still knows nothing concrete about the man.
Nathan Adair and the thousands of men like him, the ones who think they can just take and take and hurt without penance, are the reason I'm here today.
Cerberus New Mexico, with all of those lovey-dovey couples, wasn't a good fit for me, but I figure this type of work, the kind that keeps me independent and alone, will be a much better fit. It keeps me mostly on the right side of the law, although there's a little less oversight for this black-ops type organization Ace somehow got the green light for.
Technically, I'm still Cerberus, but also not. In my head, it makes sense. In my head, I can understand that I'm still going to be considered the good guy even when doing some awful things. For me, that's huge. It's what keeps me from crossing the line I've always struggled with.
I run through the information I do have, albeit minimal, about The Lost Kitten, as I make my way to the front door.
The business is owned by Tommy Wilkinson, a man as slimy as a slug but who has also somehow managed to keep a squeaky-clean record his entire life. The lack of charges or convictions means nothing to me. I also have a clean record, and I've done some pretty depraved things in my lifetime.