Total pages in book: 103
Estimated words: 97134 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 486(@200wpm)___ 389(@250wpm)___ 324(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 97134 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 486(@200wpm)___ 389(@250wpm)___ 324(@300wpm)
Carter opened his mouth to respond but thought better of it. He took a minute to consider his words before replying. “Well, sort of. I mean, that’s definitely in there. The game is a bit like FarmVille. Do you know it?”
I shook my head, so he continued.
“But it’s also a little bit of a shooting game and has fantastical quest elements to it. The developers basically found a way to appeal to all kinds of gamers with one product. So each player starts with a farm where they grow crops from seeds. They sell their crops for silver pips, which is the coin of the realm, or they can trade for other things like more seeds, household items, or weapons.”
“Weapons? For what? Defending your apple trees?”
Carter nodded, his paperwork all but forgotten now. I tried not to notice the flush of excitement on his cheeks or the way his eyes flashed as he described the game. “Weapons are necessary to defend your farm from marauding orc hordes, obviously, or you can use them to attack other farms to steal their stuff, if you’re that kind of player. It’s a multiplayer online game—I mean, you can play it solo, but it’s epically boring—and the world is filled with other players’ farms. There are also daily, weekly, monthly, and seasonal challenges like scavenger hunts, and specific crops to harvest for bonuses, and—” His expression turned suspicious. “You sure you don’t already know all this? How is it possible you haven’t played Horn of Glory yet?”
“Because I have more important things to do. Like maybe retrieving a kidnapped CEO from a Russian terrorist organization or infiltrating a real weapons-smuggling operation to determine how they’re stealing from our client.”
Both of those things were true, even if they were the highlighted parts of my job rather than the usual. The usual was oftentimes arranging on-location security for the day a global corporation decided to let 30 percent of its workforce go.
Carter sniffed and went back to his paperwork. “Yes, well, obviously I’m busy saving lives most days. I only play Horn of Glory to keep in touch with my cousin Kevin. It’s important to him.”
I cursed myself for shutting him down. Even though the blue-blooded Dr. Rogers pushed all of my buttons—in bad ways and in good ways, which were even more difficult to ignore—I still preferred talking to him over listening to the echoes in this run-down building.
“That’s nice that you play a game with your little cousin,” I said, trying to make amends. “I’m sure he appreciates you taking time out of your schedule for him.”
Carter surprised me by laughing, and fuck if he wasn’t the prettiest damned thing ever when he laughed. I wanted to make him laugh more, see that smile as often as possible. “He’s twenty-five and has a degree in Systems and Network Administration. But yeah. He lives with our grandfather and doesn’t get out much. He’s incredible with games and tech, though. And he’s a HOG fanatic. The kind who’s in the chat rooms and fan forums where they spout all kinds of conspiracy theories and share links to videos of hours-long gameplay. Needless to say, Grandfather would like Kev to find a ‘real job’ sometime soon.”
“Maybe he should join the service,” I suggested, knowing full well a family like the Rogers would never sacrifice their children to the US military.
Then again, maybe I needed to stop being such a presumptuous ass.
A rapping sound came from the security door. Carter glanced at it before turning to me. “That’s probably our dinner. You can fetch it and set it up on that table you just cleaned.”
I stared at him. Fetch it? Was I a dog? Was this one of the things I supposedly enjoyed carrying? Or just another duty as his manservant?
Instead of punching the fucker in the face, I decided to get some distance by answering the door. I was here to protect the asshole, after all, so it was my job to get between him and potential risk.
The risk came in the form of a gap-toothed boy who looked all of ten years old. He carried a canvas bag filled with mismatched food storage containers and two big bottles of water. “Aquí está su cena, señor,” he said with a proud grin.
“Muchas gracias,” I replied with my own smile of thanks. Whatever was inside the containers smelled amazing. “¿Que hay para cenar?” I wasn’t picky at all, but I still liked to know what I was eating in unfamiliar places.
He giggled a little, presumably at my American accent butchering his native language, but quickly answered politely, “Asado Negro.”
I put my free hand to my chest and mimed inhaling happily. “Bueno, tengo hambre.”
After returning the kid’s wave of goodbye and watching him run down the dusty street, I returned inside and locked the door again before bringing the food to the folding table I’d cleaned. “This smells amazing. I’m going to dig in.”