Total pages in book: 72
Estimated words: 74324 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 372(@200wpm)___ 297(@250wpm)___ 248(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 74324 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 372(@200wpm)___ 297(@250wpm)___ 248(@300wpm)
“Why the long look?” Liam asked, shoving the soiled linen into his pants pocket.
I shrugged as best as I could.
“My dad won’t be giving you any money. You got nothin’ with Jennifer, mostly because she was nothing to me,” I said, closing my eyes. “And as for the beating you part, I regret that.”
Liam’s eyes narrowed.
“Is that right?” He asked smoothly.
I smiled.
He narrowed his eyes.
“That’s right. I would’ve taken you out completely had I known you were going to pull this shit. But I’ll remedy that in a little bit when my brothers get here,” I explained.
His fists clenched.
“You don’t have any brothers,” he countered.
“Is that what you think?” I challenged him.
He nodded. “I’ve had you thoroughly checked out. You have a mother and a father, as well as a grandmother that means very much to you. A girlfriend. A child on the way. But no brothers.”
I closed my eyes once again and tried to blank out the pain.
It didn’t work, especially when Liam pushed me over, chair and all.
My hands were tied behind my back, so when he pushed me backward, all of my upper body weight landed on my arms and hands.
It felt delightful.
Not.
My right shoulder screamed, and I knew instantly it was out of socket.
That’d be a bitch to get put back.
My left hand also felt slightly off, which probably meant it was broken, thanks to the metal cuffs and the awkward tilt to my hand where it’d been secured.
On the bright side, however, the wooden slats on the chair broke, freeing my arms.
And although it’d hurt like a motherfucker, I’d be able to get my hands in front of me since my shoulder was dislocated.
Which was going to happen earlier than I thought it would seeing as Liam’s phone rang.
He left without doing anything else to me, and I waited about twenty seconds after the door closed, then rolled.
The pieces of wood from the broken chair rolled free, and I stood up on a wave of pain.
Vision blurring, I slowly worked my hands under me, one leg at a time, until they were no longer behind me.
Bile rising in my throat, I walked determinedly to the far wall where there was a pillar for support.
Then, gritting my teeth, I roughly slammed my arm into the wall.
It didn’t pop in until the third attempt, and a blast of pain roared through me at the accomplishment.
My knees started to buckle, but the door to the side of me started to open, and it took every bit of strength I had left to launch myself.
Unfortunately, it was one of the good guys, and not Liam.
Lucky for me, Casten decided not to completely annihilate me.
He only threw me over his shoulder, or tried to.
The cuffs around his neck held strong, and although I was seconds away from vomiting, I managed to let go before I did any more damage to myself or Casten.
“Motherfucker,” Casten growled. “Why’d you have to go and do that?”
He was rubbing his neck, and I wanted to laugh.
However, I knew if I laughed, I’d be in too much pain afterward to make my body move.
“You take care of him?” I asked, sitting as still as I possibly could.
“Negative,” he said, closing the door.
He helped me to my feet, then surveyed my face.
“You look good,” he lied.
I winked at him.
“I’m trying some new makeup,” I grunted as I got my feet firmly on the ground beneath me. “Got a gun?”
He pulled a handcuff key out of his pocket, quickly removed the cuffs, and then shoved my own Glock into my hand.
The familiar weight of it felt heavenly.
“Annie?” I asked.
“Fine. Got a call from Wolf, then followed your signal here,” Casten said, answering my next question before I’d even asked it.
I nodded.
“Wolf still on the line?” I asked, checking the gun’s chamber.
Still loaded with my hollow points.
Good.
“Yeah, listened the entire time you got your face rearranged,” Casten replied almost soundlessly.
He went to the door, listened, and then opened it with nary a sound.
He pulled out a compact that looked vaguely familiar, but I couldn’t make my brain work long enough to figure out exactly where it’d come from.
I probably had a concussion…among other things.
“Clear,” Casten said.
I followed him, keeping my back to him as I cradled the gun in my good hand, but bad arm.
The shot wouldn’t be pretty, and it’d hurt like a mother, but it’d get done if I had to take anyone out.
Something I had to do a few moments later when we got into a boathouse, of all places.
It was a young man, one I remembered seeing on a flyer that’d crossed my office desk.
He’d been wanted for suspicion of selling drugs.
And the moment I saw him round the corner into the room we were standing in, I shot him in the leg.
I’d been aiming for the torso.