Total pages in book: 86
Estimated words: 81076 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 405(@200wpm)___ 324(@250wpm)___ 270(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 81076 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 405(@200wpm)___ 324(@250wpm)___ 270(@300wpm)
“Or maybe he’s getting better at being a dirty rat,” a raspy voice croaks from the shadowed doorway leading into the front of the shop. It’s the place where clients would usually enter, to check out the menus and pay their bill.
But this man isn’t a client.
He’s a mountain of a human even bigger than Wimpy, with long, dirty blond hair tied back in a ponytail that makes his prominent nose look even more aggressive. He steps out of the shadows with a smile, revealing a mouthful of braces that seem out of place on a mobster.
But this man is definitely a mobster, a fact he proves by calling over his shoulder in a rough voice, “Come on, Wimps. Let’s get this done and get back to the house before the road washes out. Lucy’s saving me a piece of pumpkin pie.”
Another shadow materializes from the darkness behind him. It’s Wimpy. His dark eyes glitter my way, as he murmurs, “Hey there, Blondie. I knew we’d meet again.”
“Run, Nora!” Mel shouts as she grabs the whistling teapot from the stove and hurls it in Brace Face’s direction.
He ducks, causing the pot to collide with Wimpy’s chest and scalding water to spray onto his arms. He screams and Brace Face turns to see what’s happened.
That’s the last thing I see before I grab Clyde from beneath the prep table, clutch him to my chest without letting the bad guys see him, and dash for the door.
Chapter Ten
MATTY
I’m halfway to the truck stop at the edge of town where I typically meet my handler—a man in a tattered Gull Lake baseball cap named Al, who’s old enough to be my grandfather—when I suddenly whip into the Country Time Buffet’s abandoned parking lot and turn back the way I came.
I don’t know why my tongue is snarling into a stress cramp at the rear of my throat, but I know what it means.
Something isn’t right.
I’ve made a bad call, and I need to retrace my steps.
Every officer I’ve spoken to throughout the years has some version of my tongue cramp, a physical manifestation of their deep, inner knowing that the shit is about to hit the fan. Normal people have it too—that flutter in your stomach when you’ve neglected to lock your car or the brain tingle when you’re about to forget your spouse’s birthday—but for the layperson, ignoring that “something’s off” feeling doesn’t usually end in people getting seriously hurt.
The one time I ignored my tongue tingle, I was made by the man I was following and nearly thrown into a windowless van in Sioux City, Iowa. Luckily, I wasn’t working alone that time around. The rest of my team swooped in, and the man and his accomplices were arrested before they could snatch me off the street, but the close call taught me a lesson.
Never doubt the tongue cramp.
Especially when it comes to the well-being of the people who matter most.
As I push the speed limit back toward the catering company, I curse myself for getting my sister involved in this. Nora wandered into the middle of my op, but Mel was safely at home, about to make apple pie ice cream to ease the pain of spending her first holiday away from her son. I should have left her alone and found somewhere else for Nora to hide while I learned what urgent development Al has to share.
And no, I can’t think of another safe place off the top of my head, but that’s no excuse. If nothing else, I should have left her in the treehouse, even if I wasn’t sure I’d be able to get back to pick her up for a few days. The treehouse had food, water, plenty of wood for the fire, and the advantage of being completely off the Sweetwater crew’s radar.
“Pies,” I mutter, slamming the heel of my hand against the steering wheel as the reason for my tongue cramp comes rushing into my conscious mind. I told Wimpy my sister was a caterer, who made the best holiday pies. If he remembered that, it wouldn’t be hard to track down Mel’s catering company. There are only three in town and the other two are named after their head chefs, both of whom are men.
“Fuck, fuck, fuck,” I curse, pressing down harder on the gas as my heart races faster.
Praying I’ve reached them in time, I take a sharp left into the alley leading to the back parking lot, and nearly run head-on into a wild-eyed Nora. She’s clutching an equally terrified-looking Clyde to her chest, but nearly drops the cat as Mel crashes into her from behind. She recovers at the last second, snatching Clyde around the ribs and holding him close as she squints into the headlights.
Wrenching open my door, I shout, “It’s me. Get in!”