Total pages in book: 86
Estimated words: 83519 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 418(@200wpm)___ 334(@250wpm)___ 278(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 83519 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 418(@200wpm)___ 334(@250wpm)___ 278(@300wpm)
Boredom sinks deep inside of me to the point I’m actually starting to regret coming along for this lackluster adventure.
I could be trying to find Angel and killing him for the shit he put me through last night.
Making love?
The man really is a fucking psycho, unlike all the idiots in this fucking place.
“I’ve got to go to the restroom,” I tell Ryder, leaving my glass on the bar.
He nods at me, his eyes on the television above the bar, showing replays of a soccer game.
I won’t be coming back, and that’s a shame because there’s a real chance someone, not likely Ryder’s dull ass, will drug my drink. I just can’t stomach the lackluster way my day has gone.
The women’s bathroom is just as disgusting as I would’ve predicted. The floors are sticky and it reeks of piss. It’s clear the men use this one as well. There’s no toilet paper in the doorless stall, nor any paper towels at the discolored sink.
This place is a shithole, exactly what I was hoping for when Ryder suggested a bar in Mexico, but I’m growing increasingly underwhelmed.
Of course there’s no latch on the window, meaning anyone can come and go as they please.
Cold, night air hits my face as I climb out.
I wonder how long Ryder will wait for me to come back or if the guys in the bar will even give him a chance before they drag him out back and beat the shit out of him.
I stumble, the tip of my shoe catching on a rock in the uneven sidewalk, as I make my way to the end of the alley.
I hear a couple catcalls, but the words translated in my head don’t seem like they will offer me what I’m looking for.
The street is crowded on either side, with buildings that practically share walls with each other. They could either be homes or businesses, or a combination of both. Concrete locks in the warmth of the sun from earlier and lacks any breeze that tries to get past.
It’s a weird vibe of quiet but not silence at the same time.
I swallow thickly as I sense someone approaching in a rush and feel just as relieved as I do disappointed when a man rides past me on a bike without so much as acknowledging that I’m there.
My heart is pumping as I wander, avoiding small groups of men who look dangerous, but give me that rape-and-kill vibe. The whole point of getting abducted is working toward taking down the men that run the organizations. Getting killed in the middle of Tamaulipas without hurting some of those men who think they can do whatever the fuck they want is never the goal. It serves no purpose. It doesn’t matter that I’m no longer with the FBI, I still want to help as much as I want to give my demons the nourishment they deserve.
I know if I do get lucky enough to end up trafficked, it’s going to be even more lackluster than the time I spent with Ryder at the bar.
There’s just no way around it.
After spending several nights under Angel’s calloused hands, I know nothing else will compare. I’m going to end up hurt without the normal thrill and sense of satisfaction to go along with it.
Doing this was a mistake. I should’ve headed north, back to Kansas, instead of walking the streets of Mission, looking for trouble.
Footsteps creep up on me, and for added flare, I fake another stumble. It wouldn’t be uncommon for a woman to get drunk and try to make it to safety by walking down these streets. It makes me an easier target, not that I would fight them too hard. I don’t want to actually get away from them. I need to be in their den. I need to help the other women they may have.
I smile the second I feel weight pressed to my back, and despite the tears running down my face when I feel the pinch of the needle in my neck a second before a black bag is shoved over my head, I’m actually happy that my wait is over.
Maybe they’ll manage to hurt me enough that Angel will be a long-forgotten memory.
Chapter 21
Angel
I’m always at peace when I’m home.
Well, I used to be.
That restless feeling I’ve had for the last couple of weeks didn’t drop away once I opened my front door.
It lingers, haunts, keeps me from sleeping well, and is like a constant dripping faucet, annoying and beyond frustrating.
It’s her fault.
She did this.
My life was perfectly fucking fine. I didn’t have to worry about anyone. I didn’t have to wonder what they were up to.
It was me, alone, secluded.
I wasn’t checking out the windows without an alert to my security system, wondering if she was going to show up.