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)
“Are you a fed?” I ask directly.
A slow smile spreads across his face as he turns to look at me. “Do I need to pull this speedo off?”
My jaw clenches. I’m already annoyed to be here, and ready to get back to Lauren. Knowing it keeps my feet planted on the damp sand.
“I didn’t ask if you were wired. I asked if you were a fed.”
“You probably wouldn’t believe me if I said no.”
“You’re correct.”
His smile only grows wider. “What can I do to prove that I’m just a guy with a certain set of skills in need of a job?”
“Nothing,” I answer quickly.
He nods, his attention going back to the water, and eventually I turn my eyes that direction as well.
We sit in silence. He doesn’t complain about me wasting his time or the goosebumps that pop up on his skin when the air turns colder.
“How did you find me?”
I hate to be the one to break the silence, but he doesn’t taunt me for losing the game.
“We ran into each other a few months back.”
I nod. “I don’t remember you.”
“Kind of the point, isn’t it?”
Sand filters from his fingertips. He’s composed but diligent, I realize, as I catch him clocking every person walking around.
“It was in Guadalajara on the Pinkett case.”
“How does a white boy go unnoticed in Mexico?”
His face is serious when he looks back at me.
“People see what they want to see. You have to know that some of the fastest growing trafficking rings are being led by white guys.”
He isn’t telling me anything I don’t know. The man that was standing in front of Lauren when I found her at the house weeks ago was as Caucasian as they come.
What does surprise me is that this guy just said all of that in perfect fucking Spanish.
His grin tells me I must not have hidden my shock as well as I would’ve hoped.
“Besides,” he says, going back to English. “Aren’t horny white men the ones buying all the abducted women?”
“For the most part,” I agree. “You were in Guadalajara for the Pinkett job?”
He shakes his head. “I was there to watch you work.”
I take stock of who is around me, and what my chances would be of slicing his throat and getting out of here before anyone noticed.
“How did you know I was going to be there?” He’s looking more and more like a fed to me.
“A friend told me.”
“I don’t have any friends.”
He doesn’t look flustered. He doesn’t start jabbering like most do when caught in a lie, and the man is lying. I can tell.
“Want to tell me the truth?” I challenge.
“I searched for you on the dark web.” He turns to look at me. “Actually, I just bumped into you in Farmington a few weeks back.”
My skin feels like it’s on fire despite the cool ocean breeze.
“Okay. I saw you a couple of weeks ago in Kansas.”
This motherfucker is following me, and I didn’t even know it. I realize I’ve been distracted since the second I walked into the Cerberus clubhouse and saw Lauren standing there, but he’s been keeping an eye on me for much longer than that. He’s gone unnoticed, undetected by me, and that’s cause for concern.
“Which one of those is true?”
All humor leaves his face when he looks at me again.
“All of them.”
“What are you not telling me?”
His eyes search mine for a long moment. “I’m number three-fifty-two.”
I swallow, my hands growing clammy. That burned patch of skin on the back of my neck feels as fresh of a wound as it did years ago when I had the tattoo burned off.
I don’t say a word as I stand and walk away, the number three-fifty-eight on repeat in my mind.
Chapter 30
Lauren
No matter how hard I wring my hands together, the trembling just won’t stop. It travels up my arms and settles in my chest before making its way through my torso and legs.
It’s as if I’m standing in a frozen wasteland, frigid, frozen to the bone instead of the living room.
“Don’t touch him,” Liana insists when I reach toward my father’s face.
“What did you do?” My voice is broken, sobs making my question come out in syllables rather than words.
“I had to,” she whispers, her hand strong and steady on my back when she offers a comforting touch.
“You didn’t,” I argue.
“You don’t understand.”
I look up at her, trying to see her through my tears but finding it impossible. She swims in my vision until I swipe at my eyes. “He’s dead.”
“He had to die.” She glances away from me, her eyes locking on our father.
“Because of a couple bruises?” I point to the handprint he left behind when he grabbed her.
They’d been arguing all morning. I hid in my room, curled in as small of a ball as I could manage in my closet.