Total pages in book: 79
Estimated words: 76539 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 383(@200wpm)___ 306(@250wpm)___ 255(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 76539 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 383(@200wpm)___ 306(@250wpm)___ 255(@300wpm)
Like she needed me to come to her. Like she was begging me to cross that line.
But I can’t do it, not yet.
She’s lucky I was there. I almost didn’t follow Detective John and his little shitstain friend Mustache, also known as Detective Danny Allen. I almost thought it would be too much of a risk rolling up to a prison after a couple of crooked cops, but I figured I’d give them a quick drive-by just to see what’s going on.
I’m glad I did.
God, those pieces of garbage. I don’t know what they would’ve done, but it wasn’t going to be good, and she’s pregnant with my baby. I can’t risk letting them hurt her, letting them hurt the baby. There’s no way in hell I’d allow these sick bastards anywhere near her even if she doesn’t want me around.
I’ll keep her safe no matter what. I’ve been through enough in my life to know the only important things in this world are friends and family. I pay my debts and honor my promises. And I promised myself I’d watch over Sara until this was all over.
The gate creaks open and I work on the back door. That’s easier, a basic commercial lock, and eventually I’m inside. The kitchen is dark and smells like bacon grease and fried chicken. Plates teeter in the sink and the remains of his dinner sits on the table. I tiptoe into the living room, heading to the hall that leads toward the bedrooms. There are pictures on the walls, photographs of smiling people: a pretty girl, a couple of kids. Maybe Detective John had a family once. Not anymore. Beer cans litter the coffee table. A fifth of vodka sits on the floor next to the toilet.
He’s snoring when I crack open his bedroom door.
I creep toward him like a ghost, like the specter of death, like the grim reaper himself. His room is a mess: clothes on the floor, cigarettes in an ashtray on the nightstand, more empty beer cans. Detective John’s got some bad habits. This is the room of a man deep in a very dark place.
I press my gun against his face. I’d be easy to kill him. Pull the trigger and bang, Detective John isn’t a problem anymore. But killing a cop is complicated, and I can’t be sure I didn’t leave some evidence. Besides, it would only make Sara’s life harder.
“Wake up,” I say softly.
He shifts, grunts, snores again.
“Wake up,” I say louder and press the gun harder to his forehead.
He sucks in a breath and tries to swat it away. The sheets move down—the fucker’s in a stained white t-shirt and boxer shorts.
“John,” I croon. “Oh, John, wake up, my lovely John.”
He starts and shuffles back. “What the fu—” But before he can finish, I smack him across the face with the butt of my weapon.
He grunts and rolls sideways. His hand flashes out, reaching for something under the pillow beside him, but I press my gun to his skull. He stops, fingers inches away.
“Don’t,” I say. “I’d happily kill you if you made me.”
He freezes. “Angelo?” He asks, sounding disoriented. “Am I dreaming? What the fuck is this?”
I reach out and grab the gun he was reaching for. I toss it aside with a sigh. “You’re definitely not dreaming, John. I’m here to talk.”
He slowly turns to face me. His expression is hard, and a bruise is already forming on his cheek where I hit him. Blood trickles from a small cut. He’s trying to hold it together, but I can see the fear. “You’re a dead man now,” he says and shows his teeth. “Maybe you weren’t before, but now—”
I hit him again. I don’t need to, but it feels good, and I want to wipe that smug grin off his stupid, stinking face. “You shouldn’t threaten me right now, John,” I say and nudge him with the gun.
“Fuck,” he groans, hands pressed against the wound. More blood pours from a new cut above his eye. “You piece of shit. You lowlife scum.”
“That’s funny coming from you, considering you’re covering up a crime.”
“Fuck you.” He snarls at me and I caress him gently with the gun barrel.
“Listen to me, John. Listen to me good. I am going to kill you.”
He freezes. Goes very still. I’ve seen this before—it’s the reaction of a man faced with the impending truth of his mortality. “You’re fucking insane. You can’t kill a cop.”
“You think a gun and a badge will protect you after what you did? Oh, John. You never should’ve bothered Sara.”
“The lawyer? You really give a fuck about that?”
“Here’s the deal, Detective. I’m going to murder you and then I’m going to run to Mexico. I’ll live there for a while, lose myself in the smaller towns, maybe do some work for the cartels. Just like I told you earlier today. Then in a few years, once the heat dies down, Carmine will bring me back. I’ll keep on living, and you’ll still be dead. How’s that sound?”