Total pages in book: 72
Estimated words: 72154 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 361(@200wpm)___ 289(@250wpm)___ 241(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 72154 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 361(@200wpm)___ 289(@250wpm)___ 241(@300wpm)
It was worse.
***
It was two hours later when the questions finally died down.
Not only did word get around that I shot a killer—but he was also the serial killer who had been slicing and dicing his way through the South.
He’d just taken his two final victims from the house down the road from me, and the screams I’d heard before they were cut off were from the woman who he was busy shoving into a cooler that he was about to take out to his Suburban.
We’d caught him just as he was about to take a small break—from chopping up the man who had previously lived at that property with a band saw that belonged to the owner—when the cops had arrived.
After being transported to the hospital with a gunshot wound to the shoulder, the man had gone straight into surgery. He’d also had a police escort—as well as one from FBI—since he’d departed the scene.
And I was slowly feeling the nausea take me back over.
“Why did you think there was something wrong?” an FBI agent asked.
I gave him a look. “I’ve already answered that.”
“You have, but I’m asking you again,” he countered.
I pulled out my phone, then dialed the number that I hadn’t called in quite some time.
FBI agent and field director Rance Ruins—that really was his name—answered on the fourth ring.
“Peter Parker Penn, if I do declare.”
I grunted at him. “I need you to get a field agent off my ass.”
Rance chuckled. “And what’s this agent’s name?”
Five minutes later, I was doing my best impersonation of a zombie as I walked to the truck that Rafe had arrived in. “I could’ve done that, but not nearly as quick,” Rafe explained.
I shrugged.
“Working for them had its advantages,” I admitted.
Then I bent over and threw up.
Yep. The fever was back.
And over a hundred and fifty reporters caught the entire thing on video.
Super.
Chapter 24
If you listen closely, you can hear me not caring.
-Parker to Rafe
Parker
I was in the hospital.
Not for injuries I’d sustained taking down a notorious serial killer.
No, I was in the hospital for complications from the fuckin’ flu, on top of strep throat, with a bit of the previous cold I’d gotten from my little dip in the pond while in Virginia thrown in for good measure.
Kayla had just gone home to change out of the clothes she’d been wearing since the day before and to catch a quick shower—with supervision in the form of her friend, Johnny Mackenzie, at her side.
Johnny, I’d learned, was the grandson of one of the founding members of a motorcycle club in Louisiana. But, despite his obvious affection for my girl, I didn’t deem him as a threat. Especially when the only reason he was there was to take Kayla home to change and to make sure she wasn’t accosted by the reporters as she did it.
Honestly, I was glad that she was going home.
I fuckin’ hated that she was sleeping in a freakin’ chair. I also hated that she was being subjected to this media bullshit. They were relentless, and four of the reporters had already snuck into my room disguised as various types of hospital employees.
One of those had been about twenty minutes ago.
I honestly wasn’t expecting another attempt, that was why I’d closed my eyes and allowed myself a moment to rest.
Yesterday, I’d found out that I had pneumonia thanks to a late-night ER visit, and I was admitted. They thought I would have to stay until at least this afternoon so they could run some stronger antibiotics through my system.
The door opening barely registered to me, as lost in not being able to breathe as I was.
Then I heard someone sit down beside my bed—in the hard chair that was on the opposite side of where Kayla usually sat.
I opened my eyes and found myself staring at one of my worst nightmares.
Raglan.
The man who had ruined my life. The man that had taken my sister’s and mother’s lives. The man that I had dreamed about killing for what felt like a lifetime.
The only thing that had been keeping me under control was the knowledge that he was serving time—and not even for what he’d done. Something somebody else had done.
He’d kept the killing of my family quiet, and every single member of the gang I’d once been a part of had protected him. Covered for him. When he wouldn’t have done the same for them.
Now, I had to live my life without them.
And he was out.
“Get. Out.”
Raglan grinned. “Is that how to greet an old friend?”
My stomach sank at that oh, so fucking familiar voice.
I hadn’t heard it in a long time, but apparently, it wasn’t long enough to forget who the voice belonged to.
I could still hear him saying the words: your sister or him.
“You weren’t my friend, motherfucker.”