Total pages in book: 48
Estimated words: 45785 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 229(@200wpm)___ 183(@250wpm)___ 153(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 45785 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 229(@200wpm)___ 183(@250wpm)___ 153(@300wpm)
We’d establish a secure line for us to communicate soon.
“Keep your eyes open for a private-road sign to our right,” I said. We should be there within the minute.
The border region was a good place for a safehouse. We were surrounded by desert, rolling hills, and small towns. I used to have a safehouse here too, but we’d sold it after it’d sat unused for four years. We’d opted to upgrade Tariq’s place instead, and we’d signed it over to the company, along with another smaller place closer to Calexico.
I couldn’t fucking believe he was dead.
“There.” Crew nodded at the side of the road.
I slowed down and veered right. It was just a two-minute stretch of a dirt road, lined with low trees and shrubs. A wildfire had turned this valley into a black pit a few years ago, narrowly missing our property.
Soon enough, I came to a stop in front of the little house not even squatters or meth heads would wanna crash in. The broken fence that surrounded the property was being eaten by weeds and rust.
“Grab me the flashlight in the glovebox,” I said, killing the engine.
Ortega pulled up next to me seconds later.
It was deathly silent out here.
I aimed the flashlight at the house, nestled in between a few trees and cacti.
Windows were still intact, so maybe the inside was fairly isolated from the desert wilderness. Plenty of rattlesnakes in the area.
I led the way inside; the front door was unlocked as it should be, and there was nothing to steal besides old furniture we’d picked up at yard sales. A TV from the ’80s with a crack across the glass sat in the corner of the living room, right on top of the rug that hid our basement entrance. I moved the TV and lifted the rug, and then I punched in a six-digit code to open the hatch.
“God-fucking-dammit,” I growled under my breath. As I applied pressure to my already bent leg, brutal pain shot through my body and reminded me that bullet wounds couldn’t be ignored for too long. Fuck me, that hurt. Flesh wound or not, I needed to dress it stat.
Down the ladder, carefully, I switched on the electricity and hoped the generator worked. The lamps flickered a couple times before lighting up, and the AC unit kicked in with a low whirr. It wasn’t a grand palace or anything, but we had everything we needed in one open 430-square-foot space. Plus, a bathroom and a pantry.
Tariq and I hadn’t precisely brought in a decorator, so we’d kept shit simple. A large table at the center of the room for briefings. The longer walls were lined with bunk beds, and the far, short-end wall was all cabinets filled with gear. Including first aid.
“We’ll get cracking right away and fill in the Tenleys when they show up,” I said. I hadn’t heard from them yet. All I fucking heard was my niece. Help me, Uncle Ellie. “Crew, you can wheel out the whiteboard from the pantry. Ortega, mind grabbing me a first aid kit in the left-side closet over there?” In the meantime, I limped over to the kitchen section and grabbed a handful of water bottles from the fridge. By tomorrow, the rest of the contents should be cold. And by contents, I meant more water.
We only came out here once or twice a year, meaning we’d stocked up on nothing but water and food with a long shelf life. Canned goods, pasta, rice, shit like that. We could buy better food tomorrow. And it was important. We had to stay sharp. Hydrated and fed, no matter how much we’d lost our appetites.
While Crew positioned the whiteboard at the head of the table, I ducked into the pantry to get two laptops. I’d let them charge as we got started on the groundwork.
“Okay, rack your brains,” I said. “We gotta put together a profile. Give me everything you heard tonight. Accents, names, orders, tattoos, guns—”
“They had a fucking rocket launcher.” Crew was the only one who sat down, and he scooted out his chair so he could put a foot on the edge of the table. “Tell me I wasn’t the only one who heard it. You heard it, didn’t you, boss?”
I nodded with a dip of my chin and uncapped one of the pens, and then I scribbled military-grade weaponry on the board. “We can safely assume it’s a cartel, and we can’t rule out the Blanco Family.”
“Why would we rule them out?” Ortega asked, frowning. He placed the medic bag on the table. I’d get to that later. I mean, soon. “They’re the prime suspect in my book. One of the fuckin’ diablos shouted that Vincente sends his regards.”
Not a chance.
I spun around, and pain bolted up my leg once more. Fuuuck. I gritted my teeth. “Are you sure?”