Total pages in book: 93
Estimated words: 90685 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 453(@200wpm)___ 363(@250wpm)___ 302(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 90685 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 453(@200wpm)___ 363(@250wpm)___ 302(@300wpm)
The tension between them is palpable even from where I’m watching.
My gut, which I’ve always trusted when it comes to my job, screams for me to interrupt them, but they haven’t even done anything yet except exchange awkward up-nods at each other.
The preppy kid says something I can’t hear, and the scrawny guy flinches before making his way to the trunk of his Camaro. He pulls out a duffle bag and reluctantly hands it over.
I snap pictures of the exchange as well as close-ups of potential felon number two, but the way the trade happens, with extreme hesitance on the junkie’s part, it’s obvious, even to me, that something’s not right.
Words are exchanged, none of which I can make out from where I am, but if I had to guess, I’d say Camaro dude is a drug dealer for the preppy kid, only he’s short on his profits. Probably because they’re all in his arm.
This is going to go down one of two ways. He’s in for a beating either way—a punishment—but how far it will go is up to someone higher up the food chain. Preppy’s boss’s boss.
I take my service weapon out of its holster, preparing for a takedown, but Preppy’s faster.
The gunshot echoes around the empty warehouses, a sound I’ve heard so many times before. But this time, it ricochets throughout my entire body.
I recoil, hitting my side on a large crate and gritting my teeth to prevent myself from calling out in pain. I manage to stay silent, but the crate I knocked into didn’t get the memo. It tips and hits a steel drum that falls with a loud crash.
My gun is drawn, and I’m on my feet in a second, but before I can get any words out, bullets fly in my direction.
I dive back behind the crates.
As soon as I hit the ground, the crate beside me splinters, and a bullet flies past my head.
“Don’t shoot!” I call out. “I’m DEA.” My voice comes out shakier than a rookie during his first takedown.
Silence blankets the area, but when I lift my head, another shot gets fired in my direction.
“Fuck,” I hiss.
I take out my phone to call for backup, but the kid on the ground screams out in pure agony.
When I look to see if it’s safe to help him, the assailant is gone. Or maybe hiding.
I need to get to the guy bleeding out, but if I do, I’ll be exposed, and I have no idea where the psycho with the gun is. His car is still there, and no one’s sitting in the driver’s seat.
Gun drawn, I move toward the cars and clear the small gap between them, making sure the perp isn’t lurking. He has to be close by still, but I need to help the guy who’s lying in a pool of his own blood.
I put my phone on the ground next to him and dial 9-1-1, putting it on speaker when it starts to ring so I can apply pressure to the wound. As soon as the operator answers, I give my credentials and special agent number and then start to explain.
“We have a GSW to the abdomen. He’s bleeding out fast.”
The operator asks about the victim, but movement out of the corner of my eye catches my attention, and then I’m staring down the barrel of a gun.
The assailant stands on the other side of the car, so I dive behind the rear door as he takes his shot.
“Fucking fucksticks.” The bullet ricochets off the perp’s vehicle but luckily misses me.
More gunshots ring out, echoing around the buildings.
I have blood on my hands, and because I released the pressure, he bleeds even more. The moans have stopped, though, so he has either passed out from the pain or is … is …
I have to bite back bile from rising up. I’ve seen dead bodies before, but it’s something you never get used to. Ever.
The day I get desensitized to seeing corpses is the day I need to get out of the game.
By some miracle, I hear the footsteps retreating over the heavy sound of my breaths and muffled questions by the 9-1-1 operator.
When I lift my head, the preppy kid is running toward the side of the warehouse.
I can’t let him get into an easier position to take me out. He could come at me from any angle if he runs around the building and comes up beside me.
When I get up on my knee and aim my gun, I’m not shooting to kill. I need this guy alive so I can take him in and question him. What I thought was a simple drug bust with some college kids has escalated so quickly I can’t even comprehend what I’ve stumbled on—what my CI Hale has sent me to.