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)
It’s my boss.
Aiming his gun at me.
Shooting. At me.
“Walker, what are you—”
He fires again. I duck back down and lean against the wall. He saw me. Looked me right in the eye and took a shot. I can’t … nope … I don’t understand.
But everything does start to make sense now. How he got here so fast. Why he was adamant about breaking protocol and not waiting for backup.
Walker’s in on this deal.
I wasn’t supposed to be here. I shouldn’t be here.
I look up at the sky and send out a silent question to my CI. Hale, what did you do?
By some miracle, I make it to my car without being hit, and luckily, I left it unlocked. I jump in and start the engine, thankful I faced the car outward so I don’t have to reverse in this clusterfuck.
I put my foot to the floor on the gas and bowl past the two people trying to gun me down. And as I pass the open doorway to the old warehouse, they’re both standing there. Together.
I don’t slow down even as I get to the street and cross lanes of traffic. I almost get sideswiped by someone not paying attention, but to be fair, I’m going about twenty over the speed limit.
But that’s when reality hits me. My foot eases off the gas pedal, and my heart sinks.
My boss is a dirty cop.
The sad fact is, being in law enforcement, I’ve witnessed my share of dirty deals. The cops who racial profile. The ones who let sex workers off with a warning in exchange for a freebie. It’s disgusting.
And there’s the argument that the only way to stop bad cops is by good ones speaking out, but in my experience, if you speak out against another officer, you become the enemy. You lose your job. Your colleagues no longer have your back.
It’s a flawed system, and it’s probably seen as cowardly to keep my mouth shut, but until now, I’ve never personally witnessed something like … that.
Walker shot at me with intent.
The question is, who can I trust if I can’t even trust my agent in charge? Who can I turn to?
Deputy administrator? Chief of staff?
In my rearview mirror, I see flashing lights, and I let out a string of curse words. Not all of them in English. But then I see them turn toward the warehouse.
There’s the backup I asked 9-1-1 for. Shit. Walker has my phone.
Okay, okay, okay, I chant in my head. I need a plan. Somewhere to go. But first, I need to get rid of this car. It would take five seconds for Walker to find it through the GPS tracking all DEA vehicles have.
I take the next right and end up near the Pike Outlets in Long Beach. Pulling into the parking structure, I drive up the ramp to the top faster than I probably should. The tires screech under me, but when I see an available spot by the exit to a stairwell, I quickly dump the car and then run down the flight of stairs, but I pause at the door before I hit street level.
I don’t know where to go or who I can trust.
My chest is heavy as I try to breathe, but there’s no oxygen in here. With my heart pounding, I know I’m on the verge of a panic attack, and every instinct that says to keep moving is drowned out by the need to stay where I am. I slump against the wall of the protected stairwell because no one can see me here.
No one can get me.
They could be on my tail. They might not be.
It’s not safe here, but within the confines of this stairwell, I at least know no one can see me.
But logic tells me my first priority is putting as much distance between me and where they can track me. They can track my car.
I need to keep moving.
Come on, Dylan. One foot in front of the other. Don’t stop until you’re truly safe.
I take a deep breath and open the door to the street. That’s when I notice my hands. They’re still covered in the junkie’s blood, though it’s somewhat dried already.
I cross the street from the parking garage to the outlet mall with my hands in my pockets and slip into the first restroom I come across.
It’s empty, so I get to work scrubbing my hands raw. When I catch sight of my face in the mirror, I realize I’m covered in tiny cuts from the window glass.
I look like hell.
I have maybe twenty bucks in cash on me, which isn’t going to change my look drastically, so when I’m done taking off an entire layer of skin, I keep my head down and head for an ATM.
I withdraw as much money as my bank allows me to, which is only two grand of the measly five I have in my savings account.