Total pages in book: 60
Estimated words: 57240 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 286(@200wpm)___ 229(@250wpm)___ 191(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 57240 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 286(@200wpm)___ 229(@250wpm)___ 191(@300wpm)
Still, it’s all I have at this point. I look out the small window of the helicopter. Someone will be looking for us any minute. I see several armed men yards ahead of us take off at a run toward the helicopter.
Shit.
It only confirms what I know. These two were not military, and we’ve just landed without clearance. I take the wallets and the gun, I open the door, and before the door shuts behind me, I take off at a run straight into the woods. There are shouts behind me and I know they’re after me.
Christ, will I always be running? Always hiding? Always fending for my fucking life? I hide, crouched, until I think they’ve passed me, but just when I decide to stand, I hear the crunching of booted feet through woods.
I freeze, breathing in steadily through my nose, so I don’t give myself away. Just a few yards away, I see a uniformed man, and hope surges in my chest. He’s easily my size. His uniform will fit me.
I make my move quickly, toss a rock right near me, and like a lamb led to slaughter, he steps right toward me.
“On your knees,” I command, rising with my gun pointing straight at his head. “Hands on your head.”
He meets my eyes in surprise, then does exactly what I tell him.
“Drop your weapon.”
What does he see when he looks at me? Tarzan, king of the beasts? I’m still sunburned, nearly naked, my hair wild and unkempt. And if he’s a wise man, he’ll see the desperation in my eyes. He’ll know it’s smart to do what I tell him. He’ll know I’m a man who doesn’t quake when it comes to pulling the fucking trigger.
“I’m going to level with you,” I tell him. “I won’t hurt you unless you try to stop me. I need nothing but your clothes.”
He nods. “Who are you?” he asks.
“That doesn’t matter,” I answer. “Clothes, or I shoot you.”
Glaring at me, he does what I ask and hands me his clothing. Thankfully, he’s an officer, and after I’ve gotten what I need, I cuff him.
“They’ll find you,” he says.
I don’t ask who “they” are. It doesn’t matter. None of it fucking matters.
I need out of here.
After dressing in his uniform, I pin on his badge and walk out of the woods with my gun drawn, as if I’m one of the men who chased me in here. Ahead of me are barracks, and I wonder at Richard’s choice in landing. I’m assuming he was supposed to land on a private runway. What was his plan in bringing us to a military base? Am I in more danger than I realized?
These guys aren’t military, that much I can figure out. But is the military involved?
My first job right now is to get the fuck out of here.
No one questions me now that I’m in a uniform that makes me look like every other one of them. I need a damn car and a phone. Ahead of me I see barracks that are so familiar to me, a pang hits my chest, like I’ve just woken from a dream and found myself in my bedroom. I know the layout of these barracks as if it were the back of my hand.
Why?
Why do I know this place?
It doesn’t dawn on me until I’m halfway down the hall, when I’m walking down concrete floors so familiar, I know every nick, smudge, and streak in the otherwise smoother concrete.
A chill comes over me, like I’ve been sucked into some kinda goddamn alternate reality.
It was here. It was fucking here.
What was?
I need to sit and contemplate, but I can’t. Not now. I don’t have the luxury of time to decipher what’s going through my head.
I know there’s a shooting range here, and a locker room. I go straight to the locker room, keeping my head cast down so I don’t make eye contact with anyone. I go to the furthest end of the locker room, away from the door, so no one sees me break into the locker. Eventually, the footage and video surveillance will see what I did. By then, I hope I’m far, far away from here.
I look for the telltale signs of someone lazy, who left his locker unfastened or didn’t bother to fix the lock again. When I was a new recruit, we learned how to rifle through lockers. Some people are smart enough to put their keys and wallets behind padlocks, others are either too stupid or lazy to bother. They always use the lockers at the furthest end of the room, as if a thief won’t bother to look there.
But it’s the first place we look.
And there it is. A lock askew and unfastened, the metallic end of a zipper hanging out the very edge. I walk to it nonchalantly, open it, and score. My heart quickens. A wallet, keys, and a phone. Stupid dumbass deserves to be robbed.