Total pages in book: 109
Estimated words: 103620 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 518(@200wpm)___ 414(@250wpm)___ 345(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 103620 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 518(@200wpm)___ 414(@250wpm)___ 345(@300wpm)
I still don’t see Danny.
And my breath catches in my throat.
I can’t feel him.
I can’t feel him.
I can always feel him. Always. And I can’t. I can’t fucking feel him!
Something’s wrong. I have to get down. I have to get off this roof. I have to get to the street and into the building and figure out what’s going on. I have to—I have to—I have—
I can’t. I can’t move. I’m suddenly paralyzed. This feels… it feels… familiar. A feeling I know and hate.
Danny. Where’s Danny? What’s happening? Why can’t I move? Why can’t—? What’s—? Somebody please—I can’t breathe. I can’t—
“Christine.”
The voice is from behind. It’s not a question. It’s a statement. A command. An order to snap to attention. And then hands on my shoulders, turning me around.
I see blue eyes. Blond hair. Tattoos. I see Danny. Bringing me back to the present. Which he’s done before.
“What?” I hear myself say, although it sounds like someone else’s voice talking.
“We gotta fucking go.”
I feel my head nod. I think.
“You okay?” he asks.
I start to say something. Something like, I couldn’t feel you for a second. But that’s a stupid fucking thing to say and would require a whole big conversation. If not now, then sometime. And I don’t wanna have a whole big conversation about how I lost my psychic connection to him for a moment. Both because that would just kick off a whole extra level of conversation about whether I’m back to my old self (whoever that is), and because I’m never gonna say the phrase “psychic connection” out loud.
Fuck, I really just wanna find this kid—Alec’s kid—and then move on with life. Like a lot.
I’m so tired.
“Yep. Good,” I say. “Let’s go.” I start breaking the rifle down quickly and sliding it into its bag. I strap it over my shoulder and head for the door that leads to the stairway to the street. Danny doesn’t immediately follow. His eyes are narrow as he stares at me. “You coming?”
Now, he looks like he wants to say something. But, just like me, I can tell he decides that the conversation is not worth it right now. Or maybe ever. He takes in one big breath, lets it out, nods, and joins me.
I ask an obvious question: “Did you get any useful information?”
He breathes in again and then says, “Alec… Alec’d. A lot.”
It’s funny how a non-answer can be the best answer you could possibly imagine when it’s said by someone you share a private language with.
“K. So, what now?”
“Bring Declan’s sons—”
“The kids on the bike? Those are his sons?”
“Appears so.”
“Fuck.”
“Yep. Bring them back to the safehouse and… I dunno. We just killed their dad. I’m not sure how eager they’re gonna be to give up their cousin.”
Brasil. “Do you think—?”
“I really don’t know.”
“Do you know what I was going to ask?”
“It doesn’t matter. I don’t know.”
A thousand thoughts are competing for attention in my brain, but the one that wins out is: Connection. It’s still there. We’re gonna be fine.
“Yeah, okay,” I respond. And Danny Fortnight, one of only two people I’ve ever met who truly understands who I am, nods, takes me by the hand, and—to my great surprise—gives me a kiss on the cheek as we run down the stairs and out into…
… I honestly have no idea.
CHAPTER FIVE
“Go feck yerselves, you cum-sucking feckers! You killed our da! You think we’re telling you feckin’ anything ’bout Brasil? Yer feckin’ proper stupid!” shouts one of the lads we pulled off the asphalt and hauled back here to this different warehouse that looks startlingly similar to the warehouse where we found them. Probably owned by their late father as well. Which, I gotta imagine, only adds insult to grave injury.
We’ve got them sitting in chairs in the middle of the empty room, a single bulb shining down on them. They’re surrounded on all sides by me, Alec, Christine, Charlie, Brenden, and Russell. Eliza is lurking in the corner, biting at her nails.
It’s all very fucking dramatic.
I look over to check in on Christine. Not that she necessarily needs checking on, but I didn’t love the vacant, confused look I saw in her eyes when I turned her around on that fucking roof. I knew we shouldn’t have put her up there. Then again, I was only able to see the look in her eyes because she was the one behind the bullet that saved our lives, so I suppose it was a good idea.
Although I would take a bullet to my brain in a heartbeat if it meant that Christine was safe and healthy and happy. But she would probably hold herself accountable for the rest of her life if either Alec or I got killed when she could have prevented it. And on yet another hand that I don’t have because I’ve run out of hands… she did shoot Alec herself not so very long ago, so maybe she’d find a way to get okay with it. But that was before we reconnected like we have, and—