Total pages in book: 33
Estimated words: 32248 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 161(@200wpm)___ 129(@250wpm)___ 107(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 32248 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 161(@200wpm)___ 129(@250wpm)___ 107(@300wpm)
Nodding my head to the Irish Wolfhound, I murmur quietly, “I have to go to work, girly. Keep an eye on the both of them.
Maxine stares at me for a couple more seconds before laying her massive head back down on Charlie’s stomach. I watch as he wraps his arm around her, and can almost hear his contented sigh.
He loves that dog as much as he loves anything. She’s his protector, as much as he’s hers.
Heading down the stairs, I grab my bag from the large gun safe I have stashed in the study.
Simon said a full load out and that’s exactly what he’s going to get.
Lots of shit has gone down at this fucking private airport we run some of our operations out of.
Mainly, I’ve been shot at this motherfucker.
Once in the leg and once in the left side of my stomach. It was a bloody fucking mess, and Beth just about fucking murdered me when she found out I got wounded.
Fuck, I hate this place.
Pulling through the security gate and then heading back towards the small hangar we use, I look around. Simon’s car isn’t here but I see a dirty old truck sitting right next to the hangar. From the way it’s sitting, though, I can’t see who the fuck is inside it.
I don’t know if I like this.
Pulling in behind the old truck, I put my own truck directly on his ass. No sense in not being prepared.
A tall figure steps out of the truck. His back is all I can see in this late night darkness, but I can tell he’s tall, lanky, and dressed just like me.
Stepping out of my own truck, I put my hand on the Beretta in my hip holster.
I’ve been a good boy, I ain’t fucked around or turned against my family, so whatever the fuck is going on here has my hackles raised.
Turning to face me, the man doesn’t even bother to go for the gun strapped to his hip.
He just looks at me and frowns. “You’re three minutes late, Johnathan.”
Simon.
No fucking way.
He’s standing there in dirty jeans, a roughed-up looking t-shirt, hair completely disheveled, with a week’s growth of beard on his face. Even the normal fucking serial killer glasses are missing. He must be wearing contacts because he doesn’t squint at me.
My stomach goes from wanting to sit down near my feet to somewhere up in my throat.
“What the ever-living fuck?” I growl and pull my gun from its holster.
Ignoring me, Simon leans into the back of his truck and pulls a small black tactical bag from the bed.
“Put your shit away, Johnathan. We’re on a truly tight schedule if we want to make it back in time for Andrew’s celebration tonight,” Simon says.
Then he walks past me to the hangar door.
I’m still half tempted to put a bullet in the back of this alien body snatcher. But the way I see Simon walk in his normal gait that slowly changes into something not nearly as rigid freaks me out too much to even think about it.
What the actual fuck?
Following after Simon, I walk through the door then head over to the main bay doors while he heads directly to the small private jet. After hitting the button for the doors to open, I follow Simon up the little ramp into the plane.
This is the same fucking plane we had to storm when Simon’s wife was kidnapped. Brings back some damn painful memories, but fuck it, it’s ours now.
“Stow our gear,” Simon says, handing me his bag. “I’m going to give the pilots final instructions.”
“Got it,” I say and take his bag.
Shoving our stuff away, I head back to my seat across from Simon. “What the fuck is going on?”
Simon hands me the laptop he pulls from his bag. “This is an off-the-books job.”
“Off the books?” Since when has anything we’ve ever done been on the books?
“Meaning between you and me. Lucifer only knows we’ll be taking a small trip.” Simon motions to the screen.
Looking down at the screen as it powers up, I watch two men appear. It’s impossible to travel back in time, but I can feel my body go cold. I can feel the sharp burn of a blade slicing deeply across my chest and the puncture of my own flesh as a shiv is stuck deep into my side.
There, in living fucking color, is Terry Jackson and Jake Hughes. Two of the three men who ran out on Brent and me in Mexico.
“How?” I ask, my voice matching the feeling of death inside me.
“How did I find them? Or how did I know to find them?” he asks.
Looking up into his eyes, I see something strange. It’s not his usual hatred and disgust of me. No, it’s something akin to friendship, but it’s dark and corrupted.