Total pages in book: 158
Estimated words: 151469 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 757(@200wpm)___ 606(@250wpm)___ 505(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 151469 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 757(@200wpm)___ 606(@250wpm)___ 505(@300wpm)
“I’m so glad I’m more like you than Dad,” I say over a hiccup, going in for a hug. I feel her chuckling against me. “Thanks, Mom.” There’s no question, without her support, help, and maybe her genes, there’s no way I would have gotten through the past few years.
“Enough now.” She breaks our hug and brushes herself down. “You’re in your blues. No hugging allowed.”
“And when I’m in plain clothes?”
She laughs lightly. “Hold your horses, Ms. Croft. Phase One is only the first hurdle.”
“Will you not call me that?” I mutter as she pulls something out from beneath her seat.
“A congrats present.” She flashes a Lara Croft mug under my nose, and I narrow my eyes on the image of the character I’ve been dubbed by my colleagues. “I’m so glad I vetoed your father’s idea of sending you to ballet,” she quips.
“So you sent me to karate instead.” I laugh, taking the mug.
“And now you’re going to be as good an agent as your mom. But younger and fitter. And bendier.” Her nose wrinkles. “Go get that wine.”
“We should open the bottle of Krug you got when you graduated.” She’s kept it in its presentation box for years, dusting it weekly, admiring it, not letting anyone else near it.
“Never go near the Krug.” She grabs my cheeks and squeezes, looking deadly serious. “Only if your life depends on it.”
I roll my eyes and bat her away, reaching down to pull on my boots. “You’ve got to drink it one day.”
“Maybe,” she muses, looking down at her cell when it rings. Her eyebrows high, she returns to face the wheel. “You go. I’ve got to take this.”
I don’t ask who it is. Never do. She’s technically off duty, but she’s never really off duty. I leave her to take the call, and it’s not until I’m in the store that I realize I have the mug still in my grasp. A Miami cop wandering around a store holding a Lara Croft mug.
I get a few odd looks, to be expected, as I head for the alcohol section, claiming a bottle of red and white. “We’re celebrating,” I declare to myself, going to the checkout. I pay and stuff the bottles into a bag with my mug, wandering back out of the store, trying to find some enthusiasm for the night of painting ahead.
As I approach Mom’s car, I see she’s still talking, and my pace slows when I detect her expression. My usually cool mother looks . . . troubled. She forces a smile when she spots me, and it drops a second later. Then I see something I haven’t seen on Mom before.
Dread.
I pick up my pace, rushing toward her, as her eyes get progressively wider, her face more fearful. Her hand comes up, as if to stop me in my tracks. Of course, it naturally increases my pace.
What’s going on?
“No, Beau!” she screams.
I drop my bag, her terror-filled yell slicing through me. But my feet don’t stop moving. My heart sprints. Nothing could prevent me getting to her.
And then the world lights up.
My eardrums feel like they’ve burst.
My skin burns.
I’m thrown skyward.
And blackness falls.
1
Miami - Present Day
JAMES
I stand under the spray, motionless, my body heavy, the hot water pelting my back. It would hurt. Burn. If I hadn’t survived an inferno before. I look down at my bare feet, at the last of the blood-stained water slipping down the drain.
Clean.
I step out and wrap a towel around my waist, collecting the oil off the vanity unit and tipping some into my hand. I massage it between my palms as I stare at my reflection in the mirror. The adrenalin has gone already. It’s vanished, abandoned me, leaving nothing but a fresh thirst for another kill. I’m running low on targets. Then what? I can only hope and pray that the peace I need is there to greet me at the end of this road of blood and death. I can no longer exist in this world without vengeance. And without vengeance, peace. If I have neither, I’m as good as dead.
I take my hand over my shoulder and start massaging the oil into the top of my back, feeling the burning of my flesh all over again. Years later, it’s still hurting. Tormenting.
There’s a knock at my bathroom door, and I turn my eyes onto it. “What?”
Goldie appears. She watches me rubbing at my back before checking my facial expression. She clearly doesn’t like what she sees, but she says nothing. “The man driving away from the scene. His name’s Spittle. Apparently, he got bored in retirement.”
“Interesting,” I say, starting to work on the other side of my back. And what would a former FBI agent be doing with a contact of The Bear?
“His number.” She holds out a piece of paper as she moves to the side, and I take it as I pass her, heading to my office. I settle at my desk and pull a phone from my drawer, punching in the digits and settling back.