Total pages in book: 59
Estimated words: 56182 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 281(@200wpm)___ 225(@250wpm)___ 187(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 56182 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 281(@200wpm)___ 225(@250wpm)___ 187(@300wpm)
This experience was proof of that.
I tried not to let the thoughts creep in, knowing they would be no help, that all they would do was cloud my mind, make it harder to concentrate on the task at hand.
And Ferryn needed me to concentrate, to pull off superhuman hacking, to search every goddamn camera in a three-state radius that I could get into, to troll the ugly hidden depths of the darknet, searching for little breadcrumbs that might lead back to V.
She had to be there.
That was maybe the most frustrating part to the whole team of us working on it. She had to be on the darkweb. That was how clients found you, how you arranged meetings, sales, how you traded human lives for something as empty as money.
But people who did this kind of sick shit for a living knew how to do it smart, how to hide their actions under uncommon keywords, how to demand anonymity until they knew you were a real client with real interests.
V had been a lot of things in her day - namely a heartless fucking bitch - but she hadn't been overly tech savvy. She shouldn't have been too hard to find. Unless all those years locked up gave her time to think, to plan, to figure out how to operate an untraceable empire. Then once she got out, she would have gathered up some old money stores we all knew she had stashed somewhere as any smart criminal would - never putting all their eggs in one basket. Then dug them up and hired someone who knew more than she did on matters such as this.
That was the only explanation.
Because, quite frankly, no matter how hard I tried - and Alex tried - to stay up-to-date, to know all the ins and outs, there would always be those who knew more, who whipped around the darkweb at warp speed, going in and out of corners we didn't even know existed, that would be closed off before we ever found them.
Such was the nature of technology.
It was always something we accepted, worked to learn more about, but didn't overly stress about.
But now Ferryn's life was on the line.
She was likely in a basement, cold, scared, uncertain.
Like I had been.
She was likely listening to footsteps overhead, praying they didn't move in the direction of the stairs, didn't come down, didn't find her huddled in a corner, chained and defenseless, didn't come at her with leering eyes and predatory hands.
Didn't, day in and day out, make her pray and beg for death because life - the life in the basement at the mercy of merciless men - was worse than not existing at all.
"Don't go dark."
Those words came from my side, from a voice that was familiar, yet not, since it was cracking into manhood, no longer my little boy-voiced babe, but a strong imitation of his father, all depth and impactful cadence.
It was odd, at times, when I looked at him, to think we had made him, that we had needed a place for our love to overflow into since we were full to bursting.
But there was no denying it when you saw him, when you got to know him. He was an odd, perfect combination of the both of us that seemed impossible, but wasn't.
He was calm and observant, taking things in, a people-watcher, a bit of a - if you'll forgive the term - lone wolf. But once he watched long enough, made up his mind, he had my impulsivity, my tendency toward righteous anger, my ability simply to argue with you until you gave up.
He was smart, prone to reading, though he rarely took my suggestions, preferring non-fiction books - history, survivalism, and true crime novels that Ferryn tossed his way when she declared they were worth a read.
But he was also all action, taking off with Wolf into the woods, learning whatever life skills his father had to teach him, going to the gym with friends, taking self-defense lessons alongside Fallon, his only age-mate in the group.
And, also like his father, he had a way of reading me, something I had always found a bit off-putting. Like when he was still in grade school, coming home, sensing I was having a rough time no matter how hard I tried to cover it because I wanted my child to have a perfectly well-adjusted mother, and gave me a hug, gave me a kiss, made me art, demanded we take the dogs for a walk, anything he could think of to get me out of my own head.
And the ability had only grown through the years.
"I'm trying not to," I admitted, knowing lying would get me nowhere as I turned to face him, holding out a coffee because, well, there was no fear of stunting his growth since he was already only three inches shorter than his father, and had several years of growing left.