Total pages in book: 131
Estimated words: 145402 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 727(@200wpm)___ 582(@250wpm)___ 485(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 145402 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 727(@200wpm)___ 582(@250wpm)___ 485(@300wpm)
He'd hit the end of his rope before he wanted to and he hadn't accomplished everything he'd hoped to this year, but he'd done more with his life than he'd ever thought possible. That had to be enough. He traced the outline of a key into his bloody, burnt palm with a shaky finger, closed his eyes, and wished Neil Josten goodbye.
Lola finally stopped and left him limp in his restraints. She said something, but he couldn't understand her through the buzzing in his ears and he didn't care, anyway. His natural choice in fight-or-flight mode had hit a brick wall hard enough to break every bone in his body. That left only one option, so Nathaniel Wesninski let the last few miles fly by unnoticed. He catalogued every throbbing point on his body and mentally ordered them by severity. The worst injuries were the ones on his face, but the mess Lola made of his hands was the most inconvenient. It'd be hard to fight back when even the slightest twitch of his fingers made his hands ache.
They pulled into the parking lot of a sketchy hotel. Only half of the outdoor lamps were working. Nathaniel was willing to bet the security cameras were equally defunct. He gazed out the window and waited to see what came next.
What came was a police car, and it backed into the spot beside them. Nathaniel didn't recognize the baby-faced officer who got out the passenger side or the seasoned cop that came around the hood a few seconds later. The older man gestured, and the younger cop went to pop the trunk. Romero climbed out of the car and went to exchange a few quiet words with them. He nodded satisfaction and opened the passenger door. He unlocked the handcuffs from Nathaniel's ankles only long enough to untangle him from the rails. As soon as the metal snapped shut again, Lola undid the cuffs on his wrists. Romero hauled him out of the car by his shirt and locked his hands together again.
Nathaniel flicked a cool look at the cops, who were studying him with blatant interest and zero remorse. "How much do my father's people pay you to break your oaths?"
"More than the state does," the older officer said. "Don't take it personally."
"I have to," Nathaniel said, voice hoarse with pain and hatred. "It's my life."
The only thing in the trunk was a small toolbox, so there was plenty of room for him. He couldn't climb into the trunk himself when he was bound like this, but the cops helped Romero hoist him in. Lola took Romero's offered gun and climbed in after him. She wound herself around his battered body, holding him close, and cocked the gun in warning. Nathaniel answered her smile with a blank stare.
"We're good," Lola said, and Romero closed the trunk. Nathaniel closed his eyes against the pitch black that threatened to swallow him whole. Lola smiled against his cheek and bit at his burns. She slung a leg across his and hooked the heel of her shoe between his ankles. "You could almost be my type if you weren't so young, hmm? You look just like your father."
The inviting rock of her hips against his made his skin crawl. "And you look like a strung-out whore."
"Feisty still." She sounded appreciative, not insulted, and scratched hard lines down his injured arms. "Not for much longer."
Doors slammed as the cops got back in. The world rocked beneath them as they pulled out of the parking lot. He counted eight stops before the cops started talking. He couldn't understand their voices through the thick cushion of the backseat, but a few moments later the sirens cut on and the cops picked up pace.
"Oops," Lola murmured against his ear. "Seems there's been an incident at your father's house. Perhaps some vandalism from lowlifes unwilling to have him back in their neighborhood, fools who buy into the conspiracy theory that he killed his beloved wife and child."
"People you paid to create a disturbance tonight," Nathaniel guessed, "so police could stop by unquestioned."
"Ten points to Junior," Lola said.
Nathaniel's childhood home was a five-bedroom house in the Windsor Hills neighborhood a couple miles northwest of downtown Baltimore. As far as the community knew, Nathan was a former successful day trader who'd given up stocks in favor of investing in businesses around the city. His interest rates were steep, but he never turned down an application. It didn't matter who asked or what the amount was. If a company couldn't repay him within the requested time frame, he simply bought it out and moved on.
At last count he owned a dozen businesses of varying trades and had deals with a dozen more. The front let him go anywhere in the city he needed, but also explained why he could stay home for weeks at a time. The feds investigated Nathan's holdings more than once, but Nathan was too smart to do any of his real business with companies he owned in his own name.
Nathaniel knew they were getting close because of the noise. Police lights always drew an interested crowd. That told him two things: whatever happened to the house was big enough to attract attention and they weren't the first officers on scene. If the feds were sitting on Nathan, they were going to have a lot of bodies to watch tonight.
The car bounced a little as it started up the curved drive to the house. The further up they went the quieter it got as they left behind spectators in favor of working police. Tension made the driveway feel endless, but finally the car rolled to a stop. Doors slammed behind the two cops as they went to investigate. Nathaniel waited for Lola to make a move, but she was seemingly content to lie still a while longer.
At last Lola's phone chirped. She reached over Nathaniel to mess with something. The toolbox, he guessed when he heard metal click open. Plastic crinkled and Lola propped herself up on her elbow in front of him.