Total pages in book: 89
Estimated words: 84913 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 425(@200wpm)___ 340(@250wpm)___ 283(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 84913 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 425(@200wpm)___ 340(@250wpm)___ 283(@300wpm)
"Like what?" he asked, brows furrowing, thumb moving distractingly up my jaw for a second.
"Ugly," I admitted.
"Ace, you could never be ugly."
"Not like that," I snapped, yanking away. "A different kind of ugly. Soul ugly."
"I think I know a thing or two about your soul by now, Ferryn. It's not ugly."
"It can be."
"Everyone's can be. We're all capable of angry and ugly and bitter."
"This is different. Most people's angry and ugly and bitter doesn't include blood splatter and screams for mercy."
"No. But I know that going in, Ace. And I know why you do it. And I'm fine with it."
"Fine with it," I scoffed, shaking my head. "Fine with it. You are fine with me grabbing a knife and slicing someone's throat right in front of your eyes? Even if he is unarmed? Even if you don't know what he did?"
"I do know what he did, though."
He didn't know about these guys in particular though. Some part of me actually wanted to protect him from it. The worst part of the world. The ugliest part of humanity.
"Vance..."
"Ferryn..." he mimicked, making a small laugh/snort hybrid escape me.
"We're getting close."
"Getting close to what?" I asked.
"To the real truth. If your stubborn ass wasn't so fucking guarded, we'd have gotten there already and we could be on our way."
My gaze fell from his, studying the tips of my shoes, scuffed from endless wears. The marks made it hard to get the blood out all the way. I should have gotten a new pair ages ago. But I had a hard time letting go, I guess.
Story of my fucking life.
"You're going to look at me differently after this. And I... I don't think I could take that," I admitted.
Then, too chickenshit to face the aftermath of my words, jumped on my bike, turned it over, and peeled off.
There was only a short moment before I heard him following behind me.
It was a long drive.
I hoped that by the end of it, I could pull myself together, bank down the burning thoughts, focus on the task before me.
Rough intel said four traffickers, but a likelihood of security.
And, yeah, that made sense.
Alone, the plan would be to take out the first couple as silently as possible moving through to get the others. If they ganged up all at once, I knew I was in over my head.
With backup, I could handle more. Providing I wasn't distracted by trying to look out for Vance.
It wasn't that I didn't think he could take care of himself. I was sure he'd been to the gym, had gotten into the ring with some of the guys, had maybe even taken some mixed martial arts classes with some of the teachers there. That, combined with pure survival instinct, meant that he could likely hold his own well enough.
But there would be a part of me that felt responsible for his well-being since the only reason he would be there was because I was there, because my father made him follow me.
I wasn't sure I could forgive myself if something happened to him.
No.
I couldn't think like that.
I couldn't let the doubts in, water them, watch them take root. Once they started growing out of control, it was impossible to see through them.
I had to focus.
I had to see him as an asset.
Because this was too important.
This was the most important job in my, erm, career.
"Alright," Vance said a few hours later at the second gas stop since we got on the road. "You're going to have to give me something," he told me, leaning back against the pump nearest mine.
He was right.
He couldn't go in blind.
"I don't have an exact number. But I am expecting five or six," I told him, figuring blunt was the best method. There was no sugar coating something like this. He would need to steel himself for what was to come.
"And we both know you've trained enough to take on four of them by yourself," he told me, giving me those dancing eyes of his. If there was any hesitance in him, he didn't show it.
"There shouldn't be any victims there. Not this time. This is more of like the traffickers' headquarters. They don't bring clients there. It... it makes things easier."
"I imagine so," he agreed, nodding.
"No one is innocent when you go in there."
"Got it."
"This is going to be inside an abandoned coffee place."
"Traffickers squat in abandoned buildings?"
"When they can get away with it. It's always better when nothing traces back to them. Abandoned buildings, foreclosed houses the bank hasn't put back on the market yet. They move around a lot, so places that don't require contracts work best for them."
They also really liked the sleep-and-fuck style motels that let paperwork slide if enough money passed hands. These guys, in particular, liked motels. Which was why it had been so hard to pin them down. I couldn't do what I needed to do in a motel. First, because of the obvious risk of being overheard. But also because of cameras and the likelihood of being seen by others in the vicinity.