Total pages in book: 104
Estimated words: 99040 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 495(@200wpm)___ 396(@250wpm)___ 330(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 99040 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 495(@200wpm)___ 396(@250wpm)___ 330(@300wpm)
Too bad.
Tracker hooked his arms under the unconscious guard’s arms and hauled him backward through the door. He didn’t waste time removing the mask, just back towed the guard as far away from the building as possible. This time, the rain barely fazed him as he struggled to move the guard’s dead weight.
If all went according to plan, this place was going to blow to fucking smithereens, and Tracker wanted to be as far away as possible.
The plan was for Curly to head back to the car with Dante while Spec did as quick of a search of the factory as he could possibly pull off. If he found anything worth snatching, he’d do so. Then he’d plant the bomb where it’d do the maximum damage. Once he activated it, they’d have five minutes to drive the fuck away.
And then, ka-boom.
“Tracker? That you?” Curly’s voice rose above the wind.
“Yeah, Prez. I got the guard.”
“Bring him here.”
Tracker lugged the heavy guard past the SUV to where Curly had propped a slumped over Dante against a tree. He was also unconscious and of no more use to the Handlers. Together, Tracker and his prez maneuvered the guard until he was resting against the opposite side of the same tree. Hopefully, they’d come to before they drowned or that tree uprooted.
It was a risk they’d all been willing to take.
“All right,” Curly said when they finished. “Now we wait.”
They ran back to the SUV, where Curly fired up the engine and cranked the heat. Neither said much as they waited in utter discomfort. Soaked clothing, wet hair, and soggy shoes didn’t exactly do it for Tracker.
After about five minutes, Curly sighed. “I need a fucking drink.”
“You’re telling me.” One drink wouldn’t cut it. “I’ll take the bottle.”
“Ditto.” Curly glanced his way. “Pissed off your ol’ lady, huh?”
Ol’ lady. He hadn’t heard the word used yet in reference to Jo, but damn, it sounded nice.
“Yeah, lost my shit. Acted like an ass. She went to go help her partner and between the hurricane and the fact that I just hate that guy, I threw a damn tantrum.”
Curly chuckled. “Been there. She’ll forgive you. That woman is head over heels for you.”
Christ, he hoped so because now that he was staring down the barrel of possibly losing her, he realized he’d rather hop back out in that rain and wait for lightning to strike him dead.
A sharp rap on the window had him and Curly whipping their head around.
Spec, looking like a drowned rat, stood knocking.
Curly unlocked the doors, and two seconds later, Spec was dripping all over the back seat.
“Go, go, GO!” he said.
Curly wasted no time, peeling out of the parking lot in a giant spray of water.
“Success?” Tracker asked.
The word barely left his mouth when an earth-shaking explosion rattled their car. The sky lit up with an orange flash. They all watched out the rear window as Lobo’s drug factory went up in a fiery ball of destruction.
“Hell yes,” Tracker whispered. “Time to bring Lock home.”
Tomorrow, or whenever this hurricane moved on, the cops would investigate the fire. They’d discover plenty of evidence in the remnants to implicate Lobo as the man responsible for the fentanyl-laced meth. Dante too. That guy would have to run as soon as he regained consciousness. If Lobo found him before the cops, he’d be dead. If not, he’d end up behind bars.
Either way, a fitting ending.
Especially since Lock shouldn’t have to spend a second in jail.
And hopefully, he’d be granted custody of his baby nephew. Rumor had it that the baby grew stronger and healthier every day.
It took three times longer than it should have to return to the clubhouse. They’d had to reroute more than once due to downed trees and wires. Tracker had one last trip to make before he could hunker down and endure the rest of the storm.
Jo might not want him, but the original plan was to meet at her house after her shift, so that’s what he planned to do. In her outrage, she’d forgotten she’d given him a key to let himself in. He hadn’t forgotten.
Getting to her house was as harrowing as driving back from the factory, but he made it one piece. Hopefully, by the time Jo’s shift ended, the worst of the storm would have passed. After letting himself into her house, he greeted Betty with lots of kisses and ear scratches. His girl never failed to be over-the-top excited when he returned home.
“You doing okay with this weather, sweet girl?”
She woofed in response as though scolding him for leaving her.
“I know. I’m sorry, baby.” He went to the kitchen and grabbed a beer from Jo’s refrigerator. He also grabbed a slice of cheese, which he fed to Betty.
Just as he kicked back on the couch, incessant pounding on the door had him shooting back up. “Who the fuck is that?” he muttered.