Total pages in book: 77
Estimated words: 77126 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 386(@200wpm)___ 309(@250wpm)___ 257(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 77126 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 386(@200wpm)___ 309(@250wpm)___ 257(@300wpm)
And that familiar feminine voice… The voice that told me to remember. That’s new, too.
I close my eyes tightly to dispel the images, but they refuse to be erased. The ticking of my clock grows louder in my ears, each tick-tock a reminder of the dream’s dreadful heart monitor.
I draw in a shaky breath. Echoes of that soft whisper still linger in my mind, circling around like a mournful ghost.
“Remember…”
Frustration wells up inside me. I yearn for clarity, for closure, but all I am left with is an unquenchable thirst for answers.
With a sigh, I settle back against the pillows and stare at the ceiling. The pale moonlight streaming through the window paints eerie shadows on it, turning its smoothness into a canvas of my nightmare. The silhouette of my own face is reflected across the room, and for a moment, I am transported back to that hospital bed and surrounded by sterile walls, deafening silence, and suffocating loneliness.
Remember…
What the hell am I supposed to remember? What could those fragmented and horrific images mean?
“It’s just a dream,” I say out loud to myself. “Go back to sleep. You’re safe here. Jared is in the next room.”
It was just a fucking dream.
4
VINNIE
I’ve lost track of time. How long have we been in the air? Beside me, Elmo snoozes.
And I continue to read.
Nothing particularly interesting. Just that nameless old woman whose eyes pierce me through the old photograph.
I slip the iPad into my bag and lean back in my seat, my mind racing with potential scenarios. My thoughts keep coming back to Raven. Leaving her behind was one of the most difficult things I’ve ever done. But I can’t risk her safety. She deserves so much more than to be dragged into this mess.
A jerk of turbulence rocks the plane, dragging me out of my thoughts. Elmo stirs beside me but doesn’t wake up.
The next few hours pass in a blur of discomfort and tension. I plug my headphones in and try to watch a movie. I barely pay attention. I can’t seem to get my mind off of that old woman…
As we descend into Bogotá, the lights of the city cast an eerie glow through the night air. The moment we touch down, everything becomes real. The danger I’m stepping into isn’t just a series of names and faces on an iPad screen anymore. It’s tangible.
I glance at Elmo, who now sits alert. He gives me a small nod.
That’s his signal that he’s ready.
For what, I still don’t know.
We disembark into the humid night, the smell of jet exhaust mingling with the heavy tropical air. A black sedan waits for us at the edge of the runway, its tinted windows hiding the identities of whoever is inside.
Elmo walks toward the car first and greets the driver, who opens the door for him.
“Señor Gallo, welcome,” the driver says as I approach.
I simply nod and slide into the back seat. Elmo gets in next to me.
We sit in silence as we ride through the city. About an hour later, we reach our destination right before sunrise.
Jacinto Agudelo’s grand mansion looms large. The iron gates stand tall, dark, and imposing against the property, isolating and protecting it. There’s an intricately carved crest on the gate—a shield, a calligraphic letter A at its center, divided into quadrants featuring a golden eagle, a blood-red rose, crossed daggers, and a gold coin, respectively. The crest is flanked by coffee and poppy branches and bears the Latin motto Fortuna et Fatum beneath a crown of emeralds. Above the crest are subtly-placed cameras.
The gates slide open, and the driveway stretches out, lit up vibrantly in the darkness. It’s lined with towering palms and perfectly clipped hedges. The mansion is pale stone with tall arched windows. It looks less like a home and more like a fortress.
As we step out of the car, a man in a tailored suit emerges from the entrance. He is tall and lean with cold eyes and offers no greeting as he leads us through the ornate doors.
The man leads us into a grand hall with sweeping staircases on either side and a giant painting of an angry-looking man dominating the far wall.
A door opens behind us and we turn to see the man in the painting himself flanked by two burly guards. His graying hair is slicked back from his angular face, and he’s dressed in a charcoal suit that probably cost more than most people make in a year.
“Bienvenidos.” He smiles, but it doesn’t quite reach his eyes, which remain as cold as they are in his portrait.
“Gracias,” I reply.
“Señor Gallo,” he says. “I am Jacinto Agudelo.”
Yes, Agudelo. From the documents.
“Señor,” I say with a nod.
Already, we’re getting off to an interesting start.
Agudelo.
The old woman.
Austin Bellamy. Mario. Puzo.
All connected in a web I don’t fully understand.