Total pages in book: 103
Estimated words: 98243 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 491(@200wpm)___ 393(@250wpm)___ 327(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 98243 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 491(@200wpm)___ 393(@250wpm)___ 327(@300wpm)
Too fucking close, buddy.
I shove at his chest, but he doesn't move.
“You don't know me,” I say, annoyed that it doesn’t come out as convincing as I imagined.
“No?” His hand comes up, fingers ghosting along the choker at my throat. “Then why do you still wear this?”
I grip his chin, because if I have to see that smug smirk one more time I'm scared I'm going to do something stupid like lick it off. “Because it doesn't come off, asshole. You made sure of that.”
“There are ways.” His thumb traces one of the metal flowers. “Bolt cutters. A jeweler. You do have options.”
I shrug, releasing him. “Maybe I like it.”
“Maybe you do.” He steps back, taking all that heat with him. “Or maybe you like what it means.”
My shoulders straighten. “Which is?”
He's already heading toward the lounge, but he pauses at the doorway, looking back over his shoulder.
“That someone gave enough of a shit to mark you as theirs.”
The door closes before I can throw something at him.
I sit there on the counter, bagel forgotten, pulse doing ridiculous things in my throat. The choker feels heavier. Like it's actually made of the promises he keeps trying to force on me. Like there's some secret behind its meaning.
My phone buzzes.
Punk: Schematics uploaded. You reviewing now or later?
Me: Now. Need the distraction.
Punk: From what?
I stare at the front door.
Me: Nothing. Send them over.
The lies come so easily. Even to myself.
Especially to myself.
I crouch behind a rusted shipping container. Tactical gloves, thin enough to feel the trigger, thick enough to avoid prints. Hair wound so tight at my crown it pulls against my scalp—a reminder to stay sharp, stay focused.
“Two guards on the east entrance.” Luce's voice filters through the earpiece, steady and professional. “One smoking. The other's on his phone.”
“I see them.” Breath fogs in the cold November air. Chicago winters hit brutal this close to the lake. The warehouse sits squat and ugly against the water, all corrugated metal and broken windows.
“Heat signatures show four more inside.” Punk this time, keyboard clicks audible behind his words. “Target's in the northwest corner. Second floor office.”
“Security detail?”
“Two flanking. Rotating every twenty minutes. You've got a window in—” More typing. “Eighteen minutes.”
I shift my weight, checking the Glock holstered at my thigh. Two spare mags. Knife strapped to my left calf. Another tucked into my boot. Overkill is just good planning.
“I don't like this.” Daniel's voice cuts through, gruff and tight. “You shouldn't be going in without Leon.”
“Noted.”
“Ivy—”
“Daniel.” I keep my voice low, eyes on the guards. “I've got Luce and Punk. I've got eighteen minutes. I've got this.”
He doesn't respond, but I can feel his disapproval crackling through the line.
The guard on the right flicks his cigarette away, orange ember arcing through the darkness. They're talking now, laughing about something. Sloppy. Distracted.
Perfect.
I move.
The distance between the container and the building is maybe thirty feet. I cover it in seconds, staying low, boots silent against gravel. My back hits the metal siding and I pause, listening. Nothing but their voices, still relaxed, still unaware.
“Fifteen feet to your right,” Luce whispers. “Service door. Punk's got it.”
I slide along the wall, fingers finding the handle just as I hear the electronic lock disengage. Click. Smooth. Punk's a goddamn artist.
The door swings open on well-oiled hinges and I slip inside.
Darkness swallows me whole. I wait, letting my eyes adjust, breathing through my nose. The air smells like rust and motor oil and something organic going bad in a corner somewhere.
“Two hostiles on your level,” Punk says. “Thirty feet ahead. Patrol pattern suggests they'll cross in front of you in ten seconds.”
I press myself against a stack of wooden pallets, hand on the Glock.
Footsteps. Heavy. Two sets. They're arguing about a football game, voices echoing off the high ceiling.
“Bears are trash this year.”
“Been trash every year since '85.”
They pass within six feet of me. I could reach out and touch them.
I wait until their footsteps fade, then move deeper into the warehouse. The layout matches the schematics Punk sent—main floor open, second floor offices running along the north wall, metal stairs zigzagging up at intervals.
“Target's still stationary,” Luce confirms. “But his detail just split. One's heading toward the stairs.”
“Which stairs?”
“Your stairs. Thirty seconds.”
I sprint for the nearest cover—a forklift parked between two shipping containers. My heart kicks up, adrenaline singing through my veins. This part never gets old. The hunt. The precision required to stay alive.
The guard appears at the top of the stairs, descending slowly, flashlight beam cutting through the dark. He's older than the others. Heavier. His hand rests on his hip, near his weapon, but his posture is casual.
Mistake.
I wait until he reaches the bottom, until he's focused on checking the shadows to his left, and then I move.
My arm hooks around his throat, cutting off air before he can shout. The sound of his neck splitting cracks through the air and he drops like a bag of wet cement.