Total pages in book: 218
Estimated words: 215412 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 1077(@200wpm)___ 862(@250wpm)___ 718(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 215412 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 1077(@200wpm)___ 862(@250wpm)___ 718(@300wpm)
I stay close, scanning corners, counting exits, doing the math of survival.
He stops before a door at the end of the hall. A heavy steel thing, painted black. Raising a pale hand, he taps twice.
The door opens with a mechanical buzz.
My heart hits overdrive, no permission given.
Turning toward me, Frizz hums a few cheerful notes, ushers me into a private lounge room, and locks me inside.
I’d be lying if I said I’ll miss his face.
In the room, lamps glow amber behind red-tinted glass, turning the smoke-dense air into shades of blood. It smells like sex, booze, and money. The cartel’s holy trinity.
A man sits on the couch. An empty chair waits across from him, a coffee table between, littered with ashtrays, a half-empty bottle of tequila, and a pistol. He rolls a toothpick between his lips, eyes steady on me.
Yeah. I know that face. The scar bisecting his cheek makes him look homemade, not born. Steel-cut jawline. Gunmetal eyes. Brutally handsome.
The toothpick rolls lazily between his lips. Calm. Too calm. The kind of calm that comes from killing enough people to find peace in it.
Van Quiso.
He doesn’t introduce himself. No need. His reputation fills the room.
“Sit,” he says, voice a slow rasp that could pass for civility if not for the dominating demand behind it.
I drop into the chair opposite him, every nerve stretched tight.
A fitted Henley clings to his muscular chest, the sleeves pushed to the elbows. His black jeans show no dirt or wear. Can’t say the same for his heavy combat boots or the knife sheathed at his thigh.
He studies me. The toothpick spins. “Welcome to Colombia, Vigilante.”
The alias sounds wrong coming from him, like he’s trying it on to see if it fits.
I say nothing. Pretend I don’t know who he is. Pretend I haven’t read every classified whisper about the man who kidnapped, tortured, and trafficked humans in Texas.
“Relax.” He smirks. “I don’t bite. Not unless you’re naked and bound to a rack.”
I shiver.
In another life, I might’ve pursued that bite, even knowing what he is.
“Tell me something, Vigilante.” His polite, too-soft voice carries an undercurrent of terror, a predator making small talk before the kill. “What does Jag stand for?”
My brain blanks.
No one here should know my real name. No one knows that name unless I choose to reveal it.
The thrashing of my pulse drowns out all other sound.
I recover fast. Shrug. Let my mouth twist into carefree indifference. “J-A-G. Just Another Guy. What does Van stand for?”
He grins, showing no surprise that I know his real name. “Vanquish.”
Yeah. Figures.
“So, Jag.” Legs spread, he props a boot on the opposite knee. “What has you desperate enough to come knocking on our door?”
“You know why I’m here.” I rub my chest, forcing my heartbeat to behave.
“The favor.” Van flicks his fingers, impatient. “Let’s hear it.”
“I want a threat removed.” Leaning forward, I let my hands dangle between my knees. “There’s a criminal network hunting me.”
“Adrian Crowe.”
The name shoots ice down my spine.
Van Quiso saying it out loud tells me he already knows the threat and the terms of my favor.
Adrian Crowe founded House of Crowe, a network of shell companies that cater to talent agencies, retreat management, luxury villas, private aviation, and discreet shipping routes.
In other words, he runs a high-end sex-trafficking syndicate and cult-front organization for elite perverts and pedos, laundering influence and moving victims under the guise of luxury retreats, talent development, and global export logistics.
Of course, the cartel is aware of House of Crowe. Same trade, different criminals. They’ve been circling each other for years, feeding off the same industry and spilling blood every time their routes cross.
But how does the cartel know that Adrian Crowe is hunting me?
Van’s gaze narrows on the bandaged splint on my broken wrist. No one has asked me about the injury. Because they already know.
“You’re watching me.” My scalp tingles.
“Not as expertly as you watch us.”
No argument there. But that doesn’t make the invasion of my privacy any less horrifying. How much do they know?
“House of Crowe found me in Sitka.” I roll my neck. “I want them gone.”
“Why are they hunting you?”
Is he testing me? Or does he truly not know about my unfinished history with Adrian Crowe? History I can’t let go. Call it revenge. Or obsession. Or a goddamn suicide mission. Whatever. I’ve been hellbent on gutting that fucker for twenty years, but he’s so deeply entrenched, networked, and insulated by decades of powerful alliances, he’s impossible to dislodge.
Un-fucking-touchable.
Not that I’ll admit any of that to Van. “I’m a threat.”
He knows I’m hiding shit, but his expression doesn’t change. He stares me down in that terrifyingly still way men like him do, parsing my words for weakness, not meaning.
“The FBI is hunting you, too.” He raises a brow.
“I can handle the alphabet agencies. I want you to take down House of Crowe.”