Total pages in book: 116
Estimated words: 109878 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 549(@200wpm)___ 440(@250wpm)___ 366(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 109878 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 549(@200wpm)___ 440(@250wpm)___ 366(@300wpm)
The thought makes my vision go red around the edges. I know how Brutus operates because I used to operate the same way. Back when I was young and stupid and thought cruelty was the same thing as strength. Back when I claimed the Crow name and called Brutus mentor. Before I learned that there’s a difference between killing for survival and killing for pleasure.
Before Peter Mitchell showed me a better way.
“Boss?” Hans’s voice cuts through the haze of rage and memory. “What do we do now?”
“Get us to the airport,” I tell Hans, settling back into the passenger seat. “We’re going to Crowshaven.”
He starts the engine, but I can see his massive hands grip the wheel tighter. “Boss, you sure about this? That’s the heart of Crow territory. And it’s just the two of us against all of them.”
“They stole Sara,” I say, watching the city lights blur past as Hans pulls into traffic. “And I know exactly how to steal her back.”
“How can you be so sure?”
“Because the Crow won’t be expecting me to come.” I lean back against the leather seat, already planning. “I’ve been retired. Murder sober. Word spreads fast in our world, Hans. The fact that I haven’t done anything to the Crow in retaliation for Peter’s death tells them everything they need to know—that I won’t.”
Hans glances at me in the rearview mirror. “And now?”
“Now they’re about to learn that some things are worth breaking sobriety for.”
Chapter Five
Saylor
The first thing I notice is the sound of rain.
Heavy, persistent drumming against glass somewhere above me. Like the sky decided to empty itself all at once and won’t stop until there’s nothing left.
The second thing I notice is that I’m not tied up.
I keep my eyes closed while I take inventory. Wrists free. Ankles free. No gag in my mouth. Either these assholes are incredibly stupid, or they think I’m so harmless that restraints would be overkill. Both possibilities piss me off.
I’m lying on something that might generously be called a couch, though it feels more like a collection of springs wrapped in fabric that gave up hope sometime in the nineties. The smell hits me next—stale cigarettes, spilled beer, and unwashed bodies.
My father’s compass rests heavy against my throat, and I focus on its weight to keep from hyperventilating. Peter Mitchell raised a survivor, not a victim. I will not give these fuckers the satisfaction of seeing Sara Mitchell cower. That scared little girl died the night they killed my father. They just don’t know it yet.
I crack my eyes open just enough to see through my lashes, keeping my breathing steady and even.
“—should’ve been back by now.” The voice comes from somewhere to my left, rough with impatience. “Caymans job was supposed to be simple. In and out.”
“Brutus doesn’t do simple.” This voice is younger, casual in a way that makes my skin crawl. “Remember the senator’s wife? He was supposed to make it look like an accident. Instead, we had to clean up body parts from three different counties.” A laugh follows, like he’s recounting a funny story from college. “Took us all weekend to find her head. Found it in a fucking tree, if you can believe that.”
“At least he got creative with it,” the rough voice says with what sounds like genuine appreciation. “Better than that boring shit we did in Phoenix. Three bullets, dump the body, collect the check. Where’s the artistry in that?”
My blood turns to ice water. Fuck them. Fuck them for discussing murder like it’s a weekend hobby.
“That was different. Personal.” A third voice, older, with the weight of authority. “This one’s business. Container manifest says the target was skimming from the cartel. Bad for business, bad for everyone involved.”
“Still think he’s having too much fun down there. Sun, sand, those little drinks with the umbrellas. Why the hell do we have to run operations out of this shithole when we could be somewhere warm,” says the first voice I heard.
Through my barely open lashes, I catalog the room. Low ceiling, water stains spreading across yellowed plaster like abstract art painted in neglect. Heavy wooden beams that look original to whatever decade this place was built. The windows are small and set high, streaked with grime and years of neglect—that’s where the relentless drumming is coming from. The glass is so dirty I can barely make out the gray sky beyond.
Three men visible from my position. The youngest one is tall and wiry, constantly moving. Tattoos crawl up his neck like black ivy. His hands never stop moving—fingers drumming against his thigh, foot tapping a rhythm only he can hear.
The second one is built like a linebacker. Massive shoulders, huge hands, and scars crisscrossing his knuckles. He’s cleaning his fingernails with a knife, the blade nicked and worn.