Total pages in book: 141
Estimated words: 128812 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 644(@200wpm)___ 515(@250wpm)___ 429(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 128812 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 644(@200wpm)___ 515(@250wpm)___ 429(@300wpm)
"Your guess is as good as mine," I tell him. "Anything we need to say before the truck is no longer safe?"
"Nothing I can think of," he mutters as he slowly makes his way through the maze of rusty, stacked cars.
I knew exactly what the old man at the oil changing place meant when he said we were good until we weren't. There's always a chance that they'll eventually add some sort of tech to the vehicle while we're away from it. I'm honestly surprised they bugged the house we started in and not the truck from the very beginning.
"The walk gives us a chance to look around," he says, pulling the truck into the same spot we grabbed it from this morning outside of the supply building.
"Good call," I say as I climb out.
A woman I’ve never seen before comes out of the building. Zayne wordlessly hands over the keys, and with a dip of her head, she turns around and heads back inside. It makes me wonder whether there's a correlation between those who can still manage a smile and the amount of time they've been here.
"Looks like we made the right call," Zayne says as we start to make our way to the building.
"That fucking crown," I mutter as we approach Bobby's office building a few minutes later.
A huff of irritation comes from him, but he doesn't speak. I know the man has a lot of experience in dealing with pieces of shit like Bobby, and I know it's not something you ever get used to.
He'll never mutter the words "Oh, that's just how he is" in a way that he honestly believes it just is what it is. There's no way anyone can get a look at the inner workings of a place like this and still think "boys will be boys" as an explanation for how they treat others, especially women and people of other races.
Zayne may say something like that to others here, but deep down, I know that he despises the man with every ounce of his being.
The front door swings open as we approach, giving even more credence to the surveillance around here.
"He's in the conference room," the guy tells us.
This time, we're given the ability to head in that direction ourselves rather than being escorted.
In the shadowed hallway, Regina Banks passes us, her face turned down. I might've been able to convince myself that she was somewhat happy being here until she sniffles just as she walks past us.
When I turn back, unsure of what to do but knowing I have to do something, Zayne positions his body so I know helping that girl right now isn't possible. I clench my fists at my sides until my knuckles pop. Frustration builds inside of me, the level of it almost to the point that I'll react without thinking eventually.
The burner phone in Zayne's pocket comes to mind, and I fight the urge to look at him and demand he call Cerberus to extract the poor girl already.
Bobby is leaning over a laptop when Zayne gives the doorframe a little knock to announce our arrival, despite knowing the man knew we were here the second the front gates opened for us. I have no doubt he was warned we were heading this way, and that's the only thing that diverted his attention from Regina.
He holds up one finger, head still angled down, as he uses one finger on each hand to type something into the old computer. He's frustratingly slow with the entire process.
I drop into a seat at the conference table, unwilling to stand there like a patient little soldier while he hunts and pecks at whatever the fuck he's working on.
He pauses when I grunt after getting off my feet, but then goes back to peck, peck, pecking the fucking keys. My first thought is that basic fucking typing is taught in school, but given what I know about a lot of these people, they didn't exactly get good grades. It's more likely the man quit before his freshman year anyway. Either because he just didn't want to be there, or his father, no doubt having the same mindset Bobby has now, thought it was a waste of time and didn't make him go. I'm sure there were many more important things to do, like bashing women, fighting for a liberty they contradict with every action, and hating people for no other reason than they don't look, think, and act exactly like them.
When the keyboard clacking stops, Bobby closes his laptop, his fingers on his left hand automatically pinching the bridge of his nose. I don't know the man well enough to gauge whether he's frustrated with us, whether we slipped up somehow, or whether the weight of leading this kind of group weighs on him. Honestly, I wish the man would get crushed under all of it, but spending a lifetime in jail might be the better option.