Total pages in book: 126
Estimated words: 115619 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 578(@200wpm)___ 462(@250wpm)___ 385(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 115619 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 578(@200wpm)___ 462(@250wpm)___ 385(@300wpm)
The men pass our car, their guns drawn, as two of them survey the area while the third steps up to the driver’s side. He looks inside, then back at Romero. A slight shake of his head is all it takes to know he’s dead.
“Fuck it. I'm going in.” Romero calls out to the men to cover our backs while we approach the warehouse. With my Glock drawn, I kick the door open, Romero glued to my side.
There's a body at my feet, nearly blocking the door from being opened. Blood pools over the floorboards before congealing around him.
“Son of a bitch,” Romero mutters, whistling for the men to follow us as we head further inside. The lights are on, giving me a clear picture of the massacre that occurred here. I count at least six bodies sprawled out across the empty warehouse floor. Blood spatters on the walls and the pungent odor of gunpowder still hangs in the air while we slowly make our way through the aftermath. From their positions, it’s evident a couple of the men had drawn their weapons but weren't fast enough.
None of these things matter as much as the crate. It sits in the center of the floor beneath an overhead light. The pool of blood spread before it doesn't seem to have a source, yet the way it's smeared tells me a body was moved. I can hardly draw a breath, and almost every part of me knows I'm going to find something terrible inside it, the lid sitting beside it.
Nevertheless, I have to know. I have to face this. Every measured step I take is one step closer to my fate. To the fate that eventually befalls men in my world. Fuck around and find out. I’ve spent years fucking around, taking what’s mine and stopping at nothing to protect it.
Now’s when I find out what it indeed cost me.
I’m holding my breath as I step beside the open crate, forcing myself to gaze down at what awaits me. I’ve seen ugliness. I’ve been the reason for it many times. The sight of blood means nothing to a man who’s shed the blood of countless others.
Only what I find in the crate wipes my mind blank. Empty. There’s a moment when there is nothing in my head but endless darkness. No thought. Nothing but emptiness.