Total pages in book: 61
Estimated words: 59119 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 296(@200wpm)___ 236(@250wpm)___ 197(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 59119 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 296(@200wpm)___ 236(@250wpm)___ 197(@300wpm)
And if Carillo found his coke supplier elsewhere, be it with another cartel in Colombia or an outfit in Peru, it would add insult to injury. Luca would have every reason to start an all-out war against Carillo.
Wars cost money.
I repeated my question from before. “So how long do you think it would take you to convince Carillo?”
He sighed and weighed his answer. “I don’t know. A week, maybe. Two, tops.”
I took a step forward automatically. A week or two was nothing. Not if Elliott and the others were willing to let experience and history talk. We were going on a week right now, and we didn’t have a whole lot. Tragically, in many of these cases, loved ones were missing for far longer.
Could I talk Elliott into this? Wouldn’t it be worth it? We could save ourselves the anguish of fumbling blindly, not to mention unnecessary risks.
Then again, this was easy for me to say. Most of my fury was directed at Carillo because he’d killed my best friend. I was far enough removed, emotionally, from the kidnapping situation that I could theorize and strategize without feelings involved. My anger and grief couldn’t compare to Elliott’s and Joel’s, for instance. One man’s niece, another man’s daughter.
I wanted to put my faith in the boss, though. Desperately. Elliott had orchestrated much of our hunt. He was leading the way, despite his emotional attachment.
“I’m gonna try to convince Elliott tomorrow,” I decided. “And I want you to come with me. I want you to talk to him too.”
Bottom line, I was fucking done holding a good guy hostage. We had bigger fish to fry. I mean, what good was I doing out here in the middle of nowhere? I should be with the others. And if Adrien gave us enough clues, I could go back to LA and help the Tenleys.
Not that I wouldn’t miss this hunk of Fed right here. I wasn’t sad about him walking around in his underwear. It’d been a good decision to cut up his clothes.
“I’d be happy to, but you need to take every safety measure you can think of,” Adrien told me. “Perhaps you should sedate me again before we leave.”
I felt my eyebrows shoot up. “Are you gonna run away like a wild animal?”
He rolled his eyes. “I’m telling you not to put too much trust in me so fast, Crew. You need to be careful.”
What? Why was he giving me mixed signals?
“You’re saying I can’t trust you,” I stated.
“I’m saying that’s not something you ask the person you wish to trust,” he corrected. “When all this is over, you still have to write a report, and you don’t want to start by saying you took a leap of faith and decided to wing it. Now, where are we on the sedative? I admit, it’s a selfish preference over handcuffs, but you need to do something.”
What the fuck? Write a report? This wasn’t some government agency. Christ. There’d be no reports at the end of this.
“You’re ridiculous,” I chuckled. To be honest, I was over the whole thing. “If you wanna sedate yourself tomorrow—and be drowsy as fuck when you talk to Elliott before you pass out for like four hours—be my guest. There’s a vial left in my duffel bag.” I shook my head and headed to the kitchen.
He didn’t pose a threat to me, regardless of his intentions. I was stronger than he was. I was a lot faster. My aim was undoubtedly superior to his too.
“I’m not ridiculous,” he called after me. “I’m trying to protect you!”
Uh, thanks? But I didn’t need his protection.
I stirred the pasta and figured it needed another couple of minutes. His protection? Jesus. I was being coddled by my hostage. It bugged me. From the cooler, I grabbed a handful of stuff—sausage, heavy cream, and the last of the parmesan. Next to the cooler, I found more tomato sauce and some vegetables.
“I’m trying to protect you!”
Story of my fucking life.
I sliced the sausage and the mushrooms, then chopped the onion and spinach with unnecessary force. All my life, people had wanted to protect me. Why? I’d never been weak. I’d made mistakes—plenty of them—but so what? Everyone fucked up. I was social, easygoing; I’d never struggled to make friends. Decent grades in high school, despite my dyslexia. My folks had raised me up right, and I hadn’t done any shit that went beyond the usual teenage crap. Like getting caught smoking, stumbling home drunk, and the one time I’d tried and failed to steal ten bucks from Mom’s purse.
Hoo, Dad had not been happy when he’d caught me.
I removed the pasta and drained the pot of water.
But despite all that, my aunts and uncles—and my parents—had rallied around us kids all our lives to make sure we didn’t get hurt. Not shit like falling off our bikes and whatever—not a summer had gone by without a couple trips to the ER, but other stuff. We were real close, so that sort of protection kinda snuck up on you. And it was hard to explain. I just knew I’d been the only guy in my class, in my battalion, during deployments, at home, whatever, who’d maintained so much contact with his family.