Total pages in book: 55
Estimated words: 53529 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 268(@200wpm)___ 214(@250wpm)___ 178(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 53529 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 268(@200wpm)___ 214(@250wpm)___ 178(@300wpm)
I hop to my feet and peer through the living room curtains. My small, cinderblock house is surrounded by thick jungle on two sides. The lake is to the back. Out front, there’s a patchwork of flagstone nestled into the moist dirt, leading from my front door to a road. The flagstone is covered in sticky mud half the time because it rains a lot around here, but it’s helpful for keeping track of who comes around. The delivery guy always wears flip-flops. Size nine.
I eye the path but don’t see any new footprints. I go to the window in my tiny all-blue kitchen, and then to my bedroom with its single lamp on the nightstand and big fan in the corner. I peer out the blinds to check that side of the property. Looks clear, too.
Assuming the threat hasn’t arrived yet, I quickly grab my black duffel bag from the narrow closet and put it on the unmade bed. I shove my clothes inside—jeans, tees, shorts. I don’t own much, so it only takes a minute.
Hold up. I freeze with my hands on the bag. I have no idea where Kyle is going to relocate me. The Himalayas? The Arctic?
“Jacket. I need a jacket.” I have one that’s been sitting in a bag under the bed, unused since I got here. It’s too hot for winter clothes. Most days, I don’t even wear a shirt. Fine. Or underwear. What’s the point? I live in my swim trunks since I have to jump in the lake to cool off. No AC here, and it’s fucking hot.
I rush to the bathroom and grab my razor, toothbrush, and deodorant. Done. Ready.
Panting and sweaty, I finish zipping up my bag and look at my watch. I have a few minutes to spare. Then I look down at my bare chest. Dammit. I need a shirt. Probably makes sense to put on pants, too. I’ll skip the underwear.
Why start now?
I unzip my bag, dig out my favorite red tee and slide on a pair of jeans. I push my feet into my black Converse and let out a sigh.
There. Better.
“I should eat something.” No, wait. I’m full. And maybe a liiittle drunk. I metabolize alcohol quickly, so I should be fine by the time they get here. Hold on. How will I know this is a legit extraction?
Swaying from the beer, I grab my phone.
Me: What’s the code word?
Kyle: Ultra Mega Chicken
“Funny, asshole.” Ultra Mega Chicken is a character from an animated series I used to watch. Kyle always teased me about my TV shows.
Me: Wrong
Kyle: Mama likes mambo.
Correct. For the record, I don’t know if Mom ever listened to mambo, but I picked the phrase because it’s easy to remember. The counter code, the one I’m supposed to reply with, is even dumber, so I reply with a thumbs-up emoji instead. Kyle already knows it’s me.
I immediately want to ask what the situation is—how I was found out, who’s after me, and where I’m going—but I know better than to ask over text. Not safe. Kyle and I communicate using an encryption program that self-deletes in an hour, but Kyle warned it can be compromised. When we speak on the phone via a secure app, we’re always careful never to discuss my location.
I zip up my bag once again and drop it over by the front door. I go out back, turn off the water main, shut off the propane tank, and lock up. There are bars on all the windows and doors, so the place should be fine while I’m away, though I’m not sure I’m ever coming back.
I wait with my ear to the front door until I hear the unmistakable chopping sound of a helicopter off in the distance. Probably five miles out. My mom-hearing is the best.
I step outside, lock the door behind me, and head to an empty lot off the main road. It’s our agreed-upon rendezvous location.
Minutes later, I spot the bird and stand back under a large mango tree as the blades whip the air around me, kicking up leaves and dirt. And a mango. Ouch! I rub the top of my head as my heart goes into overdrive, pounding louder than the helicopter’s engine. Thump! Thump! Thump!
Stay calm, I tell myself. Remember your breathing. I can’t get riled up. It’s key to not becoming a raging murderer. Morris’s drug might’ve left my body, but it changed me forever.
The black helicopter sets down in the tall grass, and two men in camo, holding automatic rifles, hop out, pointing their weapons at the surrounding area. A third man, the size of a tank with muscles almost as big as mine, jumps out and runs toward me.
I swallow hard. This looks serious, like there’s a threat nearby.
Muscle Man wastes no time and sprints across the field in my direction, waving for me to start coming toward him.