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 climb the stairs, and he hugs me tight, clapping my back with one hand. He lets go and stares with a glint in his brown eyes.
Crap. I know that look. It means he’s getting ready to sell me on something.
“What is it now? What’s happened?” I ask.
“Before I say anything, promise you won’t have one of your infamous freak-outs.”
“I don’t ‘freak out,’” I argue. “I have a deadly rage issue.” Staying calm is essential to the well-being of those around me.
Kyle frowns.
“All right. No freaking out, but at least prep me properly. How bad is what you’re about to say?”
“On a scale of one to ten, it’s a twenty.”
CHAPTER THREE
Kyle walks me to the middle of the plane, where a group of nine men are waiting. All older. All in suits or dress shirts. None of them look happy. Frosty frowns all around.
I instantly wonder why the hell Kyle is exposing me to so many people. Isn’t it dangerous for them to see me?
“Who are they?” I ask Kyle.
“For reasons I’m sure you can guess, I won’t be making formal introductions,” Kyle says.
“Sure. I get it. Anonymity. Top-secret stuff.” Only, they all know who I am. Seems one-sided.
“Let’s go to the room in the back,” Kyle says.
I hadn’t noticed, but behind the rows of seats is a doorway. From here, I see a conference table and chairs. Reminds me of the Air Force One you see in movies.
I nod and follow the group in.
A tall, skinny man with a combover cut sits at the head of the table at the far end and points to a seat next to him. “You’ll get a better view from here, Huff.”
I take a seat, and everyone else sits to the sides of the table.
Combover slips a remote from his pocket, and a small projector drops from the ceiling. It’s old-school. Or is it high tech? I have no damned clue.
“Twenty-four hours ago, we received a call from the French prime minister.”
Huh? French prime minister? There’s no possible reason in my mind as to why those words would relate to me.
He goes on, “It seems Morris is threatening to blow up Paris.”
I burst out laughing. “Morris the chemist? They found that psycho?” I notice no one’s laughing with me.
“Just listen,” Kyle scolds. “We’re on the clock.”
I lift my palms apologetically.
Combover continues, “As everyone knows, Morris is a very skilled chemist when it comes to biological enhancements. He’s discovered a way to manipulate human DNA that’s baffled the scientific community.”
Morris gave up a version of his street-drug recipe before he went into hiding so that he could save his sister, Keni. Unbeknownst to him, she took the stuff when she was acting as his middleman. Middlewoman? Middleperson? Sounds like orgy-speak.
Anyways, Keni decided to become a customer, too, and Morris wasn’t happy about it. However, when he found out, he was in jail, arrested for doping half the football team with his poison. Like them, without more doses, Keni would die if she didn’t get her next fix. So Morris shared his secret sauce with a lab that could make a limited batch with very rare ingredients. Point is, I’m sure the government took blood samples from Morris’s victims in hopes of unlocking the secret to making more Huffs, even if what I was exposed to was something different: industrial waste from Morris’s many test batches plus whatever else was in that pool.
“Morris’s expertise is in super-steroids, not explosives,” I point out. “So why is anyone taking the threat seriously?”
Combover replies, “What has the French prime minister concerned is that Morris offered a little taste of what he plans to do.”
I raise a brow.
“Haven’t you seen the news? Morris is the one who set the Eiffel Tower on fire,” Kyle explains. “He used an unknown substance that can’t be put out. Not with water or conventional flame retardants, anyway. Morris says he’ll give us the chemical to extinguish it if we play ball. Otherwise, bye-bye Paris.”
My brain produces an image of a giant bonfire burning in the middle of Paris while everyone stands around roasting marshmallows. Sounds kind of fun. Not the whole Paris-on-fire thing, though. That sounds pretty crappy.
“I haven’t seen the news,” I say, “but what’s this have to do with me?”
“Morris has given us twenty-four hours to produce you, or he’ll light up the rest of the city.”
Morris wants me? “How does he even know I’m alive?”
“Lucky guess,” Kyle says.
Combover adds, “He’s obviously well aware of your value and that we wouldn’t let you die so easily.”
My death was faked on TV in front of ten different reporters from ten different stations. Later, my family held a funeral and everything. To be clear, I had anticipated dying that day because I refused to take Morris’s street drug in order to prevent my heart from bursting. Its secondary side effect is the murderous rage I mentioned before. No way did I want to risk losing control and hurting River, my family, or someone else because I lost my shit. Not when I’d been a victim myself.