Total pages in book: 138
Estimated words: 138981 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 695(@200wpm)___ 556(@250wpm)___ 463(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 138981 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 695(@200wpm)___ 556(@250wpm)___ 463(@300wpm)
Holy shit.
Holy shit.
...it wasn’t Montero at all.
It was Ulysses.
Ulysses killed Emma Santos.
And if that red dress is any hint, he intends to kill me next.
“I wish you hadn’t done that,” Ulysses growls behind me with weary impatience, his voice so close it shivers down the back of my neck.
I start to whirl—
But I never get the chance.
Something cold stings the side of my neck, and it’s not my heart turning into brittle ice.
I barely catch a flash of soulless, empty tea-green eyes before I collapse, before my legs go numb and drop me down a bottomless abyss.
22
Blood Is Too (Lucas)
I’ve gotta keep my head in the game.
Tonight’s the night.
Come hell or high water, we’re going to close in on the Jacobins and get some answers about what happened to Roger Strunk.
We’ve got our map of the farmstead and a tactical blueprint for storming probable entry points to the still. Took a little bullying from the whole crew for Chief Bowden to cough up their last known location, all while he just sat there mumbling and clipping his damn fingernails.
The chief insisted we didn’t need to go this far, just find ’em another way without risking our own necks in a raid.
There are days when I really wonder about that man.
I think he knows lots of shit and just looks the other way because he’s that desperate to avoid trouble.
Right now, though, he’s absent.
It’s just me, Grant, Henri, and Micah bent over our red-marked map in the back of the station, all of us clustered over Grant’s desk. The Raleigh team is outside in their SWAT van, waiting for orders.
We have our own desks, by the way. They’re just gathering dust because we always congregate here before a ruckus.
Tonight, we’re decked out in black like burglars. Mostly tactical gear that’s years out of date when we don’t get the kind of new, fancy equipment you find in the big cities. No need out here for more than a little basic armor.
Can you imagine us going in like a hostage crisis team over some loose hogs?
Too bad we’ll be facing down another different kind of pig real soon.
I need to focus, and I fucking can’t.
My brain stays glued to Delilah, Lilah, and more Lilah again.
Every time we see each other, it just short-circuits a little more.
All I ever wanted to do was make it right by her.
I also haven’t been able to stop thinking about what she said.
Has she been getting herself in deep with the Arrendells intentionally to dig up info on Emma?
That stubborn-ass woman’s gonna get herself killed.
Another pretty dark-haired girl gone missing.
Fuck, I can’t stand it.
“Lucas. Lucas.” Grant snaps his fingers in front of my face. “You with us?”
“Cap, yeah.” I blink, coming back to reality. All the guys are staring, wondering what fucking planet I left my brain on. “Sorry, just mulling over the Santos case.”
Grant frowns. “You think we’ll find fresh leads on that with the Jacobins? You think they’re connected?”
“Maybe,” I deflect. “Can’t hurt to keep an eye out, can it?”
“Primary target first, but if we catch anything of interest, we definitely won’t overlook it,” Grant agrees. “Now if—”
Mallory interrupts us suddenly, wheeling her chair back from the dispatch computer and pressing the button to mute the mic on her headset. “Would one of you boys mind talking to Mrs. McLeary? She’s real agitated and says she won’t hang up until she talks to a ‘real cop.’” She rolls her eyes, pursing her lips with an irritable snort.
We exchange questioning glances, and then every eye in the room lands on Henri.
He holds his hands up. “All right, all right, I’ll do it. Don’t know why that woman always wants to talk to me.”
“She’s got a thing for Cajun accents.” Micah smirks.
“She’s eighty.” Henri shoots him a scorned look.
“Not a day past seventy-eight,” I throw in mildly. “Still in her prime. Don’t be so closed-minded, ‘mon ami.’ That’s age discrimination.”
“I hate all of y’all,” Henri says, but he snags the desk phone, glancing at Mallory. Mallory nods and taps something on her switchboard, the phone lights up, and Henri lifts it to his ear. “This is Officer Fontenot. What can I do for you, ma’am?”
We sit back and wait.
Henri’s part of this crew—not just comic relief—and there’s no point in going on with the planning if he’s not listening.
His eyes glaze over.
His voice maintains the same pleasant drawl, but we watch him as he closes his eyes and pinches his nose. Then he opens one eye and flips us all off.
“Yes. I’m sorry, ma’am. We’ll see what we can do about the noise—yes, ma’am. Yes, it is a travesty, ma’am. Highly indecent. I absolutely agree. Good people should be in bed right now.” He makes a choking noise, his eyes widening before he scowls at us all, his face red and mouthing, I really fucking hate y’all. “No, ma’am, I’ve got my own bed to go back to, but thank you very much. You have a good night now.”