Total pages in book: 67
Estimated words: 63915 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 320(@200wpm)___ 256(@250wpm)___ 213(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 63915 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 320(@200wpm)___ 256(@250wpm)___ 213(@300wpm)
I can see the place from where I sit in the passenger seat — faded paint, cracked asphalt, a half-lit “VACANCY” sign flickering like a heartbeat.
Pretty Boy’s on his phone again, nodding to the rhythm of a conversation only he can hear. When he hangs up, he turns to me, his face unreadable. “We’re on. He sent the info. Rooms 102, 106, 110, and 114. Door codes are each room number typed twice.”
“So 102102, 106106, and so on?” Crunch clarifies.
“Yeah,” Pretty Boy states. “He thinks I’ll pay cash once I pick my girl. Says the others are already inside, waiting.”
I grip the door handle until my knuckles ache. My chest feels like it’s full of glass.
“Tommy,” Crunch says from behind me. “You don’t go in first. You go with me. We take the middle rooms. Karma and Red take the ends. We sweep fast, stay quiet. If she’s in one of those rooms, we move. No guns drawn unless someone gets in the way.”
“And if she’s not?” I ask, voice tight.
“Then we call the handler again,” Pretty Boy says. “I’ll tell him I want more. He’s greedy enough to take the bait. He’ll deliver.”
I nod. My throat’s too dry to speak.
Tripp steps up from the van behind us. “Van’s ready for extraction,” he says. “We’ll load her in the back and head straight to the place Head Case has Doc Kelly set up at. No detours, no stops.”
“Let’s ride,” I mutter, swinging the door open.
The night air hits like a slap. I pull my cut tight around me and start walking, each step heavier than the last. Crunch falls in beside me, silent. The parking lot smells like old trash rot. Somewhere down the street, a dog barks once and goes quiet.
When we reach the first door, Karma and Red move off to either end. Crunch glances at me once, then nods toward room 106. “You ready?”
“Born ready,” I whisper.
The keypad blinks green after the code, and the door clicks open. The room inside is dimly lit, curtains drawn. The air smells like cheap perfume and old smoke. A woman sits on the edge of the bed, legs crossed, staring at the TV.
She looks up when we enter, eyes glassy but alert. She’s young. Too young. Not Jami.
My heart sinks, but I keep my voice steady. “You alone?”
She nods slowly, then looks past me at Crunch, her expression tightening. “You’re not customers.”
“No,” I admit. “We’re not.”
She goes still, her body tensing like a cornered cat. “Then what do you want?”
I crouch down to her level, trying to soften my tone. “I’m looking for someone. Jameson Rivera. Jami. You know her?”
The name hits her like a slap. Her eyes dart toward the door, then back to me. She shakes her head too fast. “Never heard of her.”
She’s lying, but pushing won’t help. Not yet. I stand and move back toward the door. “Thank you,” I say quietly.
Outside, Crunch meets my gaze. He doesn’t have to say it — we move to the next room.
Room 110. Another woman. Not Jami. The same look of fear, the same refusal to answer when I ask where they stay, who moves them, where their handler keeps them when they’re not working.
By the time we clear all four rooms, the frustration feels like acid in my veins. I’m pacing the cracked concrete outside, jaw tight, hands shaking. Pretty Boy stands off to the side, phone in hand.
“She’s not here,” I snap. “You sure your contact didn’t play you?”
“He didn’t,” Pretty Boy says, calm as ever. “He just hasn’t sent her in yet. Give it a minute.”
“A minute?” I roar. “She’s out there somewhere—”
Crunch steps between us. “Tommy. Breathe. Losing it won’t help her.”
“I can’t—” I start, but stop myself. My chest feels too tight to get the words out. I press a hand to my ribs, sucking in a slow breath that burns all the way down.
Pretty Boy looks at his phone again, thumb flying across the screen. “He just replied,” he says. “Says he can send two more girls over if I’m serious about spending. Wants to know if I’ll pay up front.”
I look at him. “Do it.”
“Already on it,” he says, tapping a few more keys. “I told him double his rate, cash on delivery. He’s too greedy to say no.”
We wait. Five minutes. Ten. Fifteen. The night stretches out long and mean. Every sound feels like a countdown — the hum of the streetlight, the shuffle of a car turning into the lot, the dull pulse of my own heartbeat echoing in my ears.
Then headlights flash across the far side of the lot. A black sedan rolls to a stop outside room 112, and two women step out. The driver doesn’t even kill the engine. He just waves a hand toward the rooms and pulls away.