Total pages in book: 68
Estimated words: 69365 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 347(@200wpm)___ 277(@250wpm)___ 231(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 69365 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 347(@200wpm)___ 277(@250wpm)___ 231(@300wpm)
“Zero?”
“Him either.”
“Why not?”
“Why are you asking?”
“Why are you avoiding?”
“Why aren’t you focusing?”
“Who says I’m not?” Another wiggle slightly to the left is executed. “Has is it ever occurred to you Victor-”
“Purposely provoking me.”
“You love it,” I offhandedly brush off.
“I do.”
“Now, has it ever occurred to you that maybe I need the noise, the conversation, the force of multitasking,” feeling a small catch freezes my action, “in order to concentrate? That the sound of your voice talking to me – even about bullshit – is actually helpful.” Success over my touch search leads to me readjusting the metal to push the button. “That the only place I prefer silence or find true comfort in silence is when I’m in or under water?” The door unlocks prompting me to smugly peer up. “And we’re free.”
“From the room.”
“Still a victory, Counselor.”
“That,” he unexpectedly says in tandem with me rising back to my feet. “I prefer you call me that.”
“Counselor?”
“Or Attorney At Law or Master or Garcia or pretty much any snarky title that finds its way past your pouty lips.”
“They’re not pouty. They’re perfect.”
“They can be both.”
An amused nose scrunch thoughtlessly occurs. “Why? Why do you prefer those?”
“Porque viene de ti.” He leans around me to remove the bent metal from the hole. “And I only want names that mean something – whether you’re expressing distaste or dissatisfaction or dirty fantasies – to come from you.” The offering of the material is made post him ending the conversation. “You wanna put this away or give me that honor?”
Mirth floats around my stare as I snatch the tool, deliver a re-bend, and secure it back inside my bikini top. Next, I crack the door open just enough to see if we’re actively being guarded or if they expected the joke of lock to do the job it took minimal effort to make it stop doing.
Not seeing a figure or outline of one convinces me to cautiously grant us more access to the upper level.
Sliding along the outer wall beside the area we’re leaving is effortlessly done by me; however, the man – that I assumed would be a better escape accomplice than he is – brazenly prepares to step into plain view until I – once more – extend an arm to stop it.
“Against the wall!” I hiss in a reprimanding fashion.
Despite immediately completing the action he asks, “Why?!”
“We don’t know who is where or how many there are.” Instantly my eyes dart upward to the deck area above us where a pair of boots are peeking through the railing. Pointing my index in that direction, I continue to whisper, “Two on the upper level, means at least two on this level too.”
“I only see one pair of feet.”
“If there’s one on this side…that means there’s one on the opposite side.”
“You don’t know that. You shouldn’t just assume-”
“I’m sorry, which one of us has been kidnapped before?”
“That’s terrible evidence for your conclusion considering not all kidnappers operate the same.”
“Fine.” Sneering can’t be helped. “Law enforcement as well as military – and paramilitary – are trained to send their operators out in pairs. Most mercs have background in one or both of those departments; therefore, it’s natural for them to patrol in familiar patterns when out in the field.”
Rather than give me a victory, he challenges, “And what gives you the impression we’re dealing with paramilitary – or in that aspect – versus pirates or low-level foot soldiers or junkies just looking to make some extra cash?”
“Their footwear.”
“What?!”
“Footwear tells you a lot about a person before they ever will.”
“Is that so, Shirley Holmes?”
“Yours says you drink too much tequila and can’t run a full mile.”
“I can run a full mile!” Garcia sharply bites back.
“His says mercenary, military issued, meaning my previous conclusions are most likely correct, and that we need to get moving before one of those patrolling this level reach our prison – that we are not in, need I remind you – again.”
This time he nods and ushers a hand for me to lead the way.
Which is nice.
Which I appreciate.
But what’s not nice and what I fucking hate is not knowing the layout of this vessel.
Having to guess based on the specs I can view.
The direction we should probably be heading.
While yachts have similar features, size does have a major mapping effect on style and detail and positions, leaving me much more in the “jump and hope we can swim” category than I’m comfortable being.
Heading portside, we tip toe, doing our best to make as little noise as possible.
Sounds of the crashing waves give me a hint to how far out we may be, and the dark of night indicates how long we were unfortunately unconscious.
That sort of time having passed should mean that Zero is actively trying to find us somewhere, and my original notion of trying to get a message to him – or the coast guard – is truly our best bet.