Total pages in book: 121
Estimated words: 114793 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 574(@200wpm)___ 459(@250wpm)___ 383(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 114793 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 574(@200wpm)___ 459(@250wpm)___ 383(@300wpm)
Together—slowly and carefully—we started laying out a plan.
The first was the classic wire traps. Not the kind that set off an alarm—but the nasty ones. Trip one, and you’d find yourself jerked six feet into the air by your ankle, dangling like fresh laundry.
It took us most of the morning to rig it.
Ira worked like a man half his age, tying knots with a speed and precision that made me wonder if he’d been a Boy Scout or something a lot more interesting.
I hobbled around with him, pointing and guiding as much as my battered body would allow, tightening the snare wires and setting the tension just right.
We hid them carefully—across the paths leading to the front door, between the trees along the trail, and even near the old outhouse. They were high enough that even a cautious step wouldn’t notice them until it was too late.
“You realize we could actually maim someone with these.” I checked one last anchor point.
“That’s the idea,” Ira replied cheerfully.
I tried to suppress a smile. “You’re not supposed to enjoy this.”
“I’m eighty-three,” he told me dryly, tossing a coil of wire over his shoulder. “I’ve earned the right to enjoy whatever the hell I want.”
Point taken.
We moved on to other traps after that: cans strung to fishing line across entry points for noise alerts, sharpened sticks wedged underbrush piles, and even a few homemade spike mats hidden under thin patches of moss. Nothing lethal—well, not immediately—but enough to slow down anyone who thought they could sneak up on us.
Enough to buy us time.
By midday, we were sweating and aching, but the perimeter was rigged better than most second-rate survival shows I’d watched on TV. I collapsed onto the couch, breathing heavily, my head pounding in time with my heartbeat and the rest of my body reminding me that it'd been through hell. I’d only done what work I could do from the wheelchair, but it’d still drained me.
Ira sank into the old armchair, looking downright pleased with himself.
“If we don’t catch Barris,” I gasped between breaths, “we’re definitely catching some poor postal worker who took a wrong turn.”
Ira laughed—a real, belly-deep sound—and reached for the can of sardines he’d bought at Walmart. “If that happens, we’ll feed ‘em and send ‘em home with a story to tell.”
I leaned back against the cushions, exhaustion clawing at me again. But somewhere beneath the pain, the worry, the fear was a kernel of satisfaction. We weren’t helpless. We were ready.
Webb
The living room was strangely quiet—just the hum of the TV filled the charged air. Most of us were slouched in chairs or spread out on the floor, laptops open and phones buzzing quietly as we tried to track Barris’s next move.
I sat on the edge of the couch, my elbows braced against my knees, hands loosely clenched together as I stared without really seeing.
Then, the anchor’s voice sharpened, slicing through the room like a blade.
“We interrupt your programming for breaking news out of Orlando—”
Every head lifted at the same time.
On screen, shaky footage showed Maddox being hustled through a courthouse hallway, surrounded by deputies. His designer suit was wrinkled, his face pale and twisted in a way that almost made me smile.
Almost.
“We've just learned that Colin Maddox has been officially charged,” the anchor said, her tone practically crackling. “Sources close to the case report that his own mother has agreed to testify against him and provide proof of criminal activity.”
A few low whistles broke out across the room.
Jesse leaned forward, shaking his head. “Damn, Gladys really went for the throat.”
The view shifted to the county sheriff standing behind a podium, papers fanned out before him.
“As of this morning,” the sheriff began, his voice even and grim, “Mr. Maddox is facing multiple state and federal charges. We are coordinating with federal prosecutors to pursue RICO charges, among other potential charges. Mr. Maddox will be remanded without bail pending judicial review.”
Reporters buzzed with questions as the sound of cameras taking photos suddenly grew chaotic.
The sheriff barely blinked as he added, “We thank the public for the overwhelming number of tips and evidence submitted. Anyone with further information is encouraged to call the dedicated tip line shown at the bottom of your screen.”
The number flashed up on the banner below.
Jesse squinted at it and snorted. “Should’ve made it 1800-IM-A-DUMBASS.”
Across the room, Wes laughed from where he sat sprawled in an armchair. “Nah. Should be 1800-IM-FUCKED. That's way more fitting.”
A few chuckles broke out, even from Marcus and Elijah—who were both normally steady as bedrock—but I barely heard them.
I couldn’t tear my eyes away from the screen. It should have felt like a victory—Maddox’s empire was collapsing, his crimes being dragged into the light for everyone to see. And Gladys…she was a goddamn warrior, holding her ground and making sure the world couldn’t look away.