Total pages in book: 88
Estimated words: 86168 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 431(@200wpm)___ 345(@250wpm)___ 287(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 86168 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 431(@200wpm)___ 345(@250wpm)___ 287(@300wpm)
Glances across the bed. Fingers lingering as we brush near each other in the kitchen.
We haven’t talked about the night I became Don since it happened.
But fucking her in the graveyard, smearing her with blood, it changed something between us.
She sucked me and swallowed my cum like I swallowed that ash-and-blood-filled water.
Our own ritual.
I smile to myself, thinking of that happy, glazed-over, dizzy look she gave me down on her knees, and I almost don’t notice the black van when it pulls into the parking lot.
I sit up straighter and glance at the clock. A little past one in the morning. Technically, I shouldn’t be here yet. I’m not due for another ten minutes. The van maneuvers itself to a little corner, trying to hide in the shadows.
My heart sinks. I grip the steering wheel. “Come on. Drive away. Come on. Tell me it’s not them.”
But the van doesn’t move. The engine dies and it is still.
I watch for another ten minutes, feeling worse and worse, until I can’t take it anymore. There’s a sickness in my stomach. Anger in my chest. I hate this, I hate it so much.
I get out of my car and walk around to the back.
I’m parked across the street. The van can’t see me from my position. I open the back and inside, neatly laid out, is a custom AR-15 assault rifle and body armor.
I get strapped up. Full body armor, helmet, goggles, mask. I load the rifle and check to make sure I have extra magazines.
Rage fuels me now. Anger so hot it nearly hurts.
I’ve been in the game for a long time now, but this has never happened before.
Fucking betrayal.
I walk around toward the bank, taking the long way. It’s a quiet little suburban branch out in the middle of nowhere in Delco. There’s no reason that van should be here in the middle of the night.
Not unless it knows the Black Book is trapped inside, locked in a safe deposit box.
Only they don’t realize I can’t get inside.
My stomach sinks as I approach the van. The plate is splashed with mud. The windows are blacked out completely. There’s no doubt in my mind what’s inside, and I wish it weren’t true.
I wish it didn’t mean what I know it means.
A part of me still resists the truth. Even as I walk to the driver’s side door and tap on the glass with the barrel of my rifle.
The window rolls down. The man looking out has dark hair, dark eyes, and a thick beard. “Ah, hello, yes, I don’t—”
I aim the gun at his face. “How many in the back?”
“I don’t know—”
“How many?”
The rear door kicks open. I pull the trigger, spraying the driver, the high-caliber bullets ripping his skull to pieces and continuing through to pierce the passenger.
I hold the trigger down, unloading the magazine as I turn the rifle toward the side of the van. I spray like a madman, filling the interior with M855 “Green Tip” rounds with a nice steel penetrator core, made for this exact purpose. Men inside scream as the bullets wreck their armor, finding soft spots, exploding tissue. I eject my spent magazine and reload with another, dropping to one knee as men tumble out the open back door.
I gun them down. I don’t hesitate. I blow apart three men before I walk around toward the back, their corpses riddled with massive wounds, blood pumping onto the asphalt. The interior of the van is a slaughterhouse: three more dead and one wounded.
Someone’s running. I step to the side, get a clear shot, and take it. The fucker goes down, with a hole in the middle of his back, center mass. I stalk over and finish him off before returning to the van.
I check to make sure we’re alone. All dead. I have maybe a few minutes before the cops show up. There’s no way in hell a neighbor didn’t call this in.
I kneel down in front of the wounded man. He’s gasping for air. The bullet must’ve hit a lung. Red foams at his mouth, but he seems relatively stable. For now at least.
I shove my knee against his sternum. His eyes go wide as he starts to choke.
“Who told you to come here tonight?” I wait a moment before easing the pressure.
He wheezes, letting out a sob. “Please. Help.”
“Who told you to come here tonight?”
“Please. I don’t. Know. Nobody. Tells me.” He holds out a hand, slick with blood. “Please. Help.”
“Why did you come here? What was your plan?”
“Stop. You. Get. The book.” He groans when I push my knee down again. This time, I don’t let up. I hold it there, staring into his face as panic takes hold. He struggles, flopping, but there’s no strength left in him.
I give the bastard a slow, painful death. I watch him slow, slow, slow, and fade, until there’s nothing left.