Total pages in book: 130
Estimated words: 131651 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 658(@200wpm)___ 527(@250wpm)___ 439(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 131651 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 658(@200wpm)___ 527(@250wpm)___ 439(@300wpm)
And poor Steven, so smart and lively, wondering if he made the mistake of his life by following in his father’s footsteps.
Viktor Guchkov looks on with his sea snake eyes, tracking my movements as I slowly stand, clasping the briefcase in both hands.
I do my best not to show how heavy it is.
I move slowly, like the fear makes me clumsy.
Really, I’m just stalling. I’m scared of what I’m about to do.
Sweat coats my palms. It hurts to breathe, and I have a raging need to pee.
No one ever tells you how much danger affects your bladder.
Holden might be built for this life.
Not me.
Still, I can’t back down now.
I need to make them believe I’ll comply, but I’m so scared I’ve lost my mind.
That shouldn’t be hard. The fear, that’s very real, bony fingers skimming down my neck.
My entire body misfires, soaked in adrenaline, and it’s only PopPop’s smiling face in my mind that keeps me moving.
He left me the Hera Egg because he knew I’d find it a home. He understood I’d admire it and I’d share it with like-minded people who appreciate beauty like we do.
I’d never hand it off to some savage second-rate mobster.
Not for anything.
The desk isn’t far, and I can only milk it for so long before I have to drop the bag delicately on the sleek mahogany surface.
My nerves scream, begging me to release the bag with the heavy case inside. But I can’t have it clunking down and making any metallic sound.
My breath stalls.
Humid sweat drips down my spine as I finally lay the bag down and tangle my fingers in the straps like they just happened to get caught.
Just as I hoped, Guchkov steps closer, impatient and towering over me.
He reaches for it before I’ve pulled my fingers away.
Greed. In his head, he’s already won.
He’s trying to see through the briefcase, picturing the marvelous treasure inside.
That’s why he’s distracted as I grab the handle and plow it into his face.
26
GOLDEN HOUR (HOLDEN)
Every second feels like a damn eternity passing as I pace by the guards at the end of the hall.
My feet scrape the marble floor.
Beyond the velvet ropes, a few kids stare as I stalk past. I must look like a madman, unable to keep still, and dammit, I don’t care.
I don’t care about anything except Cleo emerging safe and sound, free from the curse of the jeweled egg.
I shouldn’t have left her.
I shouldn’t have let her push me away.
Still can’t believe Talbot offered to have me evicted, but fuck, I guess he was just anxious to get this done. I can respect that.
A good sign, even if it doesn’t feel like one.
Here I am, stuck in my head, replaying every hour of the last few days where I could have done everything better.
When I pushed her away, I could’ve been gentler. I could’ve found the right combination of words to convince her this is for her own good, and mine.
Then she wouldn’t be alone in there, open to God only knows what.
Clee doesn’t have my instinct for liars.
I still don’t like the look on Talbot’s face, the way his eyes jumped around. There’s no good reason a man should be that sweaty over a standard hand off for a prearranged deal.
No reason Fairfax should be in there, either.
No fucking reason Fairfax should have gotten in touch.
No reason he should even know what’s going down.
How many pies does he have his fingers in?
By the time I reach the end of the hallway—taking my own sweet time as the security guards watch me with annoyance—I pause.
My ears bristle at the low voices filtering through the museum. Mostly visitors, a curator giving a guided tour, kids clowning instead of paying attention to—
That’s when I hear it.
A muffled thunk from deep inside the office, and Cleo’s faded scream.
I don’t think.
Reflex takes over. I charge that golden door to hell like a raging bull.
Faster, faster, ready to break the bastard down before anyone can stop me.
Talbot locked it, presumably to keep me out, but there isn’t anything that’s going to stop me.
Certainly not the yelling guards racing after me. They’re softer and out of shape, which gives me a few more seconds.
I ram my shoulder against it first, then swing back and kick the handle.
Once. Twice.
It’s dense wood, the kind that used to be normal in old buildings built like fortresses.
On the third kick, pain lances up my knee, but one of the double doors creaks open. I don’t even think before I’m through it.
“What the hell?” The words fall out automatically.
For a breathless second, I wonder if I’m hallucinating.
I see Fairfax, Talbot, Cleo—and a tall, grizzled man on the floor I immediately recognize as Viktor Guchkov.
Head of Black Talon.
What the actual fuck is he doing here?
He’s sprawled out in a mess of limbs, clutching his face and swearing in Russian. One hand scrabbles for something. Not a gun, but a radio.