Total pages in book: 119
Estimated words: 109882 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 549(@200wpm)___ 440(@250wpm)___ 366(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 109882 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 549(@200wpm)___ 440(@250wpm)___ 366(@300wpm)
My hand was still shaking when I shoved the paper back into my pocket. I stood, held my keys tighter, and headed out the door. I didn’t bother locking it this time. Because what was the point?
I pulled my car to a stop, leaned forward, and stared up at the building. It looked abandoned, decay and age written all over it. Glancing at the piece of paper again, I knew this was the right place, but it looked fucked up for sure.
This is stupid. Get the fuck out of here.
About to do just that, because I’d rather scrape by than end up dead, I went to pull away. The sound of someone pounding on the hood of my car had a startled cry leaving me. The man in front of the car was wearing a hood and a dark mask that only covered half of his face. He took a step back, my headlights illuminating him. He was dressed head to toe in black, his body still in front of my vehicle. I could have mowed him down if I’d really wanted to get the hell out of there, which I did. But the truth was I was scared shitless. And I knew he wasn’t alone.
The sound of banging at the back of my car had my heart racing so hard it was painful.
“Turn the car off.” The deep voice beside my car had me jumping. When I didn’t move, he held up a gun, tapping the barrel on the glass of my driver’s side window. “Move it,” he shouted.
I turned the key, shutting the car off. It felt like I’d unplugged my lifeline.
“Get out of the fucking car.”
I was too scared to try and make a run for it, the images of bullets flying through my car and slamming into me playing like a grotesque movie reel in my head.
I was out of the car faster than I thought I could move, and instantly pushed up against the side of the vehicle, the metal cold, hard, and unforgiving. The guy keeping me flat on the car started patting me down like I was packing a weapon. Surely they could see how terrified I was. I was spun around so fast my head swam. This guy was wearing the same mask, his eyes shrewd, dark.
“What the fuck are you doing here?”
“I…I…” My mouth wouldn’t work, the words not coming out, not being formed properly.
“Speak up, you fucking bitch, or I’ll really give you something to stutter about.” He placed the barrel of the gun at my abdomen, pressing it in, showing me who was in charge.
“Marshall gave me the address, said a man could help me.” The words tumbled out of my mouth, and I was proud and terrified I’d spoken them. I could hear how scared I sounded. I was scared, shaking, my nails digging into my palms. I was surprised there wasn’t blood on my hands, a testament to the violence swirling in the air. I glanced around. Four men, all of them dressed the same.
Thugs.
“People need to learn to keep their mouths shut.”
He’s referring to Marshall. God, I shouldn’t have said anything, shouldn’t have named him. I was so scared.
Before I knew what was happening, I was being hauled away from the car and toward the building. I tripped over my feet, but the guy holding on to my arm squeezed tighter. I wasn’t foolish enough to think he would care if I fell on my face.
We entered the building through this rusted-as-hell door. One of the guys hung outside, and the other three all but pushed me inside. The stench of dirt and mold was almost unbearable, and I coughed. Was that why they wore the masks? Or was it to make people like me know how low I was to them, how dangerous they really were?
I was pushed through a set of doors, then pulled down a long hallway. Another door. Another hallway. I felt like we’d been walking forever, going deeper, the chill in the air becoming more intense. Finally we pushed through a door, and I could see tables all around. Guns and drugs littered the tables.
It was then I knew that there was no going back. They’d let me see this, and although I didn’t know what their faces looked like, I knew where they holed up.
“Ricky, yo, we got a live one here.” The man holding my arm finally let go. He pushed me forward, and I stumbled again, catching myself on a table covered in large square-shaped bags wrapped in duct tape.
I glanced up at the one named Ricky, my throat dry, tight. I expected him to have the same getup as his thugs, but he was wearing dirty jeans, an equally filthy shirt, and sporting greasy hair. He had a cigarette hanging from his too-thin lips, and he eyed me up and down. I felt naked in that moment.