Total pages in book: 88
Estimated words: 82878 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 414(@200wpm)___ 332(@250wpm)___ 276(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 82878 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 414(@200wpm)___ 332(@250wpm)___ 276(@300wpm)
Now I’m sitting in Jerome’s car, cursing the traffic that’s turning the journey into a frustrating nightmare. I’m buzzing with energy, sitting on the edge of my seat, adrenaline rushing through my body. I’m finally going to get the revenge I’m due for my restaurant, the people who lost their lives and were injured there. And most of all, I’m going to get my revenge for the fact that Amelia could have been hurt in that fire.
“How much further?” I ask.
“Not far. Another couple of blocks,” he says. “If the traffic stays like this, ten minutes maximum. And it’ll be quicker if it thins out a bit.”
I nod impatiently. I just want to arrive there, get this whole thing over with, and go back to having a quiet life. Once I’ve dealt with Igor, I’ll be able to relax about Amelia. I’ll be able to go out to places, even places I don’t own or haven’t vetted, without me looking over my shoulder, paranoid that something bad will happen to her.
I can see now that’s no way to live, not for either of us.
We finally catch a break in the traffic and Jerome puts his foot down. We have to hurry, not just because I’m hell bent on getting this over with tonight, but because Igor could move again. Jerome’s men have obviously been asking questions, and while I know they’ll have done their best to be subtle about it, there’s always a chance someone will talk. If Igor knows we’re coming for him, there’s no way in hell he’s going to just sit around waiting for us.
Jerome finally pulls the car up to the curb.
“This is it, boss,” he says.
He nods out of the window to a mid-row terraced house. The house looks like it's seen better days and the garden is overgrown, but the same could be said for ninety percent of the houses on the block. A couple of young boys are kicking a ball around on the road a few yards down from where we’ve parked, and in one of the scruffy gardens over the road, a group of teenage girls are passing a bottle of cheap white liquor around between them. When I open the car door, the smell of weed is heavy in the air. I figure it’s not just a bottle of liquor the girls are passing between themselves.
Jerome gets out of the other side of the car and waits for me to come and meet him on the pavement outside of the house.
“What’s the plan?” he asks. “Are you carrying?”
“No. I came straight from the office. We’re going to go in there, root out the little fucking rat, and I’m going to kill the fucker with my bare hands. That’s the plan.”
“Works for me,” Jerome says with a wry grin. “Now?”
“Now,” I confirm.
We go up to the front door and I stand back and smash my foot against it, just below the lock. It’s an old, cheap looking wooden door and it splinters and crashes open on the first kick. I shake my head. Some fucking safe house.
I know kicking in the door has gotten the attention of both the group of teenage girls in the garden opposite us and the boys kicking the ball around down the road. This doesn’t strike me as the sort of neighborhood where the neighbors get involved in each other’s businesses, or the sort of place where people call the cops on someone else’s behalf, but I don’t want to risk getting caught here, so we have to move quickly. I estimate if there’s a good Samaritan kicking around, we have about fifteen minutes tops.
“You do the upstairs, I’ll do the downstairs,” I say to Jerome.
He doesn’t waste any time responding, he just runs up the stairs, taking them two at a time. I kick open the first door I see. It opens into a dingy little living room which I quickly see is empty. There’s nowhere for anyone to hide. A tiny TV stands in the corner. I come back out of the room and check the kitchen. It’s smaller than the living room and equally depressing. Again, there’s no sign of anyone.
I hear Jerome jogging down the stairs, and I come back into the hallway.
“Anything?” I demand.
“Nothing,” he says. “No clothes. No toiletries in the bathroom. We’re too late, boss. He’s already moved on.”
“Fuck,” I shout, slamming my fist into the wall and leaving a gaping hole in the plaster. White dust rains down onto the grubby once cream carpet. “Let’s get out of here.”
Jerome and I leave the house.
The boys have gone back to their football game, unconcerned with our business and the teenage girls, although they watch us, don’t seem particularly worried about what we’re doing. One of them, one of the braver ones I assume, shouts over to me.