Total pages in book: 138
Estimated words: 130414 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 652(@200wpm)___ 522(@250wpm)___ 435(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 130414 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 652(@200wpm)___ 522(@250wpm)___ 435(@300wpm)
“We’ll be able to take their load and hit the deadline. Perhaps even hand over some equipment early. As you may be aware, we just recruited five hundred workers at our Smethport factory. Call it the Prophecy of Dry Bones. The resurrection and restoration as you return to your promised land—Costa Industries.”
If things went my way—which they historically had—the DOD and Reynolds would have no part of their contract fulfilled. Costa Industries would be long gone by then. Duly crushed, liquidated, and dormant. I didn’t care one bit. As Dallas loved to point out, I was in the business of death and intimidation.
Reynolds nodded, stroking his chin. His daughter gurgled in the background. “I’ll talk to Lyons. He initially wanted to try Licht Holdings for their attractive prices, but that’s out the window, so I’ll see what we can do—”
A loud bang exploded in my ears. The double entry doors collapsed on the floor. People shrieked. Utensils and champagne flutes shattered to the hardwood in a symphony of broken glass. Waiters dove, seeking safety under tables. Four men dressed in cargo pants, black Henleys, and balaclavas tromped through the restaurant. I immediately recognized them as the ring of high-end robbers responsible for terrorizing Potomac. Still uncaught, after all this time.
Next to me, Dallas shoved Freida behind her back with no regard for her own safety.
A robber pointed to the ground with the tip of a Savage 64F. “Phones on the fucking floor or everyone’s dead.” Dozens of iPhones boomeranged toward his feet.
Everyone dead? By an outdated hunting rifle? Wouldn’t bet on it. And while interrupting my meeting, no less. Irritated, I draped an arm around Shortbread, who tucked Freida against the wall, sliding both our phones on the Bocote planks. I’d read the news. Knew what these morons were about. They robbed fashionable, rich diners, took cash from registers—not much, this was the twenty-first century, everyone paid by card—and left victims scandalized but unharmed. Unlike the previous places they’d raided, the minute I bought Le Bleu, I’d installed a Costa-owned security system so advanced and sophisticated, the cops must’ve left before the robbers even entered the premises. External security personnel monitored our cameras twenty-four seven.
Shortbread’s skin chilled. I squeezed my grip around her, pushing her head under my chin. Not because I cared, but because it looked great in front of Tom and Casey. Who, by the way, appeared stricken with horror. Casey shot Shortbread grateful stares for hiding Freida. The toddler shook, but my wife made funny faces to stop her tears.
“Hands in the air, everyone.” Another robber with a Glock raised his arm, shooting at the ceiling. The clown hit the chandelier, which crashed at his feet, causing everyone to scream and cry.
“Now I’m going to go to each table with my friends here, and you’re going to hand over everything you have that’s worth shit. Jewelry, watches, cash, fucking coupons. And you’ll wait with your hands where I can goddamn see them until I get to you, or I put a bullet through your head.”
I turned to Dallas. “Do as he says. Nothing bad will happen to you.”
Her throat bobbed with a swallow, though she didn’t sob like Casey, who crumbled to hysterics that rivaled the other diners’. I’d long suspected my wife was what Gen Z ridiculously referred to as a bad-ass bitch. As always, I was right.
The robbers worked quickly, grabbing everything of value and pouring it into backpacks. The one with the Glock reached our table, while the three others milled around, emptying pockets and bags.
Casey yanked off her rings, as well as her earrings, necklace, and Chanel clutch, sliding it to him. Tom and I offered our wedding bands, watches, and the little cash we carried. Dallas handed over her engagement and wedding rings, a bracelet, and a Birkin. Freida was still hidden behind her back, away from view. She glowered at the masked man like a disapproving teacher. Laughter fizzed in my throat. She was giving him sass at gunpoint. Classic Shortbread.
“The earrings, too.” The man behind the balaclava pointed at them with his gun.
Shortbread fingered the simple pearl stud, shaking her head. “No. I can’t do that. They belonged to Grandmomma. And she died—”
“I don’t give a flying fuck about how your mee maw kicked the bucket. Hand the earrings over, bitch.”
What was she doing?
Being sentimental and sweet. The things you mock her for so often.
She splayed her fingers flat on the tablecloth. “I’m not giving you my earrings.”
Freida began to cry. The shrill shriek echoed off the walls like a bullet.
“Sweetheart.” I didn’t call her by her name, since it’d be dumb to tell them who we were.
“No.” She tucked the child under the table and glared right into that asshole’s eyes, issuing an unspoken challenge. “Shoot me if you’d like. But you’re not getting my grandmomma’s earrings.”