Total pages in book: 72
Estimated words: 70801 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 354(@200wpm)___ 283(@250wpm)___ 236(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 70801 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 354(@200wpm)___ 283(@250wpm)___ 236(@300wpm)
“Copy,” I murmur, even though my pulse is already sprinting ahead of the mission, thumping in my ears like a bad EDM track. My fingers twitch on the phone, the cheap plastic warm from my grip, and I resist the urge to check the time again. Every second feels like it’s coated in molasses, slow and sticky.
Because the file Rae pushed to my phone a week ago is burned into my brain, glowing like a neon sign in a dive bar. SALEM BLOOM. Black hair that probably falls in those effortless waves you see in shampoo ads, stormy-gray eyes that could pierce through fog—or, in this case, the haze of whatever drugs they’ve pumped into her to keep her compliant. Twenty-something, snatched three weeks ago from some innocuous spot, maybe a coffee shop or a late-night jog, funneled through a private pipeline of scumbags who treat people like luxury goods. About to be sold to the highest bidder, some oil baron or tech bro with a yacht and a conscience as empty as their crypto wallet.
Maddox Security is handling the larger net—Dean, Riggs, Sawyer are out there working the perimeter and pressure points, probably sweating through their tactical vests in this muggy heat, trying to identify where Serafina fits into this trafficking ring and who’s been taking orders from her shadowy ass. Serafina’s been a thorn in Dean’s side for years when a mission went wrong back when he was a Navy SEAL. She only just reappeared on his radar, and has been making our missions a living hell ever since. I can picture Dean barking orders in that gravelly voice of his, Riggs cracking jokes to ease the tension, and Sawyer... well, being Sawyer, silent and lethal like a shadow with a sniper rifle.
My job is simpler. Get the girl. Get her out. Don’t die. Don’t improvise.
The last part is… aspirational. Improv is my love language. It’s how I turned a botched stakeout into a viral dance-off once. It’s a long story, and involved a clown costume and a very confused arms dealer. Do not recommend.
Arrow’s plan is clean. I hate it for that. Too straightforward, like a grocery list: eggs, milk, kidnap rescue. We have a staging property outside Saint Pierce that acts as a “holding” location before the real auction site. High rise, all glass and steel that gleams under the city lights like a smug middle finger to the poor folks below. Security heavy—guards with earpieces and egos, pacing the lobby with that bored swagger, their boots squeaking on polished marble. Cameras everywhere watching like judgmental aunts at a family reunion. Men with guns who think they’re untouchable because they hide behind money and NDAs, probably sipping overpriced energy drinks that taste like battery acid while they scroll memes on their phones.
We’re not going through the front. That’d be suicide, or at least a really awkward elevator ride. No, we’re going through the building’s spine. Through the service tunnels snaking underground. It's a labyrinth of damp concrete and exposed pipes that drip with condensation, echoing every footstep like a horror movie soundtrack. The air down there smells like rust and mildew, thick enough to chew, with the faint buzz of fluorescent lights flickering overhead, casting jaundiced glows that make everyone look like zombies.
Arrow kills the engine, and the SUV goes silent, save for the tick-tick of cooling metal. He turns, his face a mask of stoic intensity under the faint green glow of the dash. “Ready?”
“As ready as a cat in a room full of laser pointers,” I quip, but my voice is steadier than I feel. I tuck the burner into my vest, feeling the weight of the tranq gun at my hip—non-lethal, because we’re the good guys, allegedly—and slide out into the night. The breeze carries the sharp tang of garbage from a nearby alley, mixing with the adrenaline spiking in my veins.
We move like ghosts, Arrow leading with that predatory grace of his, me trailing with what I hope is stealth but probably looks like a kid playing spy. The entrance to the tunnels is a nondescript manhole behind a dumpster that reeks of rotten takeout. Arrow pries it open with a crowbar that screeches like nails on a chalkboard, and I wince, half-expecting alarms to blare.
“Clear,” Juno whispers in my ear. “Cameras looped for the next ten.”
Down we go, into the bowels of the city. The ladder rungs are slick with moisture, cold metal biting into my palms, and each step down amps the claustrophobia. The tunnel walls close in, graffiti scrawled in faded spray paint—hearts, curses, some artist’s tag that looks like a drunk spiderweb. Pipes groan overhead, water rushing through them like distant thunder, and somewhere a rat skitters, its tiny claws scratching like fingernails on glass.
My mind races ahead to Salem. What if she’s drugged out, fighting, or worse—broken? I push the thought away with a mental joke: Hey, at least if this goes south, I can always claim it was performance art. “Extraction: The Musical.”