Total pages in book: 114
Estimated words: 110721 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 554(@200wpm)___ 443(@250wpm)___ 369(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 110721 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 554(@200wpm)___ 443(@250wpm)___ 369(@300wpm)
“Well, when you find one like that, send her my way,” Stone told everyone at the table. “Now, can we get this fuckin’ meetin’ started?” He was done with this subject.
“Not without the big guy.” Ransom tipped his head toward the still empty seat.
Goddamn Ogre.
A second later, they heard the heavy thump of boots right before the six-foot-four, three-hundred-pound monster shouldered his way through the door to the meeting room. On his heels, like always, was his one-hundred-fifty-pound brindle Presa Canario, Thor.
With a bite force of over five hundred pounds per square inch, the fucking dog’s powerful jaws alone were deadly. So yeah, Ogre didn’t need any weapons other than himself and his canine sidekick.
The sergeant at arms never went anywhere without his four-legged beast. He had even added a sidecar onto his Harley for him.
“‘Bout fuckin’ time, asshole!” Stone yelled as Ogre lumbered around the table to his spot at Ransom’s left.
Ogre yanked out the chair and sank his weight into it, then he tipped his bearded chin down but lifted his dark, soulless eyes to stare across the table at Stone. “You say somethin’?”
Probably not the best idea to poke the grizzly bear. “Yeah, I was sayin’ how much I’ve missed you.” Stone puckered up and blew a kiss across the table.
Ogre rose from his seat, turned around, dropped his jeans to expose his ass, and pointed to one hairy bare cheek. “Kiss this, motherfucker.”
“Prefer not to get pink eye, fuck you very much.”
At the head of the table, Ransom howled with laughter and slammed his gavel down, then yelled, “Let’s get this shit over with.”
Best words Stone had heard since entering the room a half hour ago.
Chapter Two
It took a while to find him, but Taryn’s determination finally paid off. It also helped that some of her past and current clients had connections with access to non-public records. It only took asking the right one. One who also didn’t ask fifty questions on why she needed the info.
Or lecture her on searching for “trouble.”
It was her opinion that day in the parking lot almost fourteen months ago, her savior had been nothing but “good trouble.”
According to the info, James Conrad lived in Dead Man’s Hollow. It was about an hour north of Harrisburg and only twenty minutes or so away from where she lived in Selinsgrove on the opposite side of the Susquehanna River.
Lifting her foot off the accelerator, she let her Honda Pilot slow enough so she could get a better view of her surroundings. She glanced at the map on her dashboard again. Was this right? The area seemed so remote, despite being only minutes from Sunbury.
“Make the next right onto Brush Valley Road,” George, her monotone GPS voice, instructed.
Well, if George was telling her to take a right…
She followed his guidance and a minute later was surprised to find herself deep in a thickly wooded area.
“In a quarter mile, make a left onto Whiskey Springs Road.”
“Okay, okay. But I’m not liking this.” She wouldn’t be surprised if the next road ended up being dirt.
Nobody was out here. At least she had cell phone coverage. It might not be strong but two bars was better than zero.
Her heart leapt into her throat.
Maybe this was a bad idea. But then again, so was marrying Victor.
She swore her life was one bad decision after another.
“Your destination is on your right,” George announced.
“Are you sure, George? It sure looks like an old school to me.” Maybe even an abandoned one.
Of course, George refused to answer her.
She pulled over and hunched down enough so she could get a better view of the sprawling two-story brick building at the top of a long, grassy slope. Surrounding the building and a majority of the property was a six-foot chain-link fence. Most likely installed to keep out vandals after the school was closed.
To the right of the school were double gates with one side wide open. The empty paved parking lot in front of those gates had seen better days.
From where Taryn sat, she could see the cracked and crumbling macadam also had some deep potholes wide enough to dent a rim, if not pop a tire, and the painted lines for the parking spots were barely visible, another sign that the lot hadn’t been maintained in a long time.
George had to be mistaken. James Conrad could not be living at this address. He had to have provided a fake ID when he was arrested that day.
But why this property? He had to have some sort of ties to it.
Gnawing on her bottom lip, she contemplated her next steps. She could park in that lot and travel on foot through the gate. Or she could simply drive through it and straight up to the building.
However, the abundance of ominous “no trespassing” signs attached every few yards to the metal fence posts was a good indicator she needed to be cautious. She might not be welcome here, whether on foot or four wheels.