Total pages in book: 218
Estimated words: 215412 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 1077(@200wpm)___ 862(@250wpm)___ 718(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 215412 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 1077(@200wpm)___ 862(@250wpm)___ 718(@300wpm)
Jag and Dove have been missing for ten days. That ends tonight.
“Crowe is inside,” Mikhail says into the earpiece. “VIP lounge.”
Oliver checks one last connection and pats my shoulder.
Monty twists in the front seat to face me head-on.
“Don’t.” Kody grunts and grips Monty’s shoulder.
Silence stretches, tight and brittle. Then Monty nods and reaches for me.
I go to him, awkwardly in the confined space, and let him envelop me in a hug.
“Bring them home.” He rests his mouth against my temple. “And don’t you dare touch that kill switch.”
If Jag and Dove are dead, I’ll probably blow up the whole damn building with me inside it. But I won’t tell him that.
Stepping back, I straighten as much as the roof of the van will allow and hold out my arms.
“How’s the fit?” I do a half-turn, side to side.
The black vest sits flat against my chest, balanced so it doesn’t drag or shift when I move. The quick-release is built into the front seam, so I can peel it open with a flick of my finger when it’s time to show them who and what they’re dealing with.
Below it, the gauze-thin ivory skirt hangs to the floor and parts with each step, transparent enough to show the black sequin shorts underneath. My black boots are thigh-high, steel-toed, and heavy, made to kick doors and asses.
Around my neck, I wear a short chain, blackened silver, with a large anarchist circle-A, embedded with crystals. Oliver modified it, replacing one of the crystals with a camera lens.
Rings stack on every finger, the thick bands mismatched and worn. Enough steel to turn my hands into brass knuckles. One of them carries a hidden switch on the underside. Not a button anyone else could use. Just a private decision point built into the metal, waiting for me to flick it with my thumb.
That’s the part Monty hates the most. He said if I wasn’t planning to detonate the bomb, I didn’t need a trigger. I reminded him that this is my circus, and his objections are noted and overruled.
At their silence, I look down at myself, then back up at them.
“Oh.” I grin, feral and proud. “It’s a look.”
No one laughs. No one breathes.
Oliver shifts into my space and adjusts the necklace.
“Camera is on.” Mikhail turns the laptop, showing a close-up angle of Oliver’s necktie.
Everyone in the van will be watching and listening, right there with me every second.
“Look alive, my pretties.” I roll my neck, feel the gear settle against my chest, feel how little room there is for hesitation. “You’re about to find out where myths come from.”
“We’ll be with you the entire time.” Oliver holds out a thin sliver of metal.
Small, lethally sharp, and easy to underestimate, the razor blade was my idea. I take it from him and tuck it where no one thinks to look. Inside my cheek.
When they search me, they won’t find it.
The hard part is remembering not to clench my jaw or grind my molars. Sudden mouth movements would turn it from insurance into damage.
I roll my tongue, locate the cutting edge, and relax my face.
Whatever I am right now—a bomb, a bluff, a wolf, or a drag queen—I don’t look like a terrorist who would walk into a club and end the night if he felt like it.
“Don’t wait up, ladies.” I open the door and hop onto the sidewalk.
The block feels longer than it is. Bass thumps through the pavement, and a line snakes from the entrance of the club, filled with glitter, cologne, too-white teeth, and socialites rehearsing fake versions of themselves.
I cut straight past them.
Someone mutters. Someone laughs. Someone reaches out like they might grab my arm and thinks better of it when they get a good look at me.
The bouncer clocks me two steps out. Big guy. Neck like a fridge. Earpiece coiled against his shaved hairline. He opens his mouth to order me back in line.
“Tell Adrian Crowe that Wolfson Strakh is here.” I dip into an overdone curtsy, all show and no respect. “I’ve come to discuss Jag Rath, our shared problem.”
That stops him cold.
I don’t know which name does it. Jag’s or mine. Or maybe it’s the wide, theatrical smile I flash him like we’re sharing a private joke he’s not in on. His eyes travel over the skirt, the vest, and return to the smile I’m still holding like a googly-eyed crackpot.
He cringes and turns away, murmuring into his earpiece.
I wait.
The line behind me goes quiet, tension rippling as if the crowd realized they’re standing too close to a ticking time bomb. Figuratively, of course. No one can see my explosive device.
The bouncer listens. His jaw jumps. A pause stretches long enough to be interesting. Then he steps aside and jerks his chin toward the door.
Huh. That was anticlimactic. I thought there’d be some lip service, posturing, twerking, maybe a little strip tease, and a trip to the pavement. Guess tonight is full of surprises.