Total pages in book: 143
Estimated words: 141464 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 707(@200wpm)___ 566(@250wpm)___ 472(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 141464 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 707(@200wpm)___ 566(@250wpm)___ 472(@300wpm)
“Ow! Fuck!” Wrath flings him into the back of the van and stares at the red crescent marks denting his skin. “I better not get rabies from you, fucker.”
“Let’s move,” Rock barks, slapping my shoulder. “We’ll all go in the van. Less noise at the Cedarwoods.”
Good. The fewer people who see us there or hear us rumbling through their parking lot, the better.
“I’ll drive.” Wrath plucks the keys from Murphy’s hand. Rock returns to the passenger side.
“Whatever,” Murphy grumbles. “Guess we’re riding in the back with this prick.” He jumps into the cargo area.
I follow, ducking my head as I step inside. The back of the van’s clean and organized, probably how Dex keeps it. A couple of heavy-duty tarps are folded and strapped down along one wall. A shiny, neon green toolbox sits secured behind the driver’s seat—probably a few things in there we could use to make this guy disappear.
No benches back here. Murphy and I take the floor, backs to the wall, sitting across from the prick who thought he could terrorize friends of my club.
The van growls to life; its low rumble thrums in time with the unease churning in my chest. The garage door hums and rattles as it rises.
We sway with the motion of the van as it rocks onto the road. Wrath’s up front, bitching about his wrist while he guides the van toward Margot’s place. I lean back and close my eyes for a second.
The tweaker mumbles and mutters to himself. We should’ve put his fucking gag back in.
Snick. Snick.
A grunt of effort. The unmistakable scrape of metal against metal.
My eyes snap open.
The tweaker lunges at me like a rabid vulture out of a fucking horror movie.
“Shit!” I twist to the side.
A flash of silver.
Something sharp and cold punches into my thigh.
White-hot pain sears through my leg.
“Motherfucker!” I roar, grabbing his wrist too late to stop the blade from plunging into my flesh but fast enough to keep him from twisting it deeper.
Murphy launches forward, slamming him against the wall of the van. “You stupid son of a bitch!” He knees him in the gut, driving him to the floor.
“What the fuck’s happening?” Wrath shouts.
The van fishtails, gravel spitting underneath us.
“What the fuck?” Rock’s voice booms from the front.
“We’re fine,” Murphy answers, struggling to subdue the guy. “Just get us there.”
“We are not fine,” I seethe through my clenched jaw. “That fucker stabbed me.”
“Fuck.” Rock turns. “Jiggy. You all right? Where?”
Hot, wet blood soaks through my jeans.
“My leg,” I groan.
“Stabbed you with what?” Wrath barks, already flooring it. “How’d he get loose?”
I shoot a glare at Murphy. “That’s an excellent question. Where was your situational awareness, jackass?”
He winces. “This.” Murphy holds up a short, stubby blade. “He sawed through the ties at his ankles and wrists. Lucky he didn’t snap the one under his knees.”
Fuck, this burns like hell. A deep, searing throb that pulses with every single bump in the road.
Murphy shoves the bloody knife in his pocket and wraps his arm around the guy’s neck. The tweaker struggles and fights but Murphy finally chokes him unconscious.
“You good?” Murphy tosses his knit cap to me. “Put pressure on that.”
“Thanks.” I grunt, pressing my palm against the wound. “Fucker got me good, but I don’t think it’s that deep.”
Just another fucking scar to add to my collection.
CHAPTER THIRTY-TWO
Margot
The sharp tang of lemon soap and formaldehyde clings to my skin. No matter how many times I scrub, the chemicals linger, soaked into my pores. Not that odd scents are my biggest concern tonight.
I duck into my closet and peel off the demure navy dress I wore for the service. The fabric sticks to my arms as I tug it off. I toss it toward the dresser—sorting can wait—and grab a pair of black leggings, a black tank top, and a hooded, zip-up sweatshirt with deep pockets.
After I’ve changed, I check my phone and pull up the app Jigsaw installed. It shows him about half an hour away. Near the garage where I take my car. Odd.
I’m ninety-nine percent sure the oven Jigsaw wants to use is the crematorium and the bread is a body. But I’m feeling cheeky and have a few minutes to kill before they get here.
Gretel trots into the kitchen and twines herself around my legs, purring like a fuzzy little black Harley. “I should’ve named you Harley,” I murmur, rubbing the top of her head. “You sound like one.”
“Me-row.”
She settles on the tile beside the cabinets, tail curled neatly around her paws, bright green eyes focused on me like she’s expecting another dinner.
“You already ate,” I remind her.
“Mraw.”
I crouch and hook a finger into the edge of the bottom cabinet shelf, dragging out the wide rolling tray loaded with appliances I never have time to use. Even less since Jigsaw showed up in my life. I heft the heavy, black-and-silver bread maker onto the counter. The lid creaks when I flip it open. I wrestle the bread pan free from its stubborn metal clamps and set it beside the sink with a satisfying thump.