Total pages in book: 116
Estimated words: 109878 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 549(@200wpm)___ 440(@250wpm)___ 366(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 109878 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 549(@200wpm)___ 440(@250wpm)___ 366(@300wpm)
The third one sits behind a table scattered with papers and photos. Salt-and-pepper hair, expensive watch, tailored suit. He carries himself like he’s in charge.
“Crowshaven’s perfect for our purposes,” the man in the suit says, not looking up from his paperwork. “Close enough to Seattle for contracts, far enough out that nobody asks questions. Coast access for disposal. And the weather keeps the tourists away.”
“Still hate the fucking rain,” Twitchy mutters, lighting another cigarette despite the haze that already hangs in the air. “Makes my joints ache.”
“Your joints ache because you’re getting old,” Granite Hands rumbles without looking up from his knife. “Rain just gives you something to blame it on.”
The casual way they discuss their work makes my skin crawl. These aren’t desperate men driven to violence by circumstance. These are professionals who’ve made murder their business.
The man in the suit shuffles through his papers, pulling out what looks like a photo. “Speaking of business, we’ve got another contract coming in. Witness protection dropout in Portland. Husband finally tracked her down.”
“What’s the timeline?” Granite Hands asks.
“Two weeks. Client wants it to look like a robbery gone wrong. Nothing complicated.” The man in the suit sets the photo aside like he’s filing tax returns. “Standard domestic violence cleanup. Thousand down, four thousand on completion.”
My hands want to shake with rage, but I force them to stay still. They’re talking about killing a woman who escaped an abusive marriage. Discussing her murder with the same tone they’d use to plan a grocery run. Some woman with a name, a life, a family who loves her.
Someone’s daughter.
“What about this one?” Twitchy nods in my direction, and I squeeze my eyes tighter shut, fighting to keep my breathing even. “Sara Mitchell. Pain in the ass to track down, but here she is. What’s the boss want us to do with her?”
“That depends on what mood Brutus is in when he gets back.” The man in the suit’s voice carries a note of anticipation that makes my stomach turn. “He’s got particular feelings about the Mitchell family. Might want to take his time with this one.”
“Lucky girl,” Granite Hands says with a laugh that has no humor in it. “Brutus knows how to make things last.”
“Can’t say I blame him,” Twitchy adds, and I feel his scrutiny on me even through my closed lids. “She’s too pretty to waste with a quick bullet. Shame we can’t have a taste first.”
“Touch her and lose a hand,” the man in the suit warns without heat. “She’s spoken for until Brutus decides otherwise. You know the rules.”
Spoken for. Like I’m a piece of property. Like I’m livestock waiting for slaughter. The rage builds in my chest, hot and bright, but I channel it into focus. Into planning.
I risk another glance through my lashes, scanning for escape routes and weapons.
I map the room in my mind, counting exit points and potential weapons. Two doors—one that probably leads outside based on the draft I can feel, another that might connect to interior rooms. The windows are too high and too small to be useful escape routes. But there are plenty of things that could be turned into weapons if I’m smart about it.
Twitchy’s knife is in a sheath on his belt, easily accessible if I can get close enough. Granite Hands keeps his cleaning knife loose in his grip—overconfident, sloppy. The man in the suit has what looks like a gun in a shoulder holster under his expensive jacket.
The key is making them continue to underestimate me. Let them think I’m still the scared little girl who hid while her father died. Let them believe their own assumptions about frightened women and helpless victims.
They want Sara Mitchell? Fine. I’ll give them Sara Mitchell, right up until the moment I show them who Saylor Mitchell really is.
“How much longer are we giving him?” Twitchy asks, stubbing out his cigarette on the arm of a chair that’s seen better decades.
“Tomorrow, maybe the day after. Depends on how creative he got with the cartel guy.” The man in the suit picks up another photo. “Client specifically requested that this one suffer before he died. Something about betraying trust.”
“Brutus does love his work,” Granite Hands observes, testing the edge of his knife against his thumb. A thin line of blood appears. “Maybe we should start charging extra for his enthusiasm.”
“Already do,” the man in the suit says with a laugh. “Premium service costs premium rates.”
They continue discussing torture and murder like a book club debating character development. Each casual word drives the truth deeper: these men don’t just kill for money. They enjoy it. They savor it. They’ve turned human suffering into an art form.
And they think I’m going to be their next masterpiece.
The rain intensifies against the windows, and I let the sound wash over me while I finalize my mental map of the room. Three men, multiple weapons, limited escape routes. Bad odds, but not impossible. I’ve survived worse.