Total pages in book: 89
Estimated words: 84607 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 423(@200wpm)___ 338(@250wpm)___ 282(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 84607 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 423(@200wpm)___ 338(@250wpm)___ 282(@300wpm)
“Good job, kid.”
The man in the van slammed on the side, presumably to alert a driver to take off, but we were right there. A few more feet. The engine started, and Coach threw himself into the back of the van, with me following. Holy shit, holy shit, holy shit. I gnashed my teeth as my knee hit the floor with too much force. We weren’t alone back here. One man shouted in German—Coach was fighting him—but what shocked me were the six—no, seven. Seven other people. Immigrant workers? They had uniforms. They looked like they all worked in maintenance or gardening. What the fuck was this? No actual seats, just two benches along the sides.
I tucked the German’s gun into my pants and registered fear and confusion in their faces, and there wasn’t a chance in hell they were the target here. They cowered away from us.
Coach let out a growling sound, grabbed the other German by his jacket, and literally kicked him out of the moving van.
As he managed to shut the doors, we were blanketed in darkness. There was no window into the driving cab; we couldn’t see if there was more than one guy up there. Hell, we couldn’t see shit.
I heaved a breath and dug out my pencil flashlight, and I turned it on and tested sticking it to the ceiling. Awesome, it actually worked. Most cars these days weren’t magnetic anywhere.
Coach grabbed on to a handlebar and squatted at the middle of the floor, and he faced the seven men trying to move away from us.
“Do you speak English? Are you here willingly? Spanish?”
One of the men nodded cautiously. He was older, around fifty or so. “Only a little English. No nos deporte, por favor. El señor Schulz les va a mandar dinero a nuestras familias.”
I had no clue what was being said, and Coach didn’t make it easier for me when he switched to Spanish too.
“No estamos aquí para lastimarlos ni deportarlos. Sobre el dinero, no creo que el señor Schulz vaya a mandar nada a nadie. ¿Se saben la dirección del lugar donde se están quedando? ¿Saben quién está manejando?”
Needing to feel useful, I pulled out my phone and scrolled till I found the number to Hillcroft’s dispatch, and I hit call. First day of training, we’d received all the “important contact information,” and I’d never thought I’d need to use it for as long as I was a recruit.
“Hillcroft dispatch, please state your operator number and name.”
Oh shit. “Uh, I don’t have an operator number,” I said, turning away from Coach and the others, a feeble attempt to tune them out. “I’m recruit Leighton Watts, and I’m stuck in a van with Coach.”
“I understand,” the woman said on the phone. “How can we help? Can we speak to Coach?”
“Not at the moment—he’s busy,” I replied. “I just wanna relay some information. We’re traveling in a dark blue van, a Mercedes Sprinter. I don’t recall seeing the license plate, but there’s a white logo on the side. Don’t remember those details either. We headed up South Eads, and I think we just turned right on Army Navy Drive. Over.”
“Thank you, recruit Watts,” she said. “We are tracking Coach’s phone, and we have operators on the way.”
“Okay, copy that. Just so you know, we left two targets behind on the road, and both should be injured,” I added. “The first was shot in the leg, and the other was pushed out of the vehicle when it moved.”
I felt kinda awkward. Had this been the Army, I would’ve known how to phrase myself. This was… Like, did I treat this like a regular fucking phone call, or did radio comm terminology apply?
Coach tapped me on the shoulder to get my attention. I ended the call and turned around, and he switched on his flashlight too, but kept it downcast. My light wasn’t as bright.
“It’s gonna be a shoot-first, ask-later situation the minute the van comes to a full stop, not counting turns and stoplights,” he said. “How many rounds do you have?”
“Fifteen plus one, and an extra mag,” I replied. “And whatever’s in the gun I lifted from that guy. What’ve you learned?”
“Gimme the other gun.” He held out a hand, and I handed over the gun. “Immigrants tricked into working for scraps,” he said. “They’re staying—or more like being held—in a house near Fredericksburg, but I’m not sure that’s where they wanna take us now that we’ve joined the ride.”
“So, it’s close to where Beckett is,” I blurted out. It had to be connected, all of it.
Coach shot me a look. “How do you know that?”
Oh crap.
“Um.”
He shook his head quickly. “Never mind. They’re likely gonna drive someplace secluded to get rid of us, so I need your help. Are you up for it?”