Total pages in book: 109
Estimated words: 109245 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 546(@200wpm)___ 437(@250wpm)___ 364(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 109245 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 546(@200wpm)___ 437(@250wpm)___ 364(@300wpm)
Too bad. The guy was just two punches away from a free whizzy cream.
Scar pulled out the driver’s license.
Dale Carmichael, forty-eight, dusty-blond hair, big cheesy grin, and a face only a mother could love.
Good.
Men like Dale never canceled fast. They didn’t believe anything bad could happen to them, especially not in the daytime. Instead he’d spend the rest of the day retracing his steps.
Scar pocketed the cash, kept one Visa, tossed the rest into the trash, and walked out of the alley chewing on a stick of gum.
The first rule when shopping on someone else’s dime was to make each transaction short but sweet and not be greedy. Only get the essentials. Not many noticed twenty dollars here, sixteen dollars there, missing from their account.
It’d be dumb to buy a five-hundred-dollar wardrobe from Christy’s Clothing Barn, or two lumberjack T-bone breakfasts for sixty dollars at the Dusty Fork diner—regardless that he was hungry enough to eat it all.
The keyword was: necessities.
He hit the general store first. There was one employee, a young guy with his head buried in his phone.
There were two cameras, both facing the register, so all he had to do was keep his body at an angle.
He touched as little as possible, bypassing a cart and propping his items in the crook of his arm.
He chose a two-pack of disposable razors, toothbrush and travel-sized toothpaste, three energy bars, a basic black hoodie, a pair of no-name denims, wool socks, and a black beanie to hide his hair.
The kid rang up his items and gave him his total, barely sparing him a glance. “Twenty-one, eighty-five.”
Scar swiped Dale’s card, scribbled an ineligible signature on the receipt, and was out the door before the ink could dry.
He cleaned up in the gas station bathroom and changed into clothes no one would remember.
He used the cash to buy a cup of black coffee and a prepaid phone with enough minutes to contact a couple of his boys when he got to Chicago.
So far, he was making good time. He wanted out of Tyrell as fast as he’d come into it.
Renting a car was too risky, and stealing one was an even worse idea.
It was a trusting enough town to pick up hitchhikers, but the driver would want to make conversation and ask too many questions.
He’d have to walk.
Moving fast through the next county, he stole two more wallets before three that afternoon with the ease of taking candy from a baby.
He wedged between two businessmen walking down the street and emerged on the other side a hundred and seventy dollars richer.
A man about his age, who’d just finished a transaction at the ATM, provided him with eighty more dollars, a Mastercard, and an ID that could pass as his to purchase a bus ticket.
Taking a plane to Chicago wasn’t an option. Greyhound was too risky, with too many ID scanners and cameras mounted over the drivers’ heads. So he opted for a regional line with a name he’d never heard of and a bus that looked as if it was one missed oil change away from being out of commission.
He approached the ticket counter with a lazy gait as if he didn’t have someplace better to be and sighed, “One way to West Harrington, Chicago.”
The attendant tapped a few keys on her computer with three-inch hot pink nails, squinting at the screen, before she said around a wad of gum, “The one-way doesn’t leave until nine tomorrow morning. The driver canceled tonight’s departure… He’s sick.”
Fuck!
Scar pretended he wasn’t fazed as he slid the ID and credit card under the scratched plexiglass.
The woman didn’t bother to compare jawlines and eye color as she scanned the Mastercard and waited for the approval.
Scar pocketed his ticket and receipt. Head down and shoulders hunched, he walked through the bus station doors.
It smelled like wet coats, nicotine, and bleach.
A few warped plastic chairs were bolted into the stained linoleum and the three vending machines against the far wall were so old he didn’t trust he wouldn’t contract a stomach virus from the contents.
There were fewer than a handful of people waiting inside.
One couple appeared to be actual ticket holders, while the others seemed to be looking for a warm, dry place to hunker down for the night.
Scar quickly counted the exits, and scanned for potential threats, before he made a beeline for the restroom.
His stomach turned in on itself. He was cold, hungry, and ready to be far away from the East Coast and the monsters who’d done whatever it was they’d done to him.
The Ravens said he could do his time on the outside by serving his country. They’d fed him a nice story, backed by an inspirational pep talk about second chances, but he’d looked the director in his eyes and knew it was all a con.