Total pages in book: 85
Estimated words: 83430 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 417(@200wpm)___ 334(@250wpm)___ 278(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 83430 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 417(@200wpm)___ 334(@250wpm)___ 278(@300wpm)
“Hold on to that,” he says, tucking the key into his pocket. “And stay close.”
“Brenden, I think this is it.” I force myself to close the cover and hold it toward him. “Seriously, I think we found it.”
“We’ll see.” He steps into the hall. Ms. Shippens is waiting nearby. She seems surprised we appeared.
“Done already?” she asks quickly. “Are you sure there isn’t more business inside? Did you close the box and lock it already? Perhaps you should wait here—“
“No, we’re done.” Brenden strides past her, not pausing and not bothering to use his fake upper-crust accent. I have to hurry to keep up.
“Wait a moment. Can’t we get you tea? Would you like an office to use? We have accommodations—“
“No, thank you.” Brenden reaches the end of the hall that leads to the main atrium but stops dead in his tracks. I bump into him and Ms. Shippens lets out a light yelp.
Several men are near the door. Mr. Wright is talking to them quietly. Each is dressed in dark clothes, dark jeans, dark jackets, and a cold dread flutters down my spine. I’ve seen men like these before, though not many times.
Gor calls them greasers. They’re the lube in the machinery of the family. They’re the blood that keeps the pumps drawing money and talent into the grinder of the Brotherhood.
Brenden moves fast. He twists back and grabs Ms. Shippens by the arm. Something metal flashes and suddenly he’s got a knife to her throat.
“Don’t scream.” He sounds very calm. “If you do, I’ll have to kill you. Say yes if you understand.”
“Yes.” Her voice comes out in a strained groan. “Please, I don’t know what’s going on. I was just told to keep you busy—“
“How do we get out of here?”
“The front—“
Brenden presses the blade tighter. The poor woman gags. “Another exit.”
“Back… back this way.”
“Take us. Move fast.”
Ms. Shippens turns. Brenden lowers the knife but keeps it close against her back. I swallow against a lump of sickness in the back of my throat, afraid I might throw up from terror. Behind us, the greasers are coming, likely summoned by the bank manager from the moment we came through the doors. They pretended like everything was okay to keep us from trying to escape, and now they’re going to catch us and kill us.
“Hurry,” Brenden hisses. “Which way?”
Ms. Shippens takes us through several more hallways, past offices and other workers. A man drops files, eyes fixed in fright on the knife in Brenden’s hand. Another woman lets out a cry of alarm.
“Here, down here, there’s a back door, but the fire alarm—“ Ms. Shippens takes us into a back stairwell and straight ahead is an emergency exit.
Brenden shoves Ms. Shippens to the side. “Stay there. Don’t move if you want to get out of this alive.” The poor woman sags to the floor, crying into her hands.
I know how she feels. I clutch the ledger tightly, struggling against the urge to slap myself awake. This can’t actually be happening. There’s no way Brotherhood killers are chasing us through a fancy private bank. There’s no way we took a woman hostage and Brenden threatened to kill her.
But my husband seems calm. That’s the only reason I’m not losing my mind. His lack of apparent fear is holding me together and I have to believe that he knows what he’s doing.
He shoves the exit open and instantly alarms begin to blare. Brenden doesn’t slow as he rushes into an alley behind the building. I stay close, nearly tripping twice on my absurd shoes. “I shouldn’t have worn heels,” I say, which is an insane comment considering we’re going to get killed at any moment. I keep picturing the greasers rushing through the door behind us, aiming their guns, shooting until we’re bloody smears—
The end of the alley is straight ahead. I cry out in relief as we reach it right as the greasers come careening after us, the man in the lead shouting for us to stop. Brenden speeds up and I race after him, kicking one heel off awkwardly and flailing as I get off the other, but I’m faster in bare feet.
“This way,” Brenden says, sprinting down the block. People stop to stare at the two lunatics running full-tilt in what must look like the sort of clothes normal humans would wear to a freaking wedding. This was such a stupid idea, such a dumb, stupid, no good, insanely world-ending idea, but there’s nothing I can do to stop it now.
We weave wildly. The men chasing yell after us. One draws a gun and I strangle a scream but he doesn’t fire. There are too many people around and I’m guessing he doesn’t want the attention, but I have no idea. Brenden cuts down another street, vaults over a fence, and pauses to help me over.