Total pages in book: 77
Estimated words: 72589 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 363(@200wpm)___ 290(@250wpm)___ 242(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 72589 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 363(@200wpm)___ 290(@250wpm)___ 242(@300wpm)
The guy looks the part—beanie pulled low, tattoos visible on his forearms, checking his watch with a bored expression like he can’t be bothered to give a shit about anything, but still has places to be. If I didn’t know better, I’d think he was the real deal. And I’m a guy who grew up in the bad part of a big city, where watching a drug deal go down was as common as going to the playground.
Hell, a lot of times they happened at the playground…
“He looks good,” I say, my nerves ratcheting up as the clock ticks closer to showtime. “I would never guess he was a film school kid.”
“Kid?” Stephanie echoes, sitting up straighter in her stool on the other side of the island. “He isn’t actually a kid, is he? You never said if he was a freshman or—”
“Grad student,” Stone assures her. “He’s getting his masters in film production.” He motions back to the screen. “He’s not a bad writer, either. He sent me a script of the kind of things he’s going to say to Garcia. It all sounded good. Really natural, too.”
“Fingers crossed Garcia will think so,” Steph says, twining two fingers in the air before returning to her quinoa. She glances up at me, pausing with her fork halfway to her mouth. “Are you going to eat something, Grunty?”
I exhale. “I should. I will.” I rest a hand on my midsection. “My stomach’s just more freaked out by all this than I expected.”
“Popcorn,” Stone says, pushing the bowl my way. “Start there. Small pieces, low commitment. No one should have to chew a huge hunk of poorly cooked carrot at a time like this. No offense, Steph.”
Steph grins “It’s a sweet potato actually, and it’s delicious. And no offense taken.” She extends her arm, wiggling her fingers toward Cruise. “Here, scootch the laptop over. The remote control, too. I’ll get us set up on the big screen. I have to do this kind of thing all the time when I teach at conferences or festivals.”
Cruise sags with relief as he pushes his computer her way. “Thank God. Libby always does this stuff at home. Kindergarten teachers know their shit when it comes to A/V setup.” Once Steph is on the case, he sits back in his stool, stretching his arms overhead with a groan. “Damn, I’m sore. What a first fucking week, huh? I’m going to have to do an ice plunge before bed if I don’t want to wake up crying into my pillow like a baby.”
“Beer also helps,” Stone says. “I have pale ale or hard cider. What’s everyone drinking?”
Justin and I both request a beer. Steph says, “Hard cider, please,” before turning to click the remote at the giant T.V. In just a few more clicks, she has Justin’s desktop mirrored on the big screen.
We pop our beers, toast her brilliance, and then…settle in to wait.
The next fifteen minutes are excruciating. I can’t sit still, alternating between pacing behind the couch and staring at the feeds, as if I can make Garcia appear through sheer force of will. I force myself to shove a few bites of dinner into my mouth in the name of giving my exhausted body fuel, but I’m too keyed up to actually feel hunger.
So keyed up, I nearly jump out of my skin when Cruise shouts. “There! Douche snozzle’s car just pulled up outside.”
We all turn to the screen, watching as Garcia emerges from his sleek black BMW.
“Get comfortable, boys and girl,” Stone says, sinking onto the couch. “It’s showtime.”
Garcia glances around the exterior of the warehouse, scanning the area in all directions, twitchy and tense, like he’s expecting to be jumped. It takes a good five minutes for him to make his way to the door, which he pushes open with equally jumpy energy, sticking only his head inside.
Thankfully Dan seems prepared to play it cool.
“S’up,” he says, giving Garcia a chin lift of acknowledgment as he finally steps fully into the space. “You Garcia?”
Thanks to the mic he’s wearing, Dan’s voice is crisp and clear. Garcia’s, “Yeah. You Dan?” is fainter, a little tinny, but still easy to make out.
I exhale, rolling my shoulders to release some of the tension that’s crept them closer to my ears. First hurdle cleared. The tech is working. Assuming Garcia implicates himself in something sketchy, we’ll have the evidence on lock.
“Yep.” Dan leans against the table, oozing “I own these mean streets” confidence. He arches a brow. “Heard you were looking for some information about one of my clients?”
Garcia looks around once more before stepping closer. “Yeah. Pro hockey player. Big guy, dark hair, last name LiBassi, but goes by Tank. Pill head, but could be into other stuff, I don’t really know. I sent a picture of him to your friend.”