Total pages in book: 121
Estimated words: 114793 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 574(@200wpm)___ 459(@250wpm)___ 383(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 114793 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 574(@200wpm)___ 459(@250wpm)___ 383(@300wpm)
Before I could even feel vindicated, Sasha snorted loud enough to make Malcolm choke on his drink.
“You don’t know Gabby then,” she chuckled, shaking her head. “She absolutely would. She’d climb into one of those boats and wave at the tourists all damn day if she thought it’d throw people off.”
Benny snickered. “She would too.”
Sasha grinned. “Although... probably not this time. Her injuries would make that shit a nightmare. Spinning in circles with a head injury? Not ideal.”
At that moment, Gladys, who'd wandered over to the side table to rearrange some of the bags she brought in, suddenly let out a shriek.
“What the hell happened to your poor kitty?”
We all jolted like gunfire had gone off. Gladys was pointing dramatically at Sasha’s cat, who had just sauntered into the room like he owned the place.
He was cross-eyed, wearing a tiny leather jacket with a red bandana tied snugly around his neck. Everything about him—from his fur to his lopsided stare—gave off the unmistakable vibe of a tiny, grizzled biker who’d seen a few things and didn’t care what you thought about it. Sasha beamed with pride.
Gladys turned to look at her, eyes wide. “He’s cross-eyed!”
“And a motorcycle-riding, cross-eyed boss,” Sasha told her proudly as if that explained everything.
Gladys just shook her head slowly and muttered, “This whole family’s insane. I love it.”
I sat back, arms folded across my chest, watching them all with a mix of affection and exasperation. Only this crew could plan a tactical operation and still get sidetracked by a cross-eyed biker cat.
But under all the jokes and weirdness, a current of tension was still running just below the surface. The noise around me—the joking, the planning, and the chaos—faded into the background as I sat back and thought hard.
Where would Gabby go? She was hurt, so she wouldn’t risk being somewhere obvious, and she was too damn smart to pick a place tied directly to family or friends. It'd have to be somewhere familiar enough to navigate even when injured. Somewhere we’d already reinforced. Somewhere secluded enough that someone like Barris couldn’t just stumble on it easily.
The answer clicked into place so hard it almost hurt. I'd nixed it earlier, but it had to be the goddamn bayou cabin. It made too much sense. She knew it, and we’d gone over its security measures a dozen times together. It already had traps set up from before—and if anyone could improvise extra defenses, it was Gabby.
And hell—she had Ira.
I stood and ran a hand over my jaw, gathering my thoughts. “She’s at the cabin.”
Everyone turned to look at me.
“That’s where she’d go,” I continued. “It’s remote, tucked far enough away that it doesn’t draw attention. We’ve already mapped out its security—it’s nothing we can’t handle. And it’s secluded enough that she’d believe it was safe, which makes it the perfect place to hide…or to trap someone who thinks they’re in the clear. Plus, if she’s thinking ahead—and she always is—it’s a place she can control.”
Wes set his drink down with a thud. “Then what the hell are we waiting for?”
I was already gathering stuff that I'd need. “I’m going tonight. I’m not sitting here and letting Barris get ahead of us.”
Jesse and Eddie exchanged a glance, then nodded in silent agreement.
“We’re going too.” Jesse was already moving toward the pile of gear stacked near the door with no hesitation in his stride.
Wes clapped his hands together. “Road trip. I'll bring the guns.”
We decided quickly: we’d head out closer to nightfall. If Barris was moving—and we knew he would be—he’d use darkness for cover, and so would we.
The house shifted into high gear. Everyone started packing tactical gear, communications equipment, medical supplies, and enough weapons to arm a small army.
Gladys wandered into the room as we laid everything out—rifles, shotguns, handguns, extra magazines, body armor—and paused, looking over the arsenal.
After a long, appraising moment, she gave a sharp nod. “Ira’s gonna love those.”
Jackson barked a laugh. “We’re not arming a man in his eighties, Gladys.”
Gladys just smiled slyly. “I’ll bet you anything he can outshoot every single one of you.”
Wes raised an eyebrow. “Seriously?”
“Oh, seriously.” Her eyes twinkled. “Tell you what—you survive this mess, I’ll set up a shooting contest. The winner gets my peach cobbler recipe.”
“That’s the most Southern thing I’ve ever heard,” Malcolm muttered, grinning.
She winked and leaned down, patting a pistol fondly. “You should see his property. Ira has his own workshop where he even makes his own ammunition.”
Remy, who was checking over the comms equipment, froze and raised his hand like a cautious schoolkid. “Uh, quick question.”
Gladys tilted her head, amused. “Yes, sugar?”
“Where exactly is this ammo workshop?” Remy asked. “Just...you know, for future reference.”
She gave him a sugary smile. “Why?”
Remy deadpanned, “So we can avoid it in case it explodes.”
The room burst into laughter, some of the tension finally easing, even as we continued packing and preparing.