Total pages in book: 48
Estimated words: 48032 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 240(@200wpm)___ 192(@250wpm)___ 160(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 48032 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 240(@200wpm)___ 192(@250wpm)___ 160(@300wpm)
As I park my oldest car directly across from the jet that belongs to me, a policeman approaches my window.
“Hey, hey, hey!” he yells, tapping on the glass with his baton. “Open the hell up!”
I roll down the tinted window just enough so that only my eyes show. “Yes, Mr. Officer?”
“You need to park your car in another spot, sir.” He shakes his head. “Like, literally any other spot.”
“I like this one,” I say. “Is something wrong with it this evening?”
“Moving over just one spot won’t hurt you.” He motions with his hand. “Come on.”
“No, I’m good.” I turn off my engine, and his face pales.
“Please.” He looks far too young to be a cop, far too fearful. “Just take my word for it. Alright?”
“Tell me why I need to move first,” I say, confused on whether or not he’s fucking with me. “I didn’t see any new reserved signs.”
“That’s because the mafia doesn’t typically announce what the fuck belongs to them.” He looks over his shoulder. “And they won’t give a damn about a missing sign if they see you trespassing on their property. Move.”
“I think I’ll stay.”
“Fine.” He steps back. “I warned you.”
“I appreciate it.” I roll up the window as he returns to his patrol car.
Amused, I watch him speed away until I lose sight of him.
As I turn my car on again, my second cell phone buzzes against my lap.
“Yes?” I answer the call.
“Mr. Rochester, this is Chester speaking. Do you have a few minutes?”
“I have one.”
“Okay, well…” He clears his throat. “One of your pilots tells me that he’s handling a new job this evening, so I’m calling to make sure that you’ve hired a new courier. Have you?”
I tap my fingers against the steering wheel.
Chester is the oldest person on my staff and by far the most loyal. Although we keep things formal, he’s the closest thing I’ve ever had to a real father in my life—the only person who has ever caught glimpses of who I really am behind closed doors. And besides Autumn, he’s the only person who is allowed to ask questions.
Only a few, though.
“Yes, I have a new courier, Chester.”
“Have you sewn up the loose ends on the last one?”
“Weeks ago.”
“Was it an easy cleanup?”
“I didn’t ask.”
“Good to know.” The sound of him lighting a cigar comes over the line. “What’s the new one’s name?”
“Autumn Jane.”
“What?”
“Autumn Jane,” I repeat.
“The woman from Odette’s?”
“The very same.”
“Jesus Christ.” He coughs a few times. “Mr. Rochester, I need our personal record to reflect that I strongly objected to this and suggested that you hire someone else.”
“Consider your objections written.”
“I also recall telling you to stay the hell away from her. And you know damn well why.”
“I guess I forgot,” I say, approaching my question limit for the day. “Any final thoughts?”
“When does she start?”
“Tonight at ten forty-five.”
“That’s minutes from now.”
“I’m aware.” I end the call and flash my headlights, setting the usual routine for a new job in motion.
Like a symphony orchestra, the strings play under my command, performing their notes exactly how we’ve always rehearsed.
A line of black town cars suddenly slide into the open spots around me, the jet’s brightly-lit staircase descends to the ground, and a golden luggage cart glides next to the cargo hold.
Seconds later, when I flash my lights again, several men rush into the rain and begin loading bags one by one.
When they’re finished, I steer my car closer to the plane.
This is the part of the performance when the town car that I sent for Autumn is set to play its solo, the moment when the driver should pull in front of the jet’s steps and wait for me.
Several minutes pass, but the town car never appears.
Autumn is nowhere to be found.
My composition remains unfinished; the notes stalling altogether.
So, she’s far more defiant than I thought…
End of Episode 18
Episode 19
Autumn
I can’t do this…
Seattle’s light rail rattles across the tracks at a breakneck speed, squeaking with every mile.
It’s hurtling toward the airport, far away from the spot on the highway where I jumped out of Ryder’s assigned town car.
Unfortunately, I didn’t run to the train station quite fast enough; the driver is standing right across from me, pleading for me to return. Still acting as if he didn’t completely blindside me with an unmentioned element of this “job.”
“Miss Jane, please.” He grabs a handrail as we round the bend. “I have to deliver you to the location.”
“Get this goddamn thing off my arm,” I say, lifting my left hand. “Now.”
He looks at the black briefcase that’s handcuffed to my wrist. The one he locked into place seconds after saying, “Hello.”
As if that were a perfectly normal thing to do.
The hairs on the back of my neck are still standing at full attention, and my heart is seconds away from jumping out of my chest.