Total pages in book: 98
Estimated words: 90434 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 452(@200wpm)___ 362(@250wpm)___ 301(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 90434 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 452(@200wpm)___ 362(@250wpm)___ 301(@300wpm)
Tribolet pushed the door open with his shoulder. I made a last ditch attempt to stop him by holding onto the frame of the door. This too ended in vain. A second later, we were standing on the street on the side of the building, and cold metal cuffs were snapped onto my wrists and secured behind my back.
“What the hell are you doing? Are you insane?” I finally croaked.
His face froze––except for a nervous twitch under his eye. I didn’t think the situation could get any scarier, but I was wrong. He began dragging me up the cobblestone street.
“Listen up, dirty cockroach. You aren’t going to fuck your way out of this. I’m taking you to the station, and then we are shipping you out of here. Maybe I’ll get a taste of you before I do that, see for myself what that rich piece of shit thought was so special about you.”
I sat down on the road; I wasn’t about to help him lead me to my own demise. He kicked me in the hip, and pulled on my arm so hard I was certain he dislocated my shoulder. I screamed in pain. It did nothing to slow him down though. When he yanked me up by my hair, I stood up as if I was shot out of a cannon. A woman carrying grocery bags stared at us suspiciously. He glowered at her, and she walked past us without a second glance.
All the struggling had us both sweating profusely. With his free hand, he hooked two fingers into his collar and tugged, and in the process exposed a portion of a tattoo on his neck…a tattoo anyone would’ve recognized.
“You’re a hammer skin,” I scoffed. Schweizer hammer skin, to be precise, a branch of the Swiss skinhead movement. “Now I understand.”
He skewered me with a vicious glare. Almost immediately, he realized what he’d done and smoothed the collar of his shirt back into place, hiding the visual evidence of his hate.
“Stop right there.”
Both our heads swiveled in the direction of the voice with the rolled Rs. Behind us stood Gideon and five of his men. All of them with guns pointed at inspector Tribolet. In an extremely tense moment of silence, Tribolet placed his hand on his holstered gun and said, “I am an officer of the law, you piece of shit. Tell your men to lay down their weapons immediately.”
Nobody moved, the tension escalating by the second. Armed with the knowledge I had about the inspector, I knew how volatile the situation was. “Gideon he’s taking me to the station. Meet us there. Please do as he says. And bring the papers the Swiss issued––ask Sebastian.” My words were cut short when Tribolet yanked on my cuffs.
Gideon snapped out of the trance he was in and his remote black gaze met mine. The supplicating look I gave him worked. He slowly lowered his weapon and commanded the other men to do the same.
It didn’t take long for us to reach the police station; the town was the size of a postcard. The minute I was dragged inside, my worried eyes collided with inspector Deubel’s. He stopped midstride and cocked his head, his cheeks stuffed with food. His expression of total confusion turned scalding with anger when he saw Gideon and his men standing ten paces behind us. His attention shifted back to Tribolet, who still had a death grip on my arm. Swallowing down the lump of food, Deubel marched over to us.
“What do you think you’re doing?” he said in French.
“Booking an illegal,” Tribolet replied casually.
I wanted to punch the smug off his face, though I had a pretty good idea that Sebastian was going to want that honor. Deubel retrieved a key out of his pocket and unlocked the cuffs. I winced in pain. “I’m sorry, mademoiselle. Are you injured?”
“My shoulder,” I explained, groaning as I gently stretched my arms, prodding and inspecting the shoulder that hurt. The injury wasn’t as bad as I had initially thought––it didn’t feel dislocated.
“Do you have any idea who you’re fucking with?” Deubel seethed, speaking through clenched teeth in French to Tribolet. Did he think I didn’t understand French? Apparently, because he continued. “That family built this town. He’s a personal friend of three of the seven ministers!” Spittle flew out of a mouth that reminded me of a sea bass.
Red faced, he straighten his tie, smoothed his shirt, and turned to me. “I’ll get you an icepack and some aspirin. Please have a seat.” Then he guided me to a blue, plastic chair pushed up against the glass window of the empty police chief’s office. He and Tribolet entered the office. The screaming commenced immediately.
Ten minutes later all hell broke loose.
Sebastian came charging into the station like a rampaging bull. You could hear him from a mile away. The bellowing, the stomping around––it put a smile on my face.