Total pages in book: 87
Estimated words: 79020 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 395(@200wpm)___ 316(@250wpm)___ 263(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 79020 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 395(@200wpm)___ 316(@250wpm)___ 263(@300wpm)
He could easily have others doing his dirty work or he's got the local police force in his pocket.
There hasn't been a high number of disappearances around here, but the Gatlinburg, Sevierville, and Pigeon Forge areas have a slightly higher rate of homelessness due to the chronic influx of tourists. Local governments have done their best to keep that population to a minimum, but the economy isn't getting any better, leaving more and more people without a place to call home.
It's very possible that more people are missing than the police have on record, and it's widely known that some of the most victimized populations are the ones some in society consider throwaways. Many serial killers have used this mindset when attempting to justify their crimes.
We don't know if they're grabbing women from this bar or if they're trafficking them from other locations through here.
A ton of space isn't needed for sick, deviant men to pay for a little time with a woman. As much as people want to think they can just look at someone and know whether they were in a situation of their own free will or not, it's not always that simple.
Many victims are controlled through threats or drug addiction. They aren't always in chains in the basement.
I'll be the first to admit that when I joined the Marine Corps, I was ignorant of just how easy it was to hide such depravity in broad daylight, but my work through special units in the Corps, the time I spent with Cerberus in New Mexico, and the countless missions I went on, I've gotten much better at looking past what people want you to see and identifying what's really going on.
As always, my heart rate tries to sync itself with my surroundings, only the country song playing from the sound system isn't one that's fast-paced enough, leaving my heart in a weird beat that seems to skip every other pulse.
Sweat begins to mark my brow, anxiety urging me to put myself in a different situation, one where I can control everything.
My eyes make a quick circuit of the bar, noting every person that's inside, and trying to determine who might be a threat. My head tells me that everyone, including the old lady rushing around behind the bar top preparing drinks, could easily be an enemy.
Other than the hallway marking the restrooms, there's only the front entrance I just walked through and a door off of the far-left side of the bar. I have no doubt there's at least a storage room, a place where they keep the supplies and beer kegs. If I'm lucky, Tommy Wilkinson will have an office where he's sloppy with his business, allowing me to gain all the info I need once I get the chance to get back there and snoop around. But that won't happen today. I need to get a feel for the place, understand the ambiance, before I can make any sort of move.
It would be easy to bulldoze my way in here and demand answers, but I've learned from doing that in the past that a little finesse goes a long way.
I make my way closer to the bar, working out in my head the words I'll use to order my beer, as I make my way across the room. I feel every eye in the place on me, and by the time I press my stomach to the wooden bar, the resistance of the handgun I have there pressing into my gut, the woman I expected to speak with is gone, replaced by a woman too pretty to be in a place like this.
I'm no stranger to pretty women. The New Mexico clubhouse was filled with them. Pretty women are a dime a dozen. So are smiling women who work for tips. Hopefully, she'll be a professional who will get my beer and leave me the hell alone.
My scowl doesn't make her smile falter in the slightest, but it would be ignorant of me to growl at her or bring any more attention to myself than I already have.
The handful of people in the bar makes me think the darkness outside and lack of approachability are intentional. I'd wager that every person in here lives within a handful of miles of this place, and they know each other by name, even though there are only two people sitting together.
"I'll take a beer," I grunt, a deviation from my plans to ask the elderly lady what they have on tap. "Bottle. Leave the cap on."
I swear her smile widens, and maybe with the business they could possibly be running out of the back, I might appear to be exactly the type of customer they’re looking for.
Bile threatens to force itself up my throat as I fight the urge to explain the type of man that I am, that I'm not the type of man to hurt a woman. I drop my eyes to the front of her shirt, noting the tightness and the small red stain near her right hip. It's not blood, more likely some type of mix for a drink she got sloppy with earlier.