Total pages in book: 156
Estimated words: 158829 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 794(@200wpm)___ 635(@250wpm)___ 529(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 158829 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 794(@200wpm)___ 635(@250wpm)___ 529(@300wpm)
The door. I need to get out of here.
I slip around him and start moving toward it, but he’s faster.
There’s just a dark blur of long legs and militant strides before Apollo Finch blocks off the only way out.
He grabs at my phone first.
I push forward, twisting my body wildly, trying to keep it out of his reach, but his arms are so long.
He grabs my wrist with a muffled snarl, throwing me against the wall. And everything starts spinning as his hand rises above his head, as his eyes flash pure rage, as he prepares to strike and—
Bang! Bang! Bang!
The whole room vibrates with the sound of something pounding on the door.
He stops, his fist still up, ready to crash down on my face.
“...you’re wanted out there. You should go,” I venture, trying to buy precious time and wrestle my arm free, but his grip is a vise. The movement just twists my arm further. “That hurts! Please, let go.”
Great. Now I’m pleading with a total maniac.
And I’m about to try screaming again when there’s a deafening noise like a gunshot.
Bam!
That’s no knock.
More like someone trying to kick down the door.
Finch throws his body weight into my back and grips my arm harder, this mannequin of pure rage, too focused to even turn toward the ruckus behind me.
Then the door blows off its hinges.
“Sir! Sir, wait! You guys can’t go back there,” the woman from earlier screams. “Oh my God!”
Everything goes deathly still for a moment.
“She said you’re hurting her, you piss-poor excuse for a man.”
I look up and almost pass out cold.
Brock stands in the doorway with another dark figure behind him, his lip curled, his body bowed with pure vibrating rage. His eyes are fixed on Finch like a hunting hawk.
He’s only there for a second before he strikes.
Apollo Finch never even has a chance to look up.
Not before Brock’s bulk plows into him, throwing his weight off me, freeing my arm with a sudden pulling whoosh that echoes through me.
Holy hell.
For a second, I’m spinning, losing my balance before my shoulder bangs against the wall.
There’s another thud! on the floor.
Finch goes down, hitting the ground so hard I wince. Before he can even start struggling, there’s a groaning sound, like he’s being choked.
I look down to see the madman’s throat clenched in Brock’s hand.
“I-I c-c-can’t breathe,” Finch stammers.
“Then quit moving, dumbass.” Brock turns, raising his fist.
“Brock, don’t.” I run up behind him and throw my good hand on his back.
“Let me see your arm first. His razor-sharp blue eyes flash.
I slowly drop my good arm in front of his face.
“The other one,” he demands.
It’s red and swollen, but I show him.
“That’s what I thought.” He nods at me. “Why shouldn’t I slaughter him?”
“We’ll call the police, Brock. I have proof! Proof that he’s responsible for the ruined oysters, the poisoning, everything. And that he hurt me... So don’t hit him. You don’t need more trouble.” I’m pleading now, pulling lightly on his shoulder.
His grip on Finch’s neck only tightens and he bares his teeth, snarling through them, “If her arm is broken, I’m taking both of yours off.”
I gasp as he pulls Finch up into a chokehold and pins him against the wall.
He isn’t listening to reason—is he?
While I’m trying to decide, Finch’s dangling hand sweeps low, toward his pocket and the same blunt metal object I caught a glimpse of earlier.
“Brock! He’s got a—” I yell out a warning, only to be cut off by the dark, bulky figure leaping in front of me.
“Nyet,” a rough voice calls loudly, swinging a gun against Finch’s head. “One move, I pull the trigger. Hand it over.”
Fyodor?
The driver reaches into Finch’s pocket and yanks out a silver handgun. Once he’s clear, Brock lifts Finch up and slams him against the wall again with a bone-rattling impact.
The wretched man deflates like a balloon, fear glinting in his eyes for the first time, his face turning more purple by the second. He claws at Brock’s hand, now fully locked around his throat.
“You heard the man,” Brock rasps. “One wrong move and we do this the easy way, without any cops or lawyers. We’ve got a solid case for self-defense.”
He eases his hand off Finch’s throat, just enough for him to take a few gasping breaths and say, “Y-you f-fuck! What...what the h-hell do you want?”
“Brock,” I whisper over his shoulder.
But he ignores me and shifts his body weight, dragging Finch out the door and into the hall with Fyodor close behind them.
Jenn turns pale the second she sees us coming. She’s standing in the hall with a couple Oasis Springs staffers who stare back with glassy disbelief. One starts reaching for his phone.
“No calls,” Fyodor says sharply, grabbing the man’s hand and pushing it back against his side. “That goes for everyone. Understood?”