Total pages in book: 70
Estimated words: 70554 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 353(@200wpm)___ 282(@250wpm)___ 235(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 70554 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 353(@200wpm)___ 282(@250wpm)___ 235(@300wpm)
And Zero?
He looks at Garcia the way The Kid looks at me.
Garcia loves to spew about me not being his type – which I’m fucking not – but there’s more to it than that, even if this asshole won’t admit it.
I won’t push though.
It’s not my fuck to give.
At least not yet.
“Normally, I don’t offer up pharmaceutical assistance for this type of pain,” Dr. Hans Ueno, a concierge doctor acquaintance of Garcia that also happens to be in town for a couple of days, lightly laughs, “however, this shit may require an exception.”
I cockily lean back in my poker chair in Garcia’s luxury game room and wordlessly lift my beer to my lips.
Eh.
Fuck ‘em.
They’ve all got a shit ton of cash to spare.
Even fucking Zero.
He may be young, but he’s not dumb or broke.
Hacking is profitable.
Particularly when clients – domestic as well as international – pay for the level of anonymity he can guarantee.
The young blood is to computers what The Kid is to cars.
It’s impressive.
And has been a Mack truck sized blessing to us during this McAdam’s shit.
The same shit that has me feeling a lug nuts worth of guilt for not being at home.
Watching.
Waiting.
Guarding.
That fucker is overdue for delivering another brake check to our lives.
And despite the fact that Zero has no new digital activity to report, I know better than to believe we’re in the clear to simply speed ahead for the next stretch of highway.
No.
That’s the shit I know he wants.
That’s the shit he won’t be getting.
We can’t risk it.
Especially not with Rabbit being pregnant.
Which equally excites and scares the shit out of me.
“One more hand is all I’ve got in me,” Samson defeatedly sighs as Garcia picks up the cards to shuffle. “Pre-game day ritchy requires my balls licked and me passed out by ten in order to get a solid seven before pracky.”
“What else is in your pre-game ritual?” Hans curiously inquires between sips of his scotch.
“Why do you wanna know, Doc?” Samson quirks a cautious eyebrow. “You tryin’ to shop me some shit that The Show can’t track in a piss test?”
“I don’t do that.” Hans pauses and proudly grins. “I can do that.” He tilts his head to one side. “But I don’t do that.”
“What exactly do you do?” I prod, gaze concentrated on the objects being worked around.
“Whatever my clients need,” Hans slyly states. “They request my services – and my vast network – to avoid doctors’ offices, hospitals, and sometimes surgical suites, so I make that happen.” My gaze cuts to his, prompting him to add, “They are times when they confuse with me with their drug dealers, which is when my services are denied, and their needs redirected elsewhere.” Another sip slips in between statements. “I do keep records of who is on what for medical purposes. It’s easier to actually save your fucking life when I know what’s in your fucking system.”
“Such a hero,” Garcia mirthfully pokes.
“Just because I wanna keep your ass alive long enough for me to get paid doesn’t make me a villain.”
“It doesn’t exactly make you a saint,” Zero good naturedly goads.
“I know the lines I won’t cross,” Hans announces prior to putting down his drink to pick up his cards. “That’s more than I can say for most in my world.”
His particular phrasing prompts an unexpected light to pop on in my head. “You travel all around the country, right?”
“Yes.”
“Working for wealthy individuals?”
“Yes.”
“Remind me to get your number before I bounceskies,” Samson grunts, glare sweeping over whatever bullshit he’s been dealt.
That tiny nose sneer is the one he always makes when he’s got a shit hand.
Most of these men have easy fucking tells to read.
At the rate they’re losing cash, I’m gonna be about to put our little man through fucking college before he’s even born.
“You ever tasked with doin’ darker shit?” I inch my cards into my possession. “Shit like examining…unwilling patients or sedating them or providing shit for them to be sedated or controlled or trafficked?”
“That shit took an unexpected turn,” Samson murmurs under his breath.
“Ace knows you can’t disclose patient information,” Garcia smoothly steps in to assist, “so, everything he’s asking is…purely speculative.”
“Hypothetical,” Zero echoes.
It’s not.
Not really.
He might’ve been the one supplying McAdam’s with the drugs that kept Rabbit fucked up – after all he spends a shit ton of time in Florida – or if it wasn’t him then maybe he knows someone who did.
He said it himself.
He knows where to redirect his clients to fulfill those types of orders.
Hans doesn’t answer.
He simply has another sip.
Scans his cards.
Sips again.
Lets time fucking cease to move until he realizes the game won’t continue until I get the information I want.
“Yes,” the dark-haired individual slowly begins, “I do dabble in what a portion of society would consider unacceptable practices, but I do not engage in the activities you are inquiring about.” Our eyes finally lock once more. “However, for the right price, I can most certainly put you in contact with sources that do.”