Total pages in book: 80
Estimated words: 83167 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 416(@200wpm)___ 333(@250wpm)___ 277(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 83167 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 416(@200wpm)___ 333(@250wpm)___ 277(@300wpm)
“I’m not talking a hit, Smithie. I’m talking forced relocation where the chance of return is nil. This includes check-ins to make sure that nil stays nil. For an added cost, it includes permanent incapacitation,” Hawk explained.
“I’m down for that too, even if I don’t know what permanent incapacitation means if it doesn’t include this sick fucking fuck being very fucking dead.”
Right.
Smithie was holding on by a thread.
Mo knew the feeling.
“No fingers. No tongue. No eyes. A combination. Or in extreme circumstances, no legs or paralysis,” Hawk told him.
“And again I’m feelin’ like I hit the lottery because none of these choices sound bad to me,” Smithie returned.
“Smithie, you would have to live with that,” Hawk pointed out.
“And you think this’ll be a problem?” Smithie demanded to know.
“I think right now you’re pissed as fuck and freaked as hell and all that is on top of you being worried, with that increasing with every day this guy went uncaptured and every letter you got. So I’m not sure you’re thinking straight,” Hawk retorted.
“Tell me, Hawk, you perform some magic with Mitch or Slim and they find cause to search this house legally and find what we found, what happens to this guy?” Smithie asked, calling up Hawk’s buds, Mitch Lawson and Brock “Slim” Lucas, two DPD cops, two good men and the first ones Hawk went to if he needed law.
“I don’t have the power of clairvoyance, Smithie,” Hawk told him.
“Me either. But I’ll tell you this, a sick fucking fuck like this guy has to do something sick fucking fucked up to be fucking locked away forever, where he needs to be,” Smithie shot back. “And seein’ as that’s not gonna fuckin’ happen, not this time, he gets caught, he maybe does some time, and that’s a big maybe, since, so far, he hasn’t really committed a crime.”
“Those letters are threats, he used the postal service to send them, and that’s definitely a crime,” Hawk pointed out.
“That’s thin and we all know it,” Smithie spat.
They did, so Hawk nor Mo said anything.
Smithie kept going.
“But say he does some time. He gets out, fixates back on Mac or some other girl, and manages to get his shit together before someone finds out. And then some girl, if she’s found before she’s made dead, has a lifetime of having to deal with something that she didn’t get a say in, like I got a say in having a lifetime of living with what we decide for this guy tonight.” Smithie shook his head. “I’ll take my demons. I won’t have some woman facing hers.”
“Smithie—” Hawk tried.
Smithie cut him off. “Or he gets off on the insanity plea, because there’s no arguing the guy is fucked right the fuck up, and he’s sent to a looney bin. Gets medicated. Gets therapy. Gets ‘cured.’ And that same end scenario happens, just after he goes off his government-funded meds and remembers he’s a whackjob.”
“So your vote is he disappears,” Hawk deduced.
“My vote is the only vote that counts, motherfucker, seein’ as I’m payin’ for this shit,” Smithie retorted.
“And Mo and me will know and we’ll have to keep our mouths shut and live with those demons for your choice too, Smithie,” Hawk returned fire.
At this juncture, Smithie glanced at Mo before he looked back at Hawk. “Can you share why your man is in on this discussion?”
“He has a say,” Hawk replied.
“I get that, seein’ as he’s here,” Smithie said. “I’m askin’ why.”
“Because I called him in,” Hawk answered.
Smithie looked back at Mo.
Mo just stared at him.
“Shit, you fell for her,” Smithie muttered.
Mo said nothing.
Smithie looked him up and down and his brows drew together. “And she fell for you?”
Mo remained quiet.
“Of course she did,” Smithie muttered. “You’re you. Before I even saw you, coulda drawn a picture a’ you, someone asked me to conjure up Mac’s dream man.”
Well…
Hell.
Something occurred to Smithie, his eyes went to the ceiling before coming back to Mo and his hands went to his hips.
“Do not get any thoughts in your head, motherfucker. She’s got talent. She’s a headliner. She was born for the stage.” He took a hand from his hip, pointed it at Mo, and declared, “You are not tellin’ her she can’t dance.”
Mo felt his lips thin.
“There!” Smithie jerked his finger at Mo, not missing Mo’s slight movement. “You’re one of those guys! Christ!” He threw up both hands. “I thought I was done with those guys. Jack didn’t mind his woman stripping.”
Mo had no clue who “Jack” was. He didn’t remember Lottie telling him about one of the women who had a man named Jack.
He still said nothing.
“And what about you?” Smithie asked Hawk. “Not real professional, one of your boys tags the woman he’s guarding.”
“It’s been platonic,” Hawk ground out.
“Right,” Smithie said.
Mo was done.
With a number of things.