I flinch back, my stomach curling with revulsion.
If Jackson is scary, the man sitting next to him is downright terrifying. He’s older, early- to mid-forties, a sprinkle of grey at his temples that stands out against his jet-black hair. His eyes are bright blue, almost merry, cheerful, like he knows an inside joke no one else finds funny.
It’s not his face that frightens me.
No.
It’s his tattoos.
Teardrops that extend in long lines, dripping down his cheeks on both sides. With no end in sight, they continue, disappearing under his shirt collar.
Endless. Innumerable.
A body count etched in ink.
And I’m trapped in a moving box with him.
I swallow, my throat suddenly dry.
It’s okay,I tell myself.Carrson’s on his way. He’ll find me.
My fingers twitch, just a tiny movement, as the urge to touch the tracker in my shoulder almost overwhelms me. I stifle the gesture. Force my hands to lie still in my lap.
It doesn’t matter. Somehow the man with the tattoos knows. His eyes sweep over me, and a slow smile spreads across his face.
“Everyone says you’re a smart girl,” he drawls, syrupy-slow, soaked in Southern charm like barrel-aged bourbon. “So I’m guessing you know what a Faraday cage is, right?”
I nod once. “It’s a box made of metal, usually wire mesh, that blocks electric fields and electromagnetic signals.”
He lifts a finger, the nail painted black, and drags it down one inked cheek, drawing my gaze to those endless teardrops. Maybe it’s an itch. Maybe it’s a warning.
“Very good. I’m impressed,” he says, like he’s a professor and I just aced my final exam. “You’re sittin’ in the middle of one right now. Whole damn bus is rigged top to bottom. That little tracker in your shoulder?” He clicks his tongue, then grins wide, sharp. “Dead as dirt. No signals in, no signals out.” A beat and then he adds, “No one’s coming to save you.”
My heart stutters.
“Wh-who…” I lick my lips and try again. “Who are you?”
The man leans back, cool and confident. He stretches his arm across the seat back.
“Me?” He smiles. “Name’s Silas Creed. Run a little organization called the Jackals. You may have heard of us?”
The Jackals.
The rival gang that fights with Ashford House for dominance. The one responsible for the tainted cocaine. For the fifteen-year-old who died.
He watches recognition settle over me like he cantasteit. His grin widens, as if he enjoys the flavor of my dismay.
Movements slow, almost languid, he leans forward, his elbows on the table. His voice is rich with honeyed charm. So sweet it’d make your teeth ache, but underneath the sugar, there’s something rotten, unhinged.
“And you’re Laurel Turner, in the flesh.” Silas exhales a soft, delighted laugh, his gaze never wavering from my face. “I’ve beendyingto meet you.”
THE END
To be continued in:
Pretty Savage
The Order.Book Two: Defy
