Read Online KILLING ME SOFTLY by Jenna Mills - Free Book Online Page B
Authors: Jenna Mills
Ads: Link
a way of life here.
What caught my attention—and my imagination—were the references to the gaming industry, an electronic device, code named the Goose, small enough to fit into the palm of a child's hand. Slap it to the side of a random slot machine, and ta-da! Payoff city.
Once I started digging, rumors had come out of the woodwork like cockroaches—more often than not dismissed as propaganda—of unusually large payouts at local casinos, sometimes as many as twenty per night.
The allegations of extortion are different. No one wants to talk about those. At least not in public and on record.
But I'd found notes in the strangest places, claims of casino owners being backed against the wall, demands of huge sums of blackmail money in exchange for never using the device again.
That's why I'm here. A note. From an informant. He's ready to talk.
And I'm ready to listen.
It's the part of my job I thrive on, gathering facts, sifting through the pieces, seeing how they fit together. And, when necessary, butting heads with those who try to block my path, even cops. Make that especially cops, particularly one who gets off playing games with—
Footsteps. Someone less trained would never notice them. They're not that loud. Not heavy. But they are in perfect cadence with my own.
Heart hammering, I slow my steps.
The soft thudding behind me slows, as well.
On a nasty rush of adrenaline, I pick up my pace.
The rhythm behind me increases.
Two blocks from my target, I slip my hand inside my purse and curl my fingers around the butt of my .22. My station manager would be furious if he knew I'd defied his orders and carry a gun instead of Mace, but self-protection isn't something I take lightly. Neither are risks.
I am so not ending up a statistic.
My heart races so hard it hurts to breathe, but with the determination that comes from growing up a little sister, I slide my finger onto the trigger. And spin.
Nothing. Just Royal Street, its sleepy collection of antique shops and restaurants. On the opposite sidewalk, a young couple is walking away from me hand in hand, so lost in each other I doubt they're aware the rest of the world exists. Farther down, two well-dressed older women stand in front of a shop window, pointing at something inside.
But no one is on my side of the street.
The rush of relief is intense. But so is the frustration. I'm not crazy. Someone is following me.
Frowning, I turn back toward my destination.
He's on me so fast there's no time to scream. I pull my hand from my purse, but he's faster, stronger, and the gun slips from my fingers. His hand clamps around my wrist. His pelvis bumps up against mine. And in a lightning-quick move he's backed me into an alley and up against a wall of damp bricks.
"Well, well, well," he murmurs, and my heart, beating hard and fast only seconds before, slams to a cruel halt. "Isn't it past your bedtime, cher?"
Viciously I lift my eyes to his. "Detective." The word bursts out of me. "You have precisely five seconds to take your hands off me before I scream."
He doesn't move. "Rule number one," he says in that slow, black-molasses voice of his, the one I want to despise but don't. "When issuing a threat, make sure it's something the other party fears." His eyes go dark. "Not something they've been craving for weeks."
The words sear through me like a shot of bourbon. "I've always heard rule number one is to keep your cards close to your chest, not splay them on the table for the world to see."
His mouth, normally a hard, uncompromising line, curves into a carnal smile. "That depends upon what it is you want," he says, leaning closer.
My throat goes dry. "And what is it you want?" I ask against every scrap of better judgment I possess. The draw is too strong. The curiosity.
Detective Cain Robichaud still has my wrist in his hand. He draws it higher, positions it against the wall near my face. All the while his eyes smolder. "You," he says, and I feel the hardness
What caught my attention—and my imagination—were the references to the gaming industry, an electronic device, code named the Goose, small enough to fit into the palm of a child's hand. Slap it to the side of a random slot machine, and ta-da! Payoff city.
Once I started digging, rumors had come out of the woodwork like cockroaches—more often than not dismissed as propaganda—of unusually large payouts at local casinos, sometimes as many as twenty per night.
The allegations of extortion are different. No one wants to talk about those. At least not in public and on record.
But I'd found notes in the strangest places, claims of casino owners being backed against the wall, demands of huge sums of blackmail money in exchange for never using the device again.
That's why I'm here. A note. From an informant. He's ready to talk.
And I'm ready to listen.
It's the part of my job I thrive on, gathering facts, sifting through the pieces, seeing how they fit together. And, when necessary, butting heads with those who try to block my path, even cops. Make that especially cops, particularly one who gets off playing games with—
Footsteps. Someone less trained would never notice them. They're not that loud. Not heavy. But they are in perfect cadence with my own.
Heart hammering, I slow my steps.
The soft thudding behind me slows, as well.
On a nasty rush of adrenaline, I pick up my pace.
The rhythm behind me increases.
Two blocks from my target, I slip my hand inside my purse and curl my fingers around the butt of my .22. My station manager would be furious if he knew I'd defied his orders and carry a gun instead of Mace, but self-protection isn't something I take lightly. Neither are risks.
I am so not ending up a statistic.
My heart races so hard it hurts to breathe, but with the determination that comes from growing up a little sister, I slide my finger onto the trigger. And spin.
Nothing. Just Royal Street, its sleepy collection of antique shops and restaurants. On the opposite sidewalk, a young couple is walking away from me hand in hand, so lost in each other I doubt they're aware the rest of the world exists. Farther down, two well-dressed older women stand in front of a shop window, pointing at something inside.
But no one is on my side of the street.
The rush of relief is intense. But so is the frustration. I'm not crazy. Someone is following me.
Frowning, I turn back toward my destination.
He's on me so fast there's no time to scream. I pull my hand from my purse, but he's faster, stronger, and the gun slips from my fingers. His hand clamps around my wrist. His pelvis bumps up against mine. And in a lightning-quick move he's backed me into an alley and up against a wall of damp bricks.
"Well, well, well," he murmurs, and my heart, beating hard and fast only seconds before, slams to a cruel halt. "Isn't it past your bedtime, cher?"
Viciously I lift my eyes to his. "Detective." The word bursts out of me. "You have precisely five seconds to take your hands off me before I scream."
He doesn't move. "Rule number one," he says in that slow, black-molasses voice of his, the one I want to despise but don't. "When issuing a threat, make sure it's something the other party fears." His eyes go dark. "Not something they've been craving for weeks."
The words sear through me like a shot of bourbon. "I've always heard rule number one is to keep your cards close to your chest, not splay them on the table for the world to see."
His mouth, normally a hard, uncompromising line, curves into a carnal smile. "That depends upon what it is you want," he says, leaning closer.
My throat goes dry. "And what is it you want?" I ask against every scrap of better judgment I possess. The draw is too strong. The curiosity.
Detective Cain Robichaud still has my wrist in his hand. He draws it higher, positions it against the wall near my face. All the while his eyes smolder. "You," he says, and I feel the hardness
Similar Books
