Page 182 of BounBound By Scars

A hotel room, by the look of it. Bare walls. Peeling wallpaper. Dim light. A single window boarded from the outside.

And behind Ling? Four masked guards.

Each armed. Each watching me like I was already dead, and they were just waiting for the go-ahead.

Memories surged.

Me—driving back to the apartment from Romano estate.

Packing my shit.

Making the long drive from Arlington to New York City.

Back to Blackthorn Security.

I never made it, did I?

I squeezed my eyes shut. Tried to focus.

I recalled entering the NYC borders.

The crash.

My eyes snapped open.

Shit.

Someone had crashed into my car on the Verrazzano-Narrows Bridge.

Ling was still grinning like a goddamn cartoon villain, but before he could keep talking, his phone rang. He snatched it from his jacket pocket and turned away, pacing.

“???????????” (What do you mean you can’t find it?) he barked in sharp Mandarin. I couldn’t understand a word.

His voice rose, shrill and venomous.

“?????!” (They fucking killed him!)

A pause.

“????,??????????!”

(I don’t care, I want to know where the device is!)

Another beat. More listening. His shoulders tensed.

“????!?????,??????” (No. No. No. Don’t talk to me again until you have it.)

He hung up violently, muttering something low under his breath, then turned back to me.

The smile was gone now. And that was worse.

Because a smiling Ling was a performance.

But a silent one?

That meant the show was about to start.

Ling turned back toward me, wiping the sweat beading on his forehead. And quickly spun back around.

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