The Suppressor Erik Carter (books suggested by bill gates TXT) đ
- Author: Erik Carter
Book online «The Suppressor Erik Carter (books suggested by bill gates TXT) đ». Author Erik Carter
The doctor fumed as he handed the phone to Jake, knowing full well what was about to happen.
Jake smashed it on the sidewalk.
He hobbled off the crate. The Glock felt unduly heavy in his hand, and he stumbled to the side, regained his balance. Naturally, Mayer hadnât given him a blood transfusion, and from Jakeâs bit of medical training as a police officer, he estimated that heâd lost several hundred mils of blood.
He was gonna be woozy for a while.
He kept the Glock leveled on Mayer as he limped to the Grand Prix and got in.
âYou stupid shit,â the doctor said before Jake shut the door and peeled off.
Twenty minutes later. A different shithole part of town. Somewhere he could disappear for a few minutes. Gather himself. Rest his leg briefly.
Before he tracked down and murdered the rest of Burtonâs men.
He was parked beside an abandoned factory, its chain-link fence rotting and falling over like the fence heâd seen earlier that evening at the abandoned parking lot outside Wagner High School.
That felt like a year ago.
He leaned his head back and exhaled. Closed his eyes. A long moment passed, so long that he realized he might have even fallen asleep.
Eyes open.
He took out his notebook, fingers sticking to the bloody back cover, removed the mechanical pencil, and wrote a list of names, then crossed out the first one.
Cobb
Gamble
Hodges
Knox
McBride
Odom
Glover
Burton
His eyes lingered on the list, then he flipped to a fresh page and scratched out a quick note.
My name is Jake Rowe
He faced the rearview mirror and held the notebook beside it.
His eyes flicked from the note to his reflection. He tried to speak, breaking it down to the first couple words.
My nameâŠ
Nothing. His lips moved silently.
My nameâŠ
Nothing again.
It wasnât that the words just wouldnât come to him. He literally couldnât speak. He was giving it his full effort, but no sounds would come out.
He slapped the notebook shut, shoved the pencil back into the binding, and dropped it on the passenger seat where it landed beside the microcassette player.
His hand went to the player. Stopped. Hovered over it for a minute. And then grabbed it.
He reached into his pocket and retrieved the tiny tape heâd taken from his answering machine. He put it in the player. Hesitated. Pushed the PLAY button.
There was a beep. And then the message began.
C.C.âs voice.
âHey, itâsââ
He pressed STOP.
Her voice.
Oh, my god.
Deep breaths. His eyes went up, staring into the headliner, and his head returned to the headrest. He closed his eyes.
And his mind went to a memory, took him back several months.
He and C.C., hand-in-hand, nighttime on the beach, a favorite spot of theirs, a literal common ground for two people who were very different but couldnât get enough of each other.
The moon lay a long, shimmering trail on the black water. The waves werenât choppy, but they were steady and loud. The glistening condos and hotels were ahead of them in the distance. Theyâd walked to the national seashoreâa long stretch of natural, untouched beachâand were now returning to civilization. C.C. had asked him what was on his mind.
And heâd answered her, letting all the disordered, tumultuous thoughts in his head spew from his mouth.
ââŠwhich is why I just donât know about all these new diet trends, you know?â he was saying. âIt seems to me that if they put something in a green box, say itâs low-fat, then people gobble it up. Is that how easily people are persuaded? Green packaging? I mean, come on. Those things are loaded with sugar, and sugar is whatâs gonna make you fat, not dietary fat. Itâs like people just assume fat is gonna make you fat because the wordâs the same. Word-choice, packagingâpeople are so easily manipulated. Itâs mind-boggling. Andââ
C.C. waved a hand to cut him off, her fingers pinched. âMaybe that was a bad question on my part, asking a âloudmouthâ whatâs on his mind. You use ten words when three will do.â
Jake chuckled. âYou did it again.â
âDid what?â
He upturned one of his hands and pinched his fingers together like sheâd just done. âYou did the Italian hand. For as quirky and individualistic as you are, you still go full pizza pie every now and then.â
She smiled, shrugged. âWe all take bits and pieces of our experiences to become what we are, consciously and subconsciously. And youâre changing the subject, mister. We were talking about that wild mind of yours. Youâre a smart man, love. You really are. But youââ
âIâm not that smart. I was an average student at best.â
âWhatever you say, Professor. Book smarts arenât everything, anyway. You ponder things. You see the whole picture. Thatâs intelligence. But you think too much.â
Jake looked at her, raised an eyebrow. âHow can a person think too much? You just said I see the whole picture. Isnât that kind of synonymous with thinking too much?â
C.C. shook her head. âNot at all. Confucius said that life is really simple, but we insist on making it complicated. Try taming your thoughts.â
âAnd how do I do that, exactly?â
âYou can start by taking some deep belly breaths. From the stomach, not the chest. Diaphragmatic breathing, like I taught you. Itâll calm you down.â
âLike this?â Jake took a deep breath and puffed out his cheeks, crossed his eyes.
She just looked at him, not granting his idiocy a response.
Jake let the breath out, chuckling. âCâmon, babe. I donât see how breathing is going to âtame my thoughts,â as you say. I think a lot, yes. I know itâs a problem, but, I mean, breathing? Maybe I could get one of those calming drugs thatâve been in the news. Iâve already had my department psych exam, but maybe Tanner couldââ
âJake!â
He turned to her.
âShhhhhh. Give silence a try. Just be quiet sometimes, love. Shhh. Silence.â
They continued down the beach, not speaking. Just the two of them, just their two sets
Comments (0)