Terminal Vendetta (A Diana Weick Thriller Book 3) Cate Clarke (little red riding hood read aloud TXT) 📖

Chapter 23

Nehemias Laird

Nowhere, Texas

Maybe it was his skills in technology. Maybe it was his wily boyish charm or the perfect curve of his ass, but Laird knew that Diana Weick would come crawling back to him. They were connected, whether she wanted to admit it or not. They had history. And there were few things stronger in this world than the pull of nostalgia.

But before he could help Diana, he had another contract to fulfill. The Readers had sent him the information, and now it was just a matter of waiting for the administration at the VBA to activate Axtell’s accounts.

He was upstairs, laying out on the bed, two fans on either side of him blowing hard into his face, squeaking with every third rotation. Mom was rustling around in the kitchen downstairs, making something disgusting to eat. Sure, he was grateful for it, but she was a terrible cook. Yesterday, she’d made lasagna with tomato soup instead of tomato sauce.

Laird only needed two things for these two jobs—his laptop and the drone remote. The drone remote was on its way from Seattle, expedited shipping, bopping around on the back of a FedEx truck. The hugely unnecessary VBA press conference was this evening so Laird was on a bit of a time constraint. He should’ve woken up earlier.

The TV in front of him was playing the news, still pretending like Hoagland was dead, speculating on the identity of those in the Readers but coming up with virtually nothing.

Finally, there was a ping on the laptop, someone registering and upgrading Axtell’s information and security clearance. Laird snickered to himself, leaning forward, his skin slick with sweat because they were in the middle of a Texan heat wave.

Once all the information came through, he saved it all and pulled up his phone, having to search for it for a moment because it had gotten wrapped in his stained-yellow sheets.

This money was going to change everything. He could get the water back on so they wouldn’t have to deal with that damn well anymore. The hole in the ceiling could be fixed so his mom didn’t have to sleep in his bed when it rained. Fifty thousand would only go so far in this American economy, but if the Readers accomplished what they set out to do, he’d have some more money in his pocket soon. Laird certainly wasn’t going to be the one to stop them from doing that. Though he would do his very darndest, as Weick had said, to “stop them from murdering more innocent civilians.”

Win-win-win for Laird. Get the money from the password, save people from whatever the Readers had planned for this press conference based on Weick’s assumptions, and get the money from the veteran pension fund. It was a lot of assumptions but if it all went through, he’d be in the best position that he had been in years.

Snowman said they wanted to pay back into the people. Though they were likely going to keep most of it for themselves, it seemed like they had some type of plan to compensate veterans for all of the things that the government didn’t.

“Is that it?” Snowman said from the other end of the phone.

“Your order is hot and ready,” Laird replied, leaning back on the bed.

“Test it,” Snowman muttered.

“Sure,” Laird said. “For more money.”

“Not you,” Snowman snapped. “Shut the fuck up for a second.”

He was in a bad mood.

There was some shuffling on the other side, squeaking of chairs and tapping of keys.

“It’s directly from the source,” Laird continued. “But if y’all wait too long they’ll change it and your opportunity will be gone like a fart in the wind.”

After a hard sigh, Snowman barked, “I said shut the fuck up.”

From downstairs, his mom turned up the sounds of Stonewall Jackson, pumping out from the satellite radio he’d gotten her for her birthday many years ago. There was another pause and more clicking of keys as the Readers got their shit together.

“Okay, good,” Snowman said.

“You wiring the money?” Laird asked.

“Yeah yeah.”

“Right now?”

“Tonight.”

“You mean after you drain the veteran pensions?”

“You want more info…” Snowman started. “Then you gotta sign up officially, Laird.”

“Oh shit no,” Laird said. “I just want what’s owed.”

“And you’ll get it.”

“After you blow up a bunch of people?”

There was a short silence, another squeak of a chair. Laird slid himself off the edge of the bed, going to the window. He pulled back the ancient lace curtains. Through the grime—that his mom had once cared about but had completely given up on in the last decade—he saw the FedEx truck slowly bumping down the gravel road. Probably thinking he was lost when he was exactly where he was supposed to be.

“Laird, I’ll tell you every single thing that you want to know if you come join us,” Snowman said, a grin in his voice. “The Readers are working toward the end game here. You could retire… move out of that shitty farmhouse and your mom’s basement.”

“I like my mom’s basement,” Laird replied.

Snowman chuckled.

The FedEx truck pulled into the end of the driveway, stopping as the driver peered through the windshield at the distant house. The crooked metal mailbox was already jam-packed full of bills so he had to place the package at the bottom of the post, not willing to come any closer. Maybe it was the antennae that threw people off, or the broken shutters or the smell of weed and mold.

“It really is your last chance,” Snowman said.

“Yeah,” Laird replied. “Yours too.”

They both hung up, Laird sticking his phone in the waistband of his boxers while he pulled on his sweatpants.

The remote was exactly how Diana had described it. He opened the package on the kitchen counter, Mom watching him over her shoulder as she stirred at some type of stock on the stove that smelled like dirty gym socks.

“What you got there, sweets?” she asked. Her short red hair pulled back into a low bun. The rest of her squat and fat