The Suppressor Erik Carter (books suggested by bill gates TXT) 📖

embodiment of some strange fantasy of Joey Farone’s—that of having a proper British butler.

Saunders played the part well, tilting his chin up just so, saying “sir” hundreds of times a day. But to an intuitive person like Jake, it was obvious the old man had developed a persona, nothing more. There was a whole lot of spirit—and potentially danger—bubbling under that black suit. Perhaps that was an additional reason Joey Farone hired him.

Saunders recognized and appreciated that Jake saw through the facade. And he displayed his respect by not calling Jake “sir.” Instead, Jake was a “mate.”

Jake motioned toward Burton’s group. “What do you think, old-timer?”

Saunders glanced over, quickly turned back to Jake.

“I think a storm is gathering.”

Not exactly the reassurance Jake was hoping Saunders would provide for Charlie.

But, most likely, quite realistic. Saunders was rarely wrong about these things.

The butler headed for the next trio of Farone-loyal, a few feet away.

“Have a good evening, Saunders,” Jake said.

“Cheers, mate.”

Jake took a sip of the beer and looked back to the other side of the room, and as he did, Burton glanced up.

Their eyes met.

Arms and torsos and glasses of wine and liquor twisted around Burton, but his stare stayed fixed on Jake. A strand of his dark hair fell to the corner of his eye. He didn’t move it, didn’t budge. A smile came to his lips.

Jake’s mind flashed to New Orleans.

You screwed me over, Burton’s look seemed to say. And I won’t forget it.

A staring match. Everything was a power struggle to Burton. Jake didn’t mind giving him the satisfaction.

He didn’t want to look at the guy anyway.

So he was the first to break the stare.

As he turned, he caught a glimpse out the window, across the courtyard to the library. And there was C.C., by the far windows, looking at him, arms crossed over the front of her gray sweater dress.

He smiled.

She returned the smile, lifted one arm to flutter her fingers.

Five-foot-three-inches of prototypical Italian-American beauty—black curly hair, olive skin, ageless face, dark eyes with long lashes, proportions and curves meeting the perfect ideals of Roman sculpture and mathematics.

Beyond the physical, though, nothing about C.C. was prototypical.

Jake had tried for the longest time to label her essence, and the best word he’d managed was bohemian.

She wasn’t of the current ’90s grunge counterculture, nor was she a hippie. She was unique in the most literal sense of the word—not fashionably special, but genuinely different.

To Cecilia Farone, life was a warm breeze, and she was the vibrant feather drifting on its undulations, dead leaves all around her descending to the cold, dark depths as she rose higher and higher.

The smile she was giving Jake—from across the courtyard, through two sets of windows—projected a mild current of hesitancy. That was understandable. Her genuine smile would likely not return for some time, not with her life changing as much as it was going to very soon.

The room quieted, and Jake turned away from the window.

In walked Sylvester Farone, C.C.’s brother and a contrast to her in nearly every way, an unfortunate-looking man, tall with parted hair, a sloping posture, and a sad mustache. While his suit was on-trend baggy, it was also wrinkled and unkempt, and he wore it as awkwardly as he wore his own body, making it look baggier than the intended style.

Across the room, Burton’s group turned to face Sylvester, but they did so casually, flippantly, like a classroom of grade-schoolers from whom the teacher had long ago lost trust.

Burton scooted Christie away with a little smack to the rear end. She went forward a couple steps, stopped, and whipped around, her long, wavy hair flailing. She shot him a devilish look from her almond-shaped eyes, then turned back around and shuffled backward, stopping a foot in front of him, where she put her hands on her knees and stuck her ass out.

Harder, Jake saw but couldn’t hear her say.

Burton grinned back at her, smacked her ass again, giving it some oomph this time. The crack carried across the hall.

Christie sashayed from the room, throwing Burton a flavorful smile over her shoulder.

“It’s here, buddy boys,” Sylvester said in his nasal voice. “The chance we’ve been waiting for.”

He paused, watching Christie as she slinked past him. His wet lips quivered, raccoon eyes going wider, twinkling. She smiled salaciously.

Sylvester cleared his throat, looked back to the others. “We’re taking out the Rojas. Tonight. At 7. I have it on good authority that they’ll be receiving a shipment of coke from their friends in South America. A shit ton of it, a full semi-truck full of Colombian white gold. They gambled their whole fortune, put all their eggs in one basket, so we’re gonna catch them with their pants down at the drop point, intercept the shipment, finish ’em off once and for all, and get all that product as a nice little bonus.”

He snort-laughed. His face glimmered with gleeful anticipation, like a sweaty-palmed child clutching a video game controller, about to conquer the level that had thwarted him for so long.

“The truck you’re looking for will be a black semi with a green trailer. It’ll have ‘Garrison Power Tools’ in white letters on the side. They’re meeting in the parking lot of that abandoned high school on the west side—Wagner High. Burton has located the perfect intercept point for us.”

He motioned to Burton, who gave a big, faux-bashful smirk and waved off the compliment. Ah, jeez. You flatter me. It was nothing.

“An alley between two of the old warehouse buildings,” Sylvester continued. “Across the street from the school. Be there an hour ahead. We’ll have them outnumbered and completely unaware. Do me a favor, buddy boys—make it bloody for ol’ Sylvester, would ya?”

His gleeful smile quivered. Sweat glistened on his forehead.

Creep.

Murmurs from both sides of the great hall.

Everyone had known coming into this meeting that Sylvester’s announcement would be consequential, but they hadn’t known it would be this significant.

Jake’s groups slowly dispersed, heading for the doors, but Burton and his cronies