Page 1 of Done Waiting

PROLOGUE

Creeping beneath the canopy of trees, my gaze is locked on the shabby building in front of me. My heart pounds rapidly, adrenaline running through me. My gloved fingers curl into fists as I get closer to my destination.

This is it. My moment has arrived.

The full moon overhead provides enough light that I can see to navigate through the dark woods without the use of a flashlight. I’ve been stalking these woods and the shabby building since I discoveredtheyuse it.

My backpack rests over my shoulders, containing the supplies I need.

I stealthily move from the tree line, crossing the open area that surrounds the building. As I plaster my back against the dirty gray exterior, I listen for any sounds that would indicate someone is out here with me. It’s doubtful, but I’m cautious as hell. There’s too much at stake for me to fuck up.

Hearing nothing, I pull my gun from the waistband of my jeans and slowly move along the side of the building. There are no windows on this side, so my targets will never see me coming.

Peering around the edge of the building, my gun cocked and ready to fire if anyone is there, a smirk curls up my lips. If I had a mustache, I’d be twirling it villainously.

It’s clear.

Not even a guard standing outside the building.

They are cocky, oblivious assholes.

Considering their line of work, you’d think they’d pay more attention. But since they are officers of the law, they think they’re above it. Untouchable.

A smirk spreads across my face as I quietly remove my backpack from my shoulders. The contents inside aren’t needed—yet.

There’s a window beside the door, and I move toward it, the sounds of their laughter reaching my ears. I listen for a few minutes, hearing them joke that Jimmy’s poker face sucks. Chad reminds them they need to call their wives to tell their spouses they’re working late.

Shifting slightly, I peer through the dirty window, the light inside revealing three men sitting around the table, playing cards and drinking beer. Classic rock plays from the speakers of a silver portable boombox. CDs are stacked on the table beside it.Where the hell did that thing come from? 1990?

Rolling my eyes, I sneer. I know their salaries aren’t that great, but Jesus Christ.Get some money together and step into the present year of 2019.

Randy, who sits across from Jimmy, has a stack of poker chips in front of him. He pushes his metal folding chair back and stands. “I’m gonna grab another beer. Who needs one?”

“I do,” Chad says.

“Me too,” Jimmy calls.

Randy nods, then spins on his heel, heading toward the refrigerator that looks like it came straight out of the 1980s,sitting in the back of the room.Fuck, these assholes apparently hate any type of new technology or appliance.

Adrenaline courses through me. It’s almost time for my grand entrance. My hand reaches for the doorknob, tracking Randy’s movements.

As soon as Randy grabs the handle of the refrigerator and pulls it open, bending down to grab the beers, I make my move.

Shoving the door open, I dart inside, my gun aimed at Chad.

They begin yelling, reaching for their weapons, but it’s too late. I calmly shoot Chad between the eyes, then turn it to Jimmy, shooting him in the shoulder. For good measure, I fired two more shots at Chad’s chest before ducking behind an old couch.

Randy has his gun in hand, firing it toward me. It misses by a mile, sailing over my head as I wait.

Grabbing a pocket knife from my hoodie, I toss it toward the opposite end from where I’m squatting. When it hits the concrete floor, Randy jerks around toward it, and I stand, shooting him in the head.

I shoot a couple more times for good measure after he falls to the floor. Walking over to him, I step on his hand and he doesn’t move. But I leave nothing to chance. Stooping down, I feel for a pulse, already knowing he’s dead. I take his gun and pocket it, before grabbing the handcuffs from his pants pockets.

Moving toward Chad, I do the same, knowing he’s also dead.

Then I walk to where Jimmy is sprawled on his back, blood surrounding him. Bending down, I eye the bullet hole. It entered through his shirt, then into his shoulder. Shoving my finger in it, his howls of pain are like music to my ears.

“Good. You’re still awake.” Pulling him into a sitting position, I lock the handcuffs around Jimmy’s wrists. I punch him in the nose, blood spurting down his face. He falls back, head banging off the floor. He’s barely hanging onto consciousness as I pullout the rope that’s in my hoodie. After tying his ankles together, I hoist him over my shoulder.

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