Page 272 of The Reluctant Hero

Algorithms flash off to the side, linking up identities with fishy account activity while I hum and note them down on a sticky tab.

The street cams end, but I know where they’re headed. I memorized all the property purchases before Shade could take them away from me.

Me: Mansion of doom.

South: Bans?

Awww, Shade has softened her up! She used to never ask.

This is a hero arc. Amanda has suffered and is reaching the end game. That means it’s wartime. No holds barred. Good versus evil. There will be one victor at the end.

I debate for a second and cringe when I force myself to answer.

Me:None.

I feel a little nauseous as I imagine how happy South is right now. I never give her free reign.

Me: Just for now! No hurting Amanda!

South: I wouldn’t. I’m not done with our game.

I sigh in a mixture of relief and frustration.

My attention comes back with a snap when an alert pops up.

That’s weird. That date has to be wrong. Isn’t she-

A different alert turns the screen red for a split second.

What kind of jerk thinks he can hackmybaby?

According to the code, it’s one of the people who was watching the surveillance footage.

I need to give Southie the updated information I’ve found. Mystery solved with a sparkly multi-colored bow. But first…

“Bring it on, pond scum,” I mutter and pull up my viruses. By the time I’m done with this twerp, they’ll be lucky to have ashellof a computer left.

Man, this pregnancy has made me cranky.

59

Dead Man Walking

Amanda

My head aches unbearably. As a first thought on waking up, it sucks. And the bad news keeps on coming.

My eyes flutter open, and try to focus. I can see the puffy swell of my cheek trying to take over my lower lid. It throbs with heat to back up the pain. I blink a few times to clear my sight.

What I see is more than a little concerning.

I’m in one of the brothel rooms from my nightmares, with an ornate wooden door directly in front of me. The big change is that the walls are a deep purple in color, and the room seems more like a stage than a bedroom. Sex toys of all kinds are hung on the walls, breaking up the solemn effect of the purple with vibrant pinks and dull blacks. A giant bed is to my left, pressed against a wall. I’m in the center of the room with some kind of spotlight over my head. There’s a wall of mirrors on my right that I’m betting is two-way glass.

I’m sitting in an uncomfortable metal chair with a hole in the center like a toilet and no arms to rest my elbows on. I’m hunched forward, my head raised to look around.

When I look down, the gleam of silver tape is barely visible over my lower stomach. My hands instinctively try to move, but they're trapped behind me around my wrists. My brows furrow as I roll my free hands in confusion.

My hands aren’t taped together? Have action movies lied to me, or are we all amateurs here?

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