Текст книги "The saltwater course"
Автор книги: Avian St. Graves
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The Saltwater Curse by Avina St. Graves
Published by Avina St. Graves
Contact the author at author@avinastgraves.com
Copyright © 2025 Avina St. Graves
All rights reserved. No part of this publication may be reproduced.
This book is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents are products of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, events, or locations is entirely coincidental.
The author acknowledges the trademark status and trademark owners of various products, brands, and/or restaurants referenced in the work of fiction. The publication/use of these trademarks is not authorized, associated with, or sponsored by the trademark owners.
Editing by the Fiction Fix
Proofreading by Nessa’s Lair
Cover by Andrea Corsini
ISBN Print 978-0-473-73651-4
ISBN eBook 978-0-473-73653-8
Created with Vellum
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CONTENTS
Author’s Note
Triggers
Playlist
Playlist (Unofficial)
Prologue
Chapter 1
Chapter 2
Chapter 3
Chapter 4
Chapter 5
Chapter 6
Chapter 7
Chapter 8
Chapter 9
Chapter 10
Chapter 11
Chapter 12
Chapter 13
Chapter 14
Chapter 15
Chapter 16
Chapter 17
Chapter 18
Chapter 19
Chapter 20
Chapter 21
Chapter 22
Chapter 23
Chapter 24
Chapter 25
Chapter 26
Chapter 27
Chapter 28
Chapter 29
Chapter 30
Chapter 31
Chapter 32
Chapter 33
Epilogue
Want More?
About the Author
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AUTHOR’S NOTE
To the FBI agent assigned to me,
THIS was why I was Googling all those shady things. I swear. I pinky promise I don’t have a lab at home where I’m trying to make that stuff.
Plus, half of what I wanted to know wasn’t even online, so I was left with no choice but to take liberties. If I actually made it, there’s no way it would work.
Just trust me. You can take me off that list you put me on.
Now, to whom it’s about to concern,
To avoid being placed on any more watchlists, please do not take the information contained in this book as fact. It is a work of fiction, in which a literal shape-shifting kraken exists.
If you somehow know the intricacies of mass manufacturing fake passports, I should warn you, I do not. Please know I failed high school physics, barely passed computer science, and no one on Reddit has asked this question before—that I could find.
Additionally, if you are a marine biologist, it might be in your best interest to reconsider reading this book, because I can promise you, I took a lot of ocean-related liberties. Kelp grows wherever I say kelp grows.
And as a PSA, out of respect, I am not touching on the myths, beliefs, or religions of my people. The kraken culture is entirely made-up, and any similarities with real-life religions are coincidental.
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TRIGGERS
Stretching, sex, tentacles, unconsented voyeurism, cannibalism (depends how you look at it), murder, gore, death by tentacles, shark attack (kind of?), sad animals, kidnapping, nerve issues, toxic characters, death of parents and siblings (off-screen), death of a spouse, domestic abuse not by the MMC, reference to sexual assault, trauma, PTSD, racism (by krakens toward humans).
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PLAYLIST
Angry Too – Lola Blanc
MILK OF THE SIREN – Melanie Martinez
Never Felt So Alone – Labrinth
Burn – The Pretty Reckless
Cross My Heart I Hope U Die – Meg Smith
The fruits – Paris Paloma
Which Witch – Florence + The Machine
Freak – Sub Urban, REI AMI
Wasteland – Royal & the Serpent
The Night We Met – Lord Hurton
Atlantis - Seafret
Cinnamon Girl – Lana Del Rey
To Be Alone – Hozier
Ophelia – The Lumineers
Again – Noah Cyrus ft. XXXTENTACION
Satu Bulan – Bernadya
All I Want – Kodaline
I Found – Amber Run
Romantic Homicide – d4vd
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PLAYLIST (UNOFFICIAL)
Going Under – Evanescence
Cake By The Ocean – DNCE
Waterfalls – TLC
Waves – Dean Lewis
Hoist The Colours – The Wellermen
My Heart Will Go On – Céline Dion
Rain Over Me – Pitbull, Marc Anthony
Riptide – Vance Joy
Ocean eyes – Billie Eilish
High Water – Sleep Token
Sailor Song – Gigi Perez
The Beach – The Neighbourhood
West Coast – Lana Del Rey
Wellerman – Sea Shanty – Nathan Evans
Soaked – Shy Smith
Siren – Kailee Morgue
Swim - Chase Atlantic
Waterloo – ABBA
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To those who always knew that “three-in-one” has an entirely different meaning in romance books.
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PROLOGUE
How would I sleep at night if I killed him right now?
Peacefully, I think.
I would only regret I didn’t do it sooner.
The pristine marble floor and the clean, white cupboard doors go in and out of focus. Tears trickle from the corners of my eyes, twining with the crimson trickle of blood leaking from the gash on my forehead, blazing a path onto the cold floor. If I move, he might kick me again.
It’s my fault.
I should have known better than to bring my emotions home.
Tommy is particular. He has certain expectations of his fiancée, and being upset over the third anniversary of my father’s death isn’t one of them. I should have been dolled up, head bowed, with dinner served on the table the moment he stepped through the imposing wooden door.
I should have done better.
The pain in my side is a faint ache, the bruise along my cheek a distant thought.
All I wanted was to visit the beach where I had spread his ashes, then spend the rest of the day wallowing and choking on my grief over the man who raised me.
I was foolish. I should have seen this punishment coming.
I should have known better.
If I had known the type of person Tommy really was, or what the Gallaghers were up to in the dark of night, I would’ve never applied for the job at his family’s tech company. I wouldn’t have fallen for his charming smile, nor would I have said “yes” when he pulled out a huge diamond ring, asking me—without words—to be his indentured servant. I wish I had seen through the fancy dresses and jewelry he showered me with, all the times he convinced me to stay home with him instead of seeing my friends or my dad.
I should have run the second I laid eyes on him four years ago.
But here I am, regretting every move I made since I met him.
I’m so tired.
“Get the fuck up.” A hand wraps around my arm, yanking me to my feet and adding another bruise to his battered canvas.
He shoves me back, and the corner of the kitchen counter hits the small of my back, sending a piercing jolt up my spine. My hand flies out to support myself against the marble. My wrist brace lands in a pool of water, soaking through the thick fabric as I slide along the counter, fingers grazing the edge of the chopping board I was using when Tommy came barreling in.
I’m not a fan of what I was making. If he didn’t enjoy eating my country’s cuisine, I wasn’t allowed to make it. But he likes tonight’s meal, and what he likes, I like.
And I like… I don’t know what I enjoy anymore.
If Dad were here, he’d stand up for me.
The thought lodges a boulder in my throat. I force myself to suppress a sob so I don’t anger Tommy more. Why didn’t I listen when Dad warned me this man meant trouble? It was the only thing we ever argued about. I wish I could apologize to him now. Dad was the only person I had, and I fought him tooth and nail under the misguided pretense that Tommy was different—special. A man of his word, someone who loved me. I fell for his façade.
Nothing is worth the heated floors, indoor swimming pool, or stupid fucking six-car garage filled with vehicles I’m not allowed to touch.
“Do you think I want to come home to find you looking like shit? Huh?”
I keep my gaze averted. Meeting his eyes never bodes well, at least not anymore.
Silent tears stream down my face as a glint catches my eye, and I try to ignore the light reflecting off the silver blade just inches away from my fingers.
I thought if I did the steak just right, my mood would be forgiven. If the roasted sweet potatoes, broccoli, and carrots were seasoned just right, my appearance would be quickly forgotten.
But again, I knew better.
I’m so sorry for disappointing you, Dad.
“I was nice enough to let you have a day off. Maybe I shouldn’t have if you can’t appreciate everything I do for you.”
Do for me? What the fuck do you do for me, Tommy? Because I’d absolutely love to know.
I was given a credit card I’m not allowed to use. If I get groceries, I have to show him the receipt. If I need a dress for an event, his assistant gets it for me. If I want to visit Dad’s memorial, I need permission—and he always says no. If I breathe too loud, I get yelled at. If I blink too much, I’m glared at.
The only thing Tommy has ever done for me is hate every single aspect of my existence.
I stare blankly to the side, the knife’s plastic handle taunting me, orange carrot residue pebbled along the serrated edge.
Speak when spoken to. Bend over when told. Spread my legs when he wants.
He doesn’t want a wife. He wants a servant.
Dad would be disappointed to see what I’ve become.
I clench my jaw, trying to stop my body from trembling.
“Do you know how many girls want to be in your position? I could have my pick from a hundred of them, but I chose you to be my wife. And you’ve been nothing but ungrateful.”
Then why did you do it, Tommy? Was it the brightness in my eyes when you found me fresh from university? Or did you decide I would make the perfect victim when you discovered I had the skills required to elevate your business?
I had dreams, Tommy. Hope. Real talent. I could have made a difference, saved lives. I was meant to soar.
I would have been everything without you.
But you killed me, Thomas Gallagher.
You and your brother, John, buried me alive.
He slaps my cheek, and my head whips to the side as the sound of skin colliding with skin ripples through the plain room. Red blossoms along my cheek, burning a path straight to my still-beating heart. “You would be nothing without me, Kristy.”
I despise hearing those two syllables on his lips.
Kristy.
That name used to hold such fond memories—how my father used to say it, the way the etching of “Misty” gleamed on his bike’s gas tank. Now, I hate it. I never want to hear it again.
“Nothing,” he yells.
Tommy is a piece of shit in an expensive suit. His whole family is—criminals with deep pockets and an even deeper hold on the police. Everyone turns a blind eye to the heinous acts carried out within their enterprise—gang, group, organization, whatever they want to call themselves. The effect is the same.
I could kill Tommy, and I wouldn’t shed a tear. His entire family could drop dead at my feet, and I wouldn’t bat an eye. They’re all monsters, the worst dregs of society, hidden behind diamonds and gold.
My lips twitch, and I have to fight back a sneer. I just wanted to mourn my dad today. Was that really too much to ask?
His fingers wrap around my throat, cutting off my oxygen. Pain swells around my neck, worse where his skin touches mine. My flesh is still raw from when he did this two nights ago. It pales in comparison to the rest of my injuries.
I don’t struggle or fight. He prefers it when I do. The last thing I want is to bring him more pleasure from my suffering.
My watery stare flicks up to his putrid green eyes. His pupils are blown out, the corners of his eyes are creased. His mouth is curled down. There’s a rosy tint to his tanned cheeks. The tendons in his neck strain, but not from exertion.
I know what will happen next. It’s what always happens when Tommy looks at me this way. He’ll turn me around and take me. If I’m lucky, I’ll be able to sit tomorrow.
I hate him.
I hate him. I hate him. I hate him.
God, I fucking hate him.
Dots scatter across my vision, everything going blurry. I sputter and cough despite how hard I try to hide my desperation for air. Both my hands hit the counter behind me, flailing around for some semblance of reprieve, as if touching stone might stop my lungs from burning. Agonizing pain slices up the arm he injured earlier. My braced hand catches on an object, and the chopping board clatters to the floor, the vegetables a rainbow mess across sparkling marble.
Tommy doesn’t react, too lost to whatever sick fantasy is playing out in his head. My stomach drops like a boulder in a landslide.
I’d rather die than live through this again.
He and his family have taken so much from me when I’ve given them everything. All they’ve left is a faint glimmer of the person I was before he swept me off my feet and made me feel like a princess, only to then throw me in the dungeons, a crown of poisoned thorns on my head.
His heated breath skitters across my skin, sticky and cloying. He shoves my sweats down my legs before he fumbles with his belt, undoing his zip. “No one will love you like I do.”
I hold his stare as I rasp, “Thank God.”
His eyes widen when I raise my arm. Scarlet bursts from his skin, crimson dots splatter onto my top and part of his favorite meal.
Oxygen slams into my lungs, making my knees buckle. Hot tears stream down my face as I watch the man who made me believe the devil exists stumble back, gripping the knife protruding from his neck. My hand trembles in my wrist brace as I relive the feel of skin and tendon parting under the blade.
“You were always pathetic,” I croak, voice raw, body shaking. Fury has found a home in my heart. I want to scream. Riot. Take the knife out just to plunge it into him ten more times.
But I’m better than that. Stronger. Smarter. Violent men aren’t violent because they lost their temper—they’re violent because they know they can get away with it. If it was an issue of emotional control, his entire family would have met his fists as frequently as I do.
No, I’ll bottle this rage up and use it to survive. That’s how I’ll make my father proud.
“You made me do this,” I whisper.
Those moldy green eyes widen when I echo the words he has used on me more times than I can count. He hip checks the kitchen island and tips sideways, smearing red around the once-pristine kitchen, making this place as rotten as it is on the inside.
It’s fitting this way. White was never his color.
“You…” He tries to speak through the blood sputtering from his mouth.
“Learn to enunciate,” I mock, itching to grab the knife.
He backhanded me while saying that once.
Tommy slumps to the floor in a tangled mess of limbs, sight still fixed on me. I want to imprint the image of the life draining from him into my memory. It’ll be the picture I fall asleep to at night, my first thought when I wake in the morning.
“You killed me, Tommy,” I whisper. Tears trickle down my cheeks as I recall everything I’ve endured the past four years. “And, in return, I’m killing you. A corpse is killing you. Isn’t it funny how that works? A bit ironic, no?”
My entire body trembles as I stare at him, his blood threading through the pattern of my skin, drying into a crust.
I feel nothing.
Regret nothing.
He had it coming.
My sock-covered feet step back across the slippery tile floor. “Goodbye, Tommy,” I rasp. “I’ll see you in hell.”
They’ll come for me. His brother, his parents. They won’t rest until I pay for taking Tommy away from them. From this day until I take my last breath, I will never be free, a tagged bird forever flying faster than the wind. But I’ll take that over a gilded cage. I’ll paint the trees with blood if I have to.
This isn’t just an escape. It’s retribution.
My murder made me silent. All that’s left for them to do is put me in the dirt. But Tommy made one grave mistake: he forged me into a weapon.
A tarnished blade can still cut.
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1
Cindi
Fifteen months later
The tweezers clatter onto the table from the sudden piercing pain from my elbow down.
“Fuck,” I hiss under my breath.
I stretch my fingers and wiggle them to ease the tension. It does jack shit. Over a year later, and I’m still paying for the crap Tommy put me through. Huffing, I snatch my wrist brace off the nearby shelf and strap it on before pushing away from the workbench.
Whatever. I’ll fix the speakers later. It’s not important. I need to get ready for my meeting.
Distracting myself does very little to stop my fingers from tingling. I need medical attention—surgery, injection, physio—but it’s not an option. What would be the point? There's only so much someone can endure when their ex breaks the same hand three times and forces them to work through the agony. Plus, that means letting someone touch me, and… No, not an option.
A wave of vertigo hits me when I stand, hands flying onto the bench to stabilize myself. My eyes screw shut, and I breathe against the sudden blow of exhaustion. It slowly ebbs away as the seconds pass, until I can walk. It’s been getting worse over the past six months. My own body is giving out on me.
Grumbling under my breath, I step out of my air-conditioned workroom into the living area, suppressing a grimace at the dip in temperature. The faintest scent of the sea breeze permeates the humid air over notes of Dad’s favorite pad kra pao moo recipe I had for lunch—not as good as how my grandma made it, but it’ll do.
I eyeball the many in-process repairs lying around the room and amble over to the clean laundry pile on the couch, where my keys stick out from between the cracks in the cushions—proof I haven’t left the house in, what? A week?
My little two-bedroom cabin is nothing fancy. There’s an old water stain on the ceiling in the bathroom. The water pressure can be more accurately described as a trickle. A couple of the living room tiles have hairline cracks in them—one of them is actually starting to chip. Half the wallpaper in my bedroom is peeling, and one of the wooden boards on the stairs leading to the front door is rotten.
The place is free from blood money, devoid of walls I’ve been thrown against, corners I’ve huddled in. This little shack by the ocean is mine, a slice of Earth untouched by the Gallaghers.
The two girls who got me fake passports changed my name to Cindi—it’s close enough to Kristy that I’d remember—and brought me into their fold, Deedee and Nat, helped me put a fresh coat of paint on the rest of the house, organized for an AC unit to be installed in my bedroom, and got the bathroom redone so I wasn’t stuck with a squatting toilet.
The cabin is close enough to Kuta and Ubud in Bali that I can make drops and pick up supplies for the microchip lab without having to drive for hours. Plus, there are a bunch of trees between me and my neighbors and next to no foot traffic to make it easier to survey my area.
Being close to the beach and the cheaper rent are bonuses.
I grab the gun hidden beneath the coffee table and stuff it in my backpack, mentally tallying the supplies I’ll need to order for next month’s shipment so we can meet rising demand for our fake passports. Maybe I can convince Deedee to overstock so we don’t have to stress about that every month.
She’ll probably fight me on it, but it’s not my business, so I can’t fully complain.
The Velcro of my brace catches on the shoulder straps of my backpack when I tug it on, and pain darts up my arm. It’s just one thing after another.
Get over it, I chastise myself.
My good hand hovers over the door handle. Paranoia and fear skitter down my spine at the thought of leaving the safety of my house. What if a pirate is tracking me to find our lab? What if I run into a Gallagher? What if Tommy’s family catches me and—
The muscle in my jaw pulses. Tommy does not control me anymore. I refuse to be stuck behind bars of my own making.
The moment I step outside, damp air slaps me in the face, and I almost turn right back around. I want to be either in the water or lying beneath the AC, not spending the next hour or so on the road to meet with a man-child.
The door automatically locks behind me, the alarm system engaged with a couple of taps on my phone, beginning a countdown on my laptop to self-destruct if someone tries to break in.
If someone told me I’d be using my engineering degree for home security, I would’ve laughed. Yet, here we are.
Blowing out a breath, I squint against the sun as I round the house to the garage. Unlocking and rolling up the door, I falter at the engine conveniently sitting outside the car—Dad would’ve had my car up and running in a matter of days. He would’ve made it an all-hands-on-deck situation at the shop. But all this shit is my problem now, and my problem alone.
I hang my head back and suppress a groan. A spike of pain tears through my arm, and I glare at the stupid brace, then at the even stupider Honda Civic with the shitty transmission. If my car is out of commission, I’m bearing the full wrath of Satan on a bike.
Pulling the roller door shut, I curse Tommy under my breath for the millionth time as I head for the motorbike, fishing out a pair of sunglasses from my backpack. I clip on a helmet before settling on the seat. The engine rumbles alive beneath me, soothing my soul—but it’s not nearly enough to calm the paranoia rearing its ugly head.
Clenching my eyes shut, I count to three.
Tommy’s family doesn’t know I’m here.
I stretch my fingers out one last time before gripping the throttle. The wheels skid across the ground, kicking up a cloud of dirt that follows my wake, and I’m off, tearing down the long driveway before making it onto a gravel road. I switch between main streets and side ones, one eye always out for any vehicles that might be tailing me.
Sweat drips down my forehead and spine, and the harsh fabric of my shorts chafes painfully against my skin.
Fuck you, Tommy.
The anxiety curdling low in my stomach worsens the closer I get to the meeting site in Denpasar. The heavy bag of passports sitting on my shoulder acts as a constant reminder that one wrong move, and I could be worse than dead. I’ve seen and heard what he and his family were capable of—all the lives lost over slight inconveniences, all the rumors about what they’ve done to people who pissed them off.
After emptying out Tommy’s safe, I went to his company’s office building, made a copy of the microchip research I did, patented it, then systematically deleted everything from the server and every single one of their backup servers.
The last thing I did was hop on a plane and got my ass out of the country.
Overnight, the Gallagher family lost millions of dollars’ of information, and it felt fucking good.
Tommy’s family almost found me when I was hiding out in China, and then when I stupidly thought it would be smart to hide in Dad’s hometown in Thailand. Indonesia is by far the best location for me to be utterly forgettable. With so many tourists around, no one blinks twice about the fact I can’t speak a lick of Bahasa, even if I might physically pass as a local.
A car suddenly pulls out in front of me, and I squeeze my brakes hard, giving myself whiplash. Asshole. I hit the horn and yell a string of profanities at them before continuing like nothing happened.
Driving here isn’t for the faint of heart. I’ve almost died at least fifty times trying to navigate the nonexistent road rules and reckless drivers.
With traffic, it takes a little over an hour to get to the stall where I’m meeting Budi, a guy who’s been working with Deedee and Natalie long before I got here. He’s a fencer of sorts. We aren’t friends, but if I die, he dies too. It doesn’t make us BFFs or anything, but mutual trust is important.
The heat hunkers down on me as I come to a stop in front of a food stall on the side of the street. I tug the helmet off. The rush of air is absolutely heavenly. The thick coat of sweat makes my hair stick to my scalp and across my face. Summer in San Diego was barely tolerable; this makes drowning in the cool sea water sound like a dream.
My knees threaten to buckle when I drop to my feet, and the world tips slightly as dizziness rushes through me. It’s gone as quickly as it comes.
Fanning myself, I bend beneath the tarpaulin awning to approach the man behind the portable kitchen, scanning the area to make sure no one is watching me. His attention snaps up to mine, and he wipes his hands on his jeans.
“Apa kabar, ibu,” he greets without smiling, brows pinched against the blaring sun.
“Baik.” I offer him a curt nod, unclipping my backpack to wear it in front of me to fish out my wallet. “Enam sate ayam sama Badak, donk?”
Six chicken kebabs, and the drink that’s a million times better than Coke, please. The extent of my Indonesian vocabulary is ordering food.
Deedee introduced me to this place. According to her, it’s rare to find Badak on this side of the country, so snagging a bottle during these meetings is like microdosing happiness. I consider it a little treat for not getting murdered or dying from a stress-induced heart attack.
Awareness prickles at the back of my neck. I whip around to the busy street, eyes darting between passing motorbikes, tourists walking in and out of shops, patrons and vendors around the street. No one pays me any mind.
You’re imagining it. Get your ass out of the open.
He takes the cash and hands me the change from his pocket. Another thing I love about this place: cash is the main currency. I flew into Jakarta with a fake passport and a couple grand—both thanks to Deedee—took a bunch of different trains and buses to get to Bali, and then we sourced a place for me to stay using that accepted cash.
I grab a seat on one of the plastic chairs under the shade and place the helmet on the narrow table. Nobody gives me more than a cursory glance as I check my phone for messages, the cameras at home, the microchip lab, and the factory where we print the books.
The biggest thing with a heartbeat near my property is a stray dog. In the factory, Deedee checks paper stock while Nat operates one of the machines at the lab, wearing a pristine white coat, hairnet, and mask as she works her artistic magic.
I tap my thumb on the table, periodically stopping to check my surroundings before going back to the footage of my cabin, flicking between frames so I don’t miss a thing. A text pops up on the screen from my group chat—I see both girls check their phones on camera.
Deedee: Tell Budi he still hasn’t paid up for losing that bet last week.
Nat: OMG, he has to pay me too. The guy gambles too much lol. It’s always stupid bets too.
Deedee: He’s single handedly making me richer. U kno he bet 100ribu he can do a backflip.
Nat: Well, can he?
Deedee: Guess.
Nat: *Laughing face emoji*
I’m too wired to joke around with them, and like hell am I about to tell Budi any of that and prolong our conversation more than necessary.
My spine snaps to attention the second our fencer steps in, my grip tightening around my phone like it’s a weapon. Flip-flops, shorts, a sweat-stained T-shirt.
Potential threat, my brain registers.
“Sup,” Budi says.
I flinch when he holds his hand up for a fist bump. It’s a harmless gesture, but the thought of skin-on-skin makes me want to puke. Just suck it up and do it. I quickly tap his hand with mine, feeling another layer of sweat building along my forehead.
He drops down across from me, half-heartedly casting his dark eyes around the little food joint. The only person left is a guy chipping away at his noodles while watching a video on his phone with the volume all the way up. Probably not a threat, my brain registers.
“How’s it?” Budi raps his knuckles on the table.
Carefully pulling the tote bag out of my backpack, I slide it across to him. “Turkish, German, and Canadian are in there. You can tell Harta twenty Australians and thirty Americans will be ready in a month. A machine broke, so we’re slow going.”
Budi quickly shoves the product into his own bag without bothering to check the contents—it’s idiotic on his part. I could’ve lied about the number of passports in there, then come knocking on his door asking for payment.
Any artist with the right printing facilities can make the passport book. The hardest aspect isn’t perfecting the paper weight or the nuances within the designs.
The real art is in the RFID chip.
A fake passport is only good if you don’t get caught.
The microchip was the one part the Gallagher’s shady company couldn’t nail down until I came along. My degree and naivety made me the perfect employee who could be easily controlled.
Tommy wanted a microchip that would pass all the tests to better establish their family, and I cracked the code three days before I killed him, though I never reported my discovery.
Now, all the information is with me.
The lab manufacturing process isn’t perfect, but with more time, resources, and research, it could be.
Nat and Deedee already had an established gig going before I stepped in to improve their product with the research I stole from the Gallaghers.
After Deedee finishes printing, Nat and I step in to add the microchip. She works on production while I deal with the serial number and placing it into the book—on my good hand days.
Budi’s job is to distribute the product to another fencer, who will get it to the consumer—the ones at the end of the line, taking the pictures and interacting with the gangs, filthy rich, or a random person willing to put every cent they own into getting free.
Once it’s out of his hands, we all split the cut, with Deedee and Nat taking a higher percentage. We could’ve grown a lot more if I were smart enough to get the production process down pat.
“Cool, cool,” Budi says. “I’ve got a bro in Singapore wanting to know if you’d do a batch of Armenians.”
My brows hike up my forehead. “I’ll have to check with Deedee if she can do it. We’ll need more research and an original sample.” The shape and weight of every country’s chip is different. “Are they planning on paying more?”
He shrugs. “She might.”
I stare at him blankly. I know Nat and Deedee have been working with him since they started their operation five years ago, but he’s not the brightest person I’ve ever met. Loyalty trumps intelligence, I guess.
My skin prickles, and I do a quick sweep of my surroundings, three times for good measure. Someone could come out at any second—especially since I’m in the open.
The Gallaghers aren’t the only people trying to track me down. Deedee and Nat’s passport manufacturing operation caught the eye of a gang—pirates, they call themselves. They have it out for us, but I can’t bring myself to leave when I know I should. I like it here too much.
