Total pages in book: 171
Estimated words: 159500 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 798(@200wpm)___ 638(@250wpm)___ 532(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 159500 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 798(@200wpm)___ 638(@250wpm)___ 532(@300wpm)
At moments like this, I’m reminded that my body has been broken in too many places to count just last year, and I’m not as nimble as I used to be. I could try shooting back into the crowd of bodies in black leather vests, but they’ve seen me. If I kill one of them, I’ll be on the hit list even if I manage to drive off.
A baseball bat slams into me from the side like a viper striking out of the shadows. It knocks all breath out of me, and I’m pushed off my course, unable to keep my balance. The pain soon turns into a numbness in my flank, but as I attempt to punch him back, Puck’s twisted face emerges from the shadows. He slams the bat into my thigh. I collapse with a choked cry, and frantic thoughts bolt through my mind like a pack of terrified dogs. My gun’s right there—I can use it—but if I shoot Puck in front of everyone, they’ll rip me apart. I attempt grabbing the bat but still collapse to my knees as my aching leg gives out, and Puck kicks me flat to my back.
The shadows and lights whirl around me. I try to back away, because my bike is hidden so damn close, but I won’t reach it before this bastard crushes my skull.
He straightens up and lifts the bat like it’s a mallet and I’m the base of a high striker at a fairground. The manic grin on his face brings out the madness in his eyes. My heart stops when I realize this isn’t a bluff. He’s about to swing the bat down.
A shot rings out from the crowd that was on my heels, and to my astonishment, a bullet goes through the back of Puck’s skull. It comes right out of his forehead along with a gush of blood and brain matter.
I don’t have time to process any of this. Puck’s lifeless body is falling on me, but I still glance at the Butchers in confusion.
There he is. Clyde. My fucking guardian angel.
So I guess we’re not holding back on the bullets anymore.
I roll away before Puck can cover me and climb back to my feet, fueled by hope that I might survive this fuckery. The safety’s off, and once I make sure no one’s coming at me from behind, I shoot into the outliers from the crowd.
“Intruder!” someone screams as I dash behind the building, hearing the grunt of bullets hitting the concrete I’ve just passed. There’ll be more of them coming, so I grab the wooden pallet covering the spot where I hid my bike by the bush, and lead it out, because there is no time to wait. The screams get louder, but I’m out of here the moment the engine starts. There is no time for warm-up, nor to consider where to go. I bolt ahead, with the asphalt passing beneath the bright glow cast by my headlamp.
I get to breakneck speed in seconds, my heart pumping at least as fast as Smokey is going. The men chasing me were on foot, so they will have to go back to get their bikes if they want to catch me, but by that point, I’ll be too far away. I laugh out loud and scream in victory.
I create more distance between me and the Butchers by the second. As I do that and my mind calms, I’m reminded why I was there in the first place.
Clyde. He misses me. I don’t know what happened, but he said he understood what I did.
And then it truly hits me. I didn’t just leave the Butchers behind.
I left him behind.
A cold wave of nausea makes me hit the brakes on my motorcycle. The only reason why I didn’t do it even more abruptly is that I’m of no use to him ejected out of the seat and a splatter of meat on asphalt.
My escape was so chaotic, so filled with mayhem, I didn’t have time to register what it means that Clyde shot Puck out in the open.
Fuck fuck fuck!
It’s over for him.
He sacrificed his whole life to save me, and I left him behind.
My throat aches, as if guilt turned to stone and was trying to push its way out of me. I need to go back. I need to get him on the bitch seat and take him to safety, no matter the cost.
Ready to kill every single man or woman in that compound, I turn Smokey around. It’s a race against time after that, because I hear screams even over the roar of my engine, and I join them, unsure how many bullets I have left but ready to use all of them.
My front wheel staggers when I stop, and my stomach drops as the back of my ride lifts off the asphalt. A quick twist of the handlebars settles me in place, ready to take Clyde on the bitch seat as soon as we spot one another.