Total pages in book: 84
Estimated words: 82967 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 415(@200wpm)___ 332(@250wpm)___ 277(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 82967 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 415(@200wpm)___ 332(@250wpm)___ 277(@300wpm)
I exhale heavily because the circumstances have just changed—there are now six men in the house.
Leaving the shadows, I tuck my knife back into my jeans and pull the Ruger from my cut. With the arrival of three extra men and a captive, I don’t have time to fuck around.
I find the first one taking a leak off the back porch and knock him out before he knows I’m even there. The second is passed out at the kitchen table with a needle on the floor close by and the loosened rubber tubing still around his arm. I glance over at him, wondering if he is going to be a threat later on. Deciding he isn’t, I keep moving—I’m pressed for time. Someone has turned down the music so they can hear whatever hellish things Rasputin is doing to the girl.
I need to get to her.
I need to stop him.
So when the three other men come for me, I don’t waste any time. I raise my Ruger and shoot them.
One, two, three!
Done!
Hearing the commotion, Rasputin comes barreling out from a bedroom, his fly open, his face flushed. When he sees me, his eyes narrow.
“Fucker,” he growls.
“Yeah,” I say with a maniacal grin before shooting him in his big, fat belly.
It isn’t a kill shot.
It’s simply meant to take him down.
Painfully.
He collapses against the wall and slides to the floor with a heavy thud. I take my time walking over to him, stretching the moment out, determined to make him endure the agony of a stomach wound for as long as possible. When I reach him, I crouch down so we are at eye level. Up close, he’s even uglier—gray, pitted skin, sickly eyes, his teeth rotting from years of mountain meth and bad living—and he stinks, worse than roadkill on a hot summer’s day.
“You know, I wondered how it would feel when this moment finally arrived, and I have to admit it’s pretty fucking satisfying.” My dark gaze sweeps over his pockmarked face. “Seeing you sitting here, fighting to live and wondering how you’re going to stop me from killing you. But you’re not going to stop it from happening, do you understand me? I am going to kill you now, you sick sonofabitch, and there ain’t nothing in this world that is going to stop me.”
“You motherfucking—”
I jam my gun into his chin. “What?”
“I didn’t kill your brother. That was Ghost’s doing.”
“No, but you ordered the hit on me.”
“It was business,” he spits, blood coating his lips.
“It might have been business to you. But it was very fucking personal for me.”
“Fucking shit happens.”
I move the business end of the Ruger to his forehead, and he whimpers like a child as I say, “Yeah, I suppose it does.”
Panic sets in. “I g-got money,” he stammers. “Two thousand in the mattress. It’s yours if you don’t fucking kill me.”
“My brother’s life for two thousand dollars? Are you fucking kidding me?” I press the gun deeper into his skin. “You insult me, you piece of shit.”
“What do you want?”
“I want you to die.”
There is something satisfying in those few moments before they realized they were about to pay for their crimes.
Rasputin’s fear turns to anger.
“You think you’re so fucking innocent,” he spits. “Ask yourself why I put that hit on you, you fucking prick. You think you could claim Appalachia as your territory like you’re some kind of god. Fuck you. It was all about money and greed. That’s why your brother died. Because you’re just like me.”
In a way, he is right. I am like him. I want to protect my club, I want to make money so we can put food on the table, but I’m not depraved like he is.
Yes, I’m a killer. But it isn’t for enjoyment. I kill out of necessity.
And I sure as fuck don’t rape.
I rise to my feet and aim my gun at him. The time for talking is done.
I fix my gaze to his. “This is for my kid brother.” And I shoot him right between his sickly, yellow eyes.
From the bedroom, the girl cries out. I find her cowering in the corner of the room, thankfully still clothed.
“It’s going to be all right,” I say, trying to muster a calming voice. But it isn’t easy after taking down six men. The venom is still strong in my veins. “I won’t hurt you.”
She looks vaguely familiar.
“What’s your name, kid?”
Her big doe-eyes brim with fear. “Arianna. B-but people call me Ari.”
“Do you know who I am?” I ask.
She nods. “Y-yes. You’re the president of the Kings.”
Meaning she can easily identify me to the cops.
“Did he rape you?” I gesture toward Rasputin lying in a pool of blood near the doorway.
“No, but he was going to.”
“That’s right. And then he was going to share you with his buddies.”