Page 38 of Dirty Salvation

Blinking furiously, holding off the tears that threatened to fall from his kindness, she followed behind when he led them out of the kitchen, each set of eyes on them, she could see them silently cocking brows in wonderment, probably would ask each other soon as she as out of sight what their president was up to with her?

She had the same thought.

The beginning of the end.

And it all began with a badass biker holding her hand.

CHAPTER EIGHT

“Payback IS going to be a bitch, Rider. Just wait for it.” – Anon

The man was raging with hatred. Surrounded by stagnant water, the ground underneath him was cold, hard, filthy. He was fatigued laid up against the stump of a tree, all around him there was noises of the night, bugs, crickets, howls in the distance. None of it mattered while his veins bulged with hatred and the need to kill one motherfucker in particular.

HedespisedRider Marinos.

He was going to kill Rider Marinos very, very fucking slowly with as much agony as he could, to make the last moments of that bastard’s life more despondent than he could ever imagine.

The man surveyed the woods he was stranded in;lostwas a better word.

Hehatedthe woods. Never went into them. Until forced to.

Cold, his clothes soaked through after the night’s rain fell in hard pelts. He needed to find shelter and quickly.

The man’s leg burned. Vicious gray eyes stared at his useless limb still attached to his body, he’d managed to dig the bullet out from the top of his thigh hours ago, unimaginable pain made him violently ill all over himself and now he could feel the infection setting in, pus oozing from the wound, swollen and raw, it would be a matter of hours still until sepsis set in and he died out here.

The man had lost his cell phone somewhere during his climb.

Unreachable to anyone.

Hate could achieve a great many things. Granted, he wasn’t running anytime soon, but he could get his fucking ass up off the forest floor at least.

The huge size of the man, used the tree for balance, shimmying his body up and up. Sweating in agony, pain lancing his leg until he wanted to cut the fucking thing off.

He held one face in his mind’s eye while he struggled to do the simplest task of rising to his feet.

Hate boiling his gut, churning his blood into a volcano, he finally was standing on one leg, panting vigorously, exerted sweat pouring down his face, gathering in his beard.

Those same unfeeling, glacial detached gray eyes surveyed the thick spread of trees and bushes as far as the eye could see.

Murder hisonlythought.

The man was deciding his best course of action, in which direction to head when he caught a noise.

Alert.

Deadly still, silent. He listened to it approach closer through the darkness, crisp sounds of one set of light feet.

He patted his pockets, found them empty of his usual handguns.

His tattooed fists clenched.

Ready.

He’d murdered a bunch with just his bare hands for weapons.

The man could think on his feet, even as death was knocking on his own door, he was thinking of delivering it to whoever came closer through the forest towards him.

Hate was a helluva motivator.