Page 39 of Dirty Salvation

Before he went to Hell, he was going to kill the Renegade Souls president.

Closer. Closer. Closer.

Adrenaline spiked the man’s system, pumping energy to his muscles, ready to strike, to kill and steal what he needed.

Alert, unbreathing, he waited for the noise to draw ever nearer.

Only the worst survived and today was not the day he died.

He delved down deep into his psyche where the nasty lived, felt that familiar coldness for the hunt, the kill, the taste of blood dripping down his face sweep over him.

The man was grinning like the vicious evil murderous sociopath he was when he finally clapped eyes on the dark shadow.

Good things came to those who waited, he thought with a heaved inhale of cooler night air so crisp it burned his lungs.

And he’d waited just long enough for divine intervention.

He laughed internally. The sound a little maniacal.

“Thank God.” People trusted you when you threw God in there. “Can you help me, please?” he asked the hiker, with the pack full of goodies strapped over their back.

All sense of normality in his rough voice.

The man was good at acting as people expected.

He smiled rueful, even as the fever swept through him with a harsh shiver, pain forgotten, he stood a little taller.

It was Isaiah who had said,and he shall smite the earth with the rod of his mouth, and with the breath of his lips shall he slay the wicked.

The man felt the same hatred strengthen him, his childhood bible studies lingering in the background noise of his mind, he twisted each one to mean only one thing; Kill. And kill soon.

Rider would be slain.

For the man was the Lord, judge, and executioner.

CHAPTER NINE

“You have to read between the lines with Outlaws, to wade through the bullshit to get at their truth…” - Charlie Timmons

Cops had been at his club all damn day. Poking their nasty little noses into his business. Asking too many questions Rider was prone to think he was about to be proposed to.

Snooping fuckers. Just one more thing he had to grin and bear.

Of course, he’d smiled pleasantly, showed the sheriff into his office, offered him a seat and coffee, answered every damn question calm and helpful.

Did his club know anything about the unexplained fire recently at the Raging Rebel’s building?Who us? No officer.

Had he or his club members been near that area in recent memory?Nope, too busy building bikes and organizing a charity ride for the local kid's hospital.

Rider bullshitted so much in that first thirty minutes he almost reached up and brushed a thumb over his mouth to check for skid marks.

He liked the sheriff. Charlie Timmons was Rider’s age, married with a couple of toddlers, and the least crooked sheriff Armado had seen in recent years. The last one, a fat sweaty oaf of a man who always reeked of cigar smoked and was constantly crunching on sugared almonds, had been so far in his uncle’s pockets, that when he was eventually found out to be the bent fucking cop that he was, with just a nice helpful nudge from Rider and a few whispers in the right ear, namely Charlie-boy here when he'd been a fresh-faced rookie officer, the corruptness uncovered in the then sheriff’s name had reached back decades, such a bad boy, it seemed, he’d taken bribes upon bribes lacing his fat pockets, turned a blind eye to many crimes, falsified documents, gotten rid of evidence.

Rider had a duty to the community to help his crimes come to light.

A good citizen with no ulterior motives in mind whatsoever.

And if it helped pave the way for Rider to take over his club, then all the better. The last thing he’d needed was a cop greedily coveting handouts from him.