Page 99 of Ruthless Lord

A fist catches me in the face as I drop to the ground. The shadow’s on me, attacking like a maniac. He knocks my gun away expertly, damn near breaking my wrist with a clean strike, and throws a series of blows into my midsection and face.

I drop to one knee. Any sane and normal human would be on the ground, bleeding, coughing, and wheezing. Instead, I cross my arms as the shadow tries to kick me in the face and grunt at the pain as I push back up to my feet.

“Bad call,” I snarl, grabbing for him. “Should’ve fucking stabbed me.”

“Good idea.” The voice is low and rumbling. I twist as a knife shoots forward, gripped in the shadow’s right fist. He’s younger than me, dark skin, dark eyes. I bring a knee up, catching his arm in a grab and sweeping his elbow hard enough to make it pop. He screams in agony as his arm dislocates and the knife clatters to the ground.

“Dumb asshole,” I growl, whipping my forehead forward. I bash it straight into the fucker’s face. “Took that bait too easy.”

He groans, backing away, his arm hanging limp. He tries to draw another knife, but this one’s easy to knock away. I hammer him with more blows until he’s on the ground, cowering with fear.

I kneel on his stomach. I’m breathing hard and hurting. “You hit hard.”

“Fuck… you do too.” He shows me bloody white teeth. “What now?”

“You killed my driver.”

He shifts himself into a ground guard. “Just doing my job.”

“Who sent you? What are you after?”

“Just the cargo.”

“Didn’t have to kill my man for that.”

“He was sleeping. It was too convenient.”

I bash two fists down into his arms. He grimaces as he absorbs the hit. “Who hired you?”

“Doesn’t matter.” He twists and bucks, trying to throw me off balance, but this is classic fighting shit. This is what I was built for. I shrug off his movements and keep him pinned.

“Last chance.” I smash into his guard again. I can tell he’s softening. “If you don’t start talking, I’m going to keep hitting you until you beg me to stop.”

“We’ll see who lasts longer, old man.”

I laugh, a low, ugly rumble. “I don’t stop. I never fucking stop.” I hit him again, and again, and again. I hit him so hard it breaks a finger in my hand. I don’t stop. I hammer down into his guard until I feel his forearms give in, slipping apart, and my fist finds the meat of his ugly fucking face. I smash it, hitting him gleefully, honestly enjoying myself for the first time all evening.

“Enough,” he moans, barely conscious. His face is a wreck. He’ll never look the same again after this.

“Who hired you.” I drop sweat into his mouth. I snarl in his face. “Tell me who sent you.”

“Westbrook… it was Westbrook…”

“The old man?”

“No, his son.”

Charlie’s father. Not unexpected, but a little frustrating. We’d both hoped that it would be her grandfather sending over the thieves, but I wasn’t surprised.

Men like him keep their hands clean and their circles small. Let others take the real risks.

“I appreciate the confession.” I hit him again. He groans, head lolling.

“Please… enough… I talked…”

“You did.” I hit him again. “But you also killed my driver.” I hit him again. “You shouldn’t have done that.”

I beat him until he stops moving. I beat him until he stops breathing. I beat him until he’s an ugly smear on the pavement, and only when it’s clear his brains are oozing from his ears do I finally get to my feet, breathing hard.