Many men would be eager to spend time with her; she’s definitely attractive, probably one of the prettiest girls I’ve ever seen, but she’s haunted. It’s in her startled expression, the pain, fear, and broken soul of a woman who has lived a life she should never have been introduced to.
Anger burns inside me as I sling the ax at the nearest chunk of wood, relishing the sound of the blade slicing through the unyielding block.
Imagining what might have happened to that poor woman sharpens my anger for justice. I don’t believe we got any because a bullet to the brains of the people responsible was nowhere near good enough for what they were about to do to those poor women, tied up on a stone altar, preparing to be sacrificed to depravity.
Anger spurs me on as the scene captures me and my fist curls against the ax as I drive it deep into the wood, wishing like crazy I could have torn every fucker in there apart with my bare hands. Unleashing my inner beast in a fury on men and women who believed sacrificing another human was an acceptable use of their time.
When I plucked her from the altar, a wave of protective fury hit me unexpectedly. Her body was soft, almost featherlike, and her beauty shone through in her drugged sleep as she nestled in my arms, as I whisked her away from the edge of hell. To safety? Well, the jury’s out on that one because it’s fast dawning on me that the longer we stay here, the less safe she will be—from me.
Chopping logs takes little time and so I busy myself with checking out the area. The cabin is one of many we own dottedaround the country. Hidden in mountainous territory, deep inside forests with security systems designed to deter any weary traveler who happens upon them.
Many believe we are a dirty motorcycle club with nothing but terror written into our code. We are not. We are paid government assassins. Ex-military renegades who were sent here rather than being court martialed, or worse.
Ryder King is our president and has earned his title. He is the most feared ex-marine special forces operative who the government decided was the perfect man for the job.
He heads up a band of close on fifty soldiers disguised as an army of terror, and where the courts fail, we prevail, and nobody is safe from our twisted blend of rough justice.
What happened at Rockwell will never make the press, the courts, or the internet. It will be swept under the proverbial rug along with the crumbs of every other fucker who stepped outside the law and had a pass from justice.
There is never an escape from justice if you piss off the man at the top, and sometimes I believe Ryder acts on a higher authority than even the president of our great country.
My thoughts return to the woman inside the cabin, and I hope she has finished her plate. The last thing I need is to babysit a woman whose choices are questionable, and if she refuses my help, I’m liable to force-feed her myself.
Let’s hope it never comes to that.
For both our sakes.
CHAPTER 3
DELILAH
When he leaves, I can breathe again. I’m grateful for the food, but not, it seems, for the company. He terrifies me.
The minute he slams the door behind him, I fall on my plate like an animal devouring its hard-earned kill. Despite the chef, the food is outstanding and definitely what the doctor ordered. I appear to be famished, and my eyes smart with bitter tears when I reflect on the food I’ve eaten until now.
Angela Constable was a hard mistress to please. She took pleasure in making life painful. Food was another way she controlled me.
If she was displeased, not with me but with any part of her day, she took pleasure in punishing me for that. I ate the bare minimum to stay alive.
Bread, stale leftovers from her plate, food past its use-by date, and scraps from the trash.
Sometimes she made me eat from a bowl on the floor, my hands tied behind my back, lapping at my food like a dog. All the time she taunted me with cruel insults and the occasional kick from her shoe.
It was hell, and death on that altar was a path out of misery, and I welcomed it.
Now I’m grateful I was spared, at least I think I am.
The sound of an ax splintering wood outside is reassuring because it means that Blade is occupied. It gives me some time alone, and as I glance around the small cabin; I wonder why we are here.
When he rescued me along with his club, I overheard someone mentioning I would leave with them. I would be safe back at the compound—whatever that is. But then it changed. They took me to the hospital to get checked over and rather than leave with the rest of them, I was offered a space on the back of Blade’s motorbike.
I didn’t question it. I am too well-trained to question anyone pulling my strings and just accepted this was how it would be.
But I’m curious.
I don’t want to ask him though. I don’t want to talk, and I certainly don’t want to look at him because it turns out I am terrified of him.
He is rough, inhuman even, and the biggest person I have ever met. He is a warrior; it’s obvious from his cold stare and calloused hands. The scar on his face testament to a battle that I doubt the other person survived. I must protect myself at all costs, and I have a premonition that this man will be trouble.
