Total pages in book: 154
Estimated words: 148220 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 741(@200wpm)___ 593(@250wpm)___ 494(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 148220 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 741(@200wpm)___ 593(@250wpm)___ 494(@300wpm)
And won’t be a bit sorry. The Devil’s Hangmen were bad fucking news the second they moved into the next county and began running meth and girls and guns. The drugs and weapons, I don’t really give a shit about.
But those girls. I’ve seen how some of them ended up.
So I’m looking forward to this.
Crash nods, his face all business. “Who’s the other one?”
“Pretty sure he was named the Hangmen’s enforcer after Blowback got rid of the first two.”
Got rid of. As in, tiny pieces buried all around central Oregon.
“So I’m up against a third-stringer? Fuck me. I’ll take yours, instead.”
“Over my fucking corpse.” It comes out lightly, but I mean it. The third-stringer helped snatch Zoomie, but Sherlock gave that order and took the lead. So the only people I’d step aside for are Zoomie herself, or the Hellfire Riders’ prez. “Our girl wasn’t wearing a Bedlam Butchers vest when he took her.”
“Goddammit.” Because Crash knows he can’t claim any right to Sherlock over me—though he’s not really trying to, either. With his balance shot and his wonky right eye, even a third-stringer might give him some trouble. But we both know that, so neither of us is going to bring it up. “All right. Only because yours looks as if one hard smack will turn on the waterworks.”
Maybe. Sherlock’s daddy was prez of the Hangmen’s mother chapter in Vegas. So it might be that he was coddled his whole life and always got the smooth ride, but believed it was his own steel balls and badass attitude that got him where he was going. I’ve seen plenty of boys in boot camp break like that. Men who thought they were tough, but learned that they’d just always had it easy. Then they cried like babies.
Sherlock doesn’t cry. As soon as that bell rings, he begins putting up a decent fight. Taking a few hits. Then getting a few in while I take his measure. He’s all right. Strong, fast. But I outclass him by a fucking mile—and given the rage building in me ever since I saw Anna’s bloodied face, I’d have loved to take the full fifteen minutes to beat the shit out of him.
But I’m not the only one here. And Crash isn’t fighting at one hundred percent.
So I’ll finish this quick. But not before I tell Sherlock, “Remember when Zoomie beat the holy fuck out of your first prez? That should have warned you. But you had to go and touch her anyway. And that makes you one stupid piece of shit.”
A dead piece of shit. Face red, he lunges at me. I snap his neck and drop him like the trash he is.
Crash has got the other Hangman backed up into a corner. Even with his balance fucked and his vision half gone, the brother’s holding his own. All the money that Uncle Sam put into training him didn’t go to waste.
“Need a hand?” I call out.
He grunts. “Fuck off.”
I glance at the clock. Thirteen minutes and twenty-five seconds left. Outside the Cage, Handlebar appears more at ease. Though it’s not over yet, the quick look he gives me says it all. He knows I’ve got Crash’s back. That makes all the difference.
And a little ragging isn’t amiss. “You’re about to hit two minutes on a third-stringer! Maybe spend a little less time choking your dick and more time choking the dickhead?”
Nah, not choking. Crash is like me. He’ll go for quick and clean.
And he does. Neck snapped. Done.
Though the chainlink, I see Cherry on the bench, looking like a sweet mix of one scoop sickened and two scoops relieved. She meets my eyes and gives me a sad little thumbs up, then her worried gaze is all over Crash—maybe afraid the hits he took rattled his head.
But he seems steady when he turns. “All right?” I ask him.
“Peachy keen.”
He raises his fist and I bump mine against it. This one, we can call a win. Every other fight in the Cage was some sick shit. But not this. This is what I should be doing. Taking care of the Hellfire Riders’ business. For the first time in days, the rot isn’t eating at me. And I feel all right. Because I got shit done.
Now to get even more shit done. Like killing that sick fucker Tusk. And burning this place to the ground.
“You gonna unlock this before Christmas, or are you waiting for Santa to bring you a brain first?” Crash says to the guard standing outside the Cage’s entrance.
The guard darts an uneasy look over to Victor, who’s wearing a flat stare and regarding us with his arms crossed over his chest.
Bluntly he says, “You aren’t done.”
“Yeah, we are.” Crash glances over at the two bodies, then at me. “They look pretty fucking dead to you?”