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)
Hatchet lets go of the body and heads for the Cage’s door, spitting more blood. The masked emcee starts jabbering away as a couple of guards drag the dead fighter out and toss him into the corner of the warehouse.
Cherry gets to her feet—then stops when Hatchet snarls at her, “Back off, female. Just get me a towel.”
The guards do that. She sits again, spine straight, chin high. Then her head whips around when I ask her, “Did you dangle bait for that neo-Nazi trash, too? Maybe flash him your pussy while telling him how much you admire Hitler?”
She looks horrified—then pissed. “No!” she snaps. “I didn’t.”
I laugh. Because that’s fucking rich. She’s angry now? “Do you ever feel even a little guilt over what happens to the men you lure here?”
For a moment, she stares at me like I’ve slapped her, her emerald eyes big and wounded. And…fuck. I can’t stand the sight of her. But that sick rot inside me burns and aches when she looks at me like that.
But those big, haunted eyes fooled me once. Never again.
Harshly I tell her, “You fucking owe me. And one day, I’ll collect.”
Her chest heaves as she stares back at me. Her soft lips tremble before she firms them again—and nods.
Then she turns away from me, scooting closer to Crash. I don’t like that any better.
Don’t want her near me. Don’t want her anywhere else.
Flack is up next. Sitting beside Crash, Cherry appears so damn tiny. They’re whispering together while the emcee does his thing. A word here and there reaches me. Something about chocolate candy and the control booth. And something that makes Crash silently laugh so hard the entire bench shakes. He gives her a thumbs-up, then the bell rings and they go quiet.
Flack loses after a long, bloody battle. From one of the other benches comes the sound of puking. Jeers follow. But probably every fighter over there is grateful for that vomit because it gives them something to look at besides the broken body in the Cage. He’s dragged out and tossed on top of the other corpse. Like they’re nothing but pieces of dog shit.
Then the guards begin to unchain Handlebar. Fuck. Tension sews steel wires through the muscles of my back.
I glance over at Crash. The big man’s jaw is locked, eyes fixed on his partner—his hand crushing Cherry’s. She doesn’t make a sound, but the pointed heel of her left shoe twists against the floor, like she’s trying to bear the pain of that tight grip by stabbing the concrete.
“Ease up, brother.”
Crash scowls at me, eyes blazing, then seems to realize what he’s doing to her fingers. His hold lets up and she pats his hand like it’s all right. Trying to make this easier for him.
Nothing will make it easy. Not a soft hand, not a single word. Still I tell him, “He’s got this.”
“Yeah, he does,” Crash agrees, then lifts his chin in an encouraging nod when Handlebar glances back at him through the chain link fence.
Handlebar will get through this. He’s got fists like sledgehammers.
Knowing that doesn’t make it any easier to watch him walk into the Cage. Never has been easy, no matter how many times I’ve seen a brother walk into a situation that might get him killed, and I’ve got no way to help him. In the Marines, it happened all the goddamn time. As a Hellfire Rider, not so often, because I’m usually right there in the fray—but often enough that I never lost the taste of hating it.
I barely look at the other guy beyond sizing him up and getting a sense of his fighting style. Trying to see him as a person will just fuck a man up. I’ve killed a lot of people in my time. But I don’t regret any of them. Either they were a danger to the country I’d sworn to protect or a danger to the people I care about, which made them the bad guys.
The guy in the Cage with Handlebar, though…I’ve got no issue with him. Handlebar likely doesn’t, either. Fuck, maybe the guy’s the same as Handlebar or me—maybe with a partner on one of the other benches, or a sister at home who’ll be raped if he doesn’t fight.
Can’t think of that. Can’t think about how Handlebar’s opponent has been given no real choice. The guy’s trying to kill a brother. So he has to be the one who dies.
But there’s nothing good about it when Handlebar wins. Except that my brother’s still alive. That is a thing to celebrate. There’s nothing but relief in me when he snaps that neck.
This whole goddamn situation, though—it’s just sick, sick shit. All my life, there’s been lines I don’t cross. Don’t hurt kids, women, animals. Don’t hurt anyone who hasn’t threatened me or mine. Only go after the bad guys.