Total pages in book: 92
Estimated words: 88215 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 441(@200wpm)___ 353(@250wpm)___ 294(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 88215 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 441(@200wpm)___ 353(@250wpm)___ 294(@300wpm)
“Why the fuck would she do this?”
“She went in so you wouldn’t. She didn’t want anyone to die when…”
Holy fuck. Frankie sacrificed herself….for me.
I get off Rage who sits up and passes me a tablet. “I inserted one of those thingies into her skin behind her ear before she went in. She’s in the far east side of the building. “Here,” Rage says, pointing to a blinking red light on the screen.
“Come on, then. You two can talk this out later,” Bear says. “We need to figure out how we’re…”
I make a run for my bike.
“What are you doing?” Preppy shouts above my revving engine.
I look out at the warehouse below. “I’m going in!”
“We’ll cover you!” he shouts, his words lost to the wind as I take off down the hill.
King was right. I’ll shed the blood of every fucking man who gets in the way of my saving Frankie. There’s no one I won’t kill.
I’ll burn the fucking world down for her and bask in the motherfucking flames.
Chapter Fifty-Six
I’m in so much pain. My shirt is stained red as blood seeps from the bullet wound in my stomach. I clutch my hands over it, but there’s no keeping it in; it pours through my fingers and drips onto the concrete floor.
I’m light-headed. Everything around me seems to slow down.
An explosion sounds in the distance like far off cannon fire. The walls shake and dust falls from the rafters to the floor.
Wood and concrete is falling all around me. Griff’s men are running, but I can’t run with them. I can’t even move.
Griff is shouting orders. A large metal panel falls on top of the man he’s shouting at so he turns to the next one. I throw away paint brushes that have lost most of their bristles less flippantly.
The wall explodes, the garage door caves in. A huge black motorcycle appears from nowhere, airborne, its tires spinning against the air, crashing down onto the ground.
Smoke.
Tears of relief spring to my eyes followed by a pit of horror burning a hole in my stomach. He can’t put himself at risk like this. Not for me. He has too much on the line now, and there’s too many of them.
“No! Go back!” I shout, but there’s no way he can hear me over the roar of the engine echoing through the large open space.
The bike lurches onto its side, but Smoke stays upright, stepping out from the spinning pile of metal like he’s stepping over a puddle in the street. He heads straight for the two men guarding me. There’s a look in his eyes.
Determination.
He’s hyper-focused. I realize it didn’t matter if he heard me tell him to go back or not. He’s beyond hearing right now. Beyond thought. He’s somewhere I can’t reach him.
No one can.
Smoke’s movements are fluid. Downright graceful. He’s wearing black fingerless gloves and his cut, with nothing on underneath except his colorful tattooed skin and lean ripped muscle.
The bike careens into the wall in an explosion of fire yet Smoke doesn’t so much as flinch as he’s backlit in flames.
Griff’s two men stare, slack-jawed, for a beat too long when the realization hits. They both raise their guns at Smoke. I want to scream I want to jump in front of the bullets, but sharp pain meets my every move, rendering me useless.
Smoke’s fingers flex at his side. His nostrils flare. He stares down the men holding their guns on him like he has all the time in the world. The men fire, but Smoke continues to advance on them, side-stepping the bullets.
“Shit,” the shorter of the two men curses while reloading his gun with trembling hands. The other does the same, but it’s too late for them. Much too fucking late.
Smoke crisscrosses his arms over his torso, reaching under his cut, each hand emerges holding a large metal gun boasting long wide barrels. He’s eerily calm as he stretches out his arms in front of him and fires a single bullet from each gun into their heads. Just as they fall lifeless to the ground, more men appear on opposite sides of the room. Smoke lifts his arms out to his sides and fires. When a bullet misses his head by only a few inches, he turns his gun behind him and fires, hitting the man without so much as a glance in his direction.
This isn’t Smoke the kidnapper or Smoke the killer or even Smoke the lover. No, this is Smoke, the man. The rescuer. This was Smoke with someone and something to live for.
It was both terrifying and thrilling all at once.
Despite what has transpired between us, this beautifully brutal man came here and put his life on the line to save me.
A bullet pierces Smoke’s shoulder. Streams of bright red drip down his arm to his wrist, seeping into my shirt as he bends to gather me into his arms. He places a heavy gun between my bound hands