This man was obviously insane.
The man who had hit me jerked me away from Big George and put me on his motorcycle in front of him.
He leaned close, “Don’t piss me off. I have no problem feeding you to the crazies.”
“I wanted to ride with her, Bubba.” Big George pouted.
“Too fucking bad. I don’t need you distracted right now.” Bubba told George.
He huffed but didn’t argue further. I, for one, was glad I wasn’t riding with George. I’d take an asshole over a rapist any day.
The men got on their bikes, Beck included.
We peeled out, and I noticed the guy I was riding with, Bubba, was sweating heavily. I could feel the heat coming off him, and every so often, he would shiver slightly, as if he had chills.
Shit. This wasn’t good.
I glanced to the side and saw Beck riding as close as possible, his eyes on the man behind me.
He’d noticed what I had.
Neither of us knew what the hell this was. But what Ididknow was that the first sign of change was flu-like symptoms.
So far, Beck and I seemed okay, but who knew how long that would last. I shook my head. No sense in worrying about that until we found a way to get the hell away from these men.
We rode until the road turned to dirt. The clubhouse squatted at the end of it—low, wide, and built of concrete. Fencing ringed the property, tall and thick, topped with wire that glinted dully in the fading light.
The Beast of Prey patch was painted across the front wall in black and rust-red, wings spread wide, talons outstretched.
They cut the engines, and the silence pressed in hard.
Beck dismounted and started toward me right as Red jerked his arms behind his back and secured them with two zip ties. “Ah, ah, ah, little Reaper. Not quite yet.”
The man I’d ridden with swayed as he grabbed me, his fingers digging in just a little too tightly. “Seems I’m not feeling too well. You'd better stay close.”
He leaned on me heavily as we walked toward the doors.
“I’m going to cut you into little pieces,” Beck mumbled in a voice that was filled with rage as he stared at my swelling face. “You’ll regret ever touching her.”
Red slapped Bubba on the back. “Maybe the Prez will let you fight him after Park takes his shot.”
Big George laughed, “Bubba don’t want none of that.”
“Fuck off,” Bubba squeezed my arm even tighter.
They steered us through heavy steel doors that groaned as they opened. The inside smelled like booze, sweat, and something sour underneath it all. The floor was stained dark in places, with God only knew what.
A few people looked up as we entered. Most were too busy drinking and partying to care.
One man leaned against the far wall, pale and glassy-eyed, knuckles split and bleeding where he’d punched something hard. His gaze slid to Beck and stuck there, lips parting in a gap-toothed smile.
“Well, look who just walked in,” he laughed. “Johnny’s little killer.”
I loved how they kept calling him little. Beck was barely shorter than Big George.
Low laughter echoed through the room.
A man stepped forward, clearly in charge. He was older than the rest of them, the kind of age that didn’t soften but sharpened. Gray threaded through his beard in uneven streaks, thick and kept short. His face was cut from hard angles—scar tissue tugging one side of his mouth down just enough to give his face a permanent frown.
