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Salvador Russo would suffer before I let him die, and I relished the idea of inflicting pain and chaos upon his vile soul.
“I’ve heard you’re a master of disguise. That you can infiltrate anywhere. A ghost who travels within shadows.”
“The Phantomisa ghost,” I replied. “An insatiable monster focused on revenge.”
If Maddog thought my words strange, he didn’t show it. “Then we’re kindred. My shadow warrior also craves justice.”
Justice? “For?”
“Men who prey on the weak.”
“You said shadow warrior,” I prompted.
“A perfect companion for a phantom.”
“Yes,” I agreed. Did the specifics matter? Not if it brought me closer to my goals.
“The man I need for my Sergeant at Arms.”
“My vengeance comes first,” I snarled, forming a fist over the table’s wooden surface. “There’s evil in this world that has to be destroyed.”
“I see no problem with that. It serves both our goals.”
“So it’s that easy? Patching into the Las Vegas Bastards?”
Maddog snorted. “Not quite. First, we ride. After that, it’s up to the Devil.”
The Devil. Not the man I called pres for the last few years. A distinction that made the skin on the back of neck tingle like a dozen tiny eight-legged freaks were crawling across my nape.
Maddog rose, striding toward the door. He gestured for me to follow with a tick of his chin.
Grim flashed a wicked grin. “Trust your instincts, Manic.”
“And not your eyes,” Devil added.
Well, fuck.
This sounded ominous, menacing, and like a shit ton of trouble. I couldn’t wait.
