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“She’s a mouthy cunt. I want the one with white hair. Heard she’s submissive,” another added.
“Stick to the plan. We kill that big fucker’s bitch first, then we take all the cunts we want back home. They give us problems we slit their throats and leave them as roadkill,” the angry one said.
“I’m telling you, Zane. Someone’s watching us.”
The angry one didn’t hesitate before he pulled his gun and shot the kid dead.
Brothers chuckled.
“Fucking annoying brat. Been wanting to do that since we left home.”
I moved, intentionally stepping on a twig.
The Satan’s Angels stopped laughing.
“Zane?”
“I heard,” the fucker growled, slowly getting to his feet.
The tranquility of the wilderness turned haunting as the leaves rustled through the trees, carried by a low, howling wind. The whisper of death echoed all around as my shadow moved quickly through the trees.
“What was that?” another whispered as birds flapped their wings, taking flight.
The forest was silent.
The only sound was the men’s heavy breathing as they fired randomly into the darkness.
I could see their faces clearly.
They knew they were about to die.
They picked the wrong playground.
The wilderness was my domain.
Running towards them, I moved fast, snapping a man’s neck as I reached for my knife, then throwing it at another. The man gurgled, grasping his throat, trying desperately to stop the blood flow. Turning swiftly, my hand shot out, sinking another knife into his eye-socket before he could even cry out.
Ripping the knife from his face, I leaped onto the next one, attacking him from behind, slicing my way up his spine.
The one named Zane froze as his gun clicked furiously at me as I slowly approached him. He shook in fear, stumbling back. His pants were wet with piss as I came into view.
The last thing to leave his lips was his screams right before I tore him apart with my bare hands.
Chapter Twenty-Five
Bullseye
“He should have been here by now,” I said worried, as I looked around our former home. We arrived almost two weeks ago. We knew Sandman was crisscrossing his way across the states, staying under the radar as he avoided Satan’s Angels. Before we left Tennessee, we sent out distress calls to several clubs.
While some responded, several didn’t.
Which worried me.
We had heard through the grapevine that Sandman had a few close calls but got away. He was quickly running out of time. Satan’s Angels had mobilized. They knew he was running. It was only a matter of time before they got their hands on him.
Still, he should have arrived here by now.
Something was wrong.
