But like he said, later.
It does the trick though. Guards stream from the house, and we pick them off as we advance down the driveway, me behind a line of men, playing it smart. The front door is open, the blood of the now deceased guards lining the steps as we head into the hallway. I take a quick glance around. It’s a nice house, all white walls and marble floors, with a grand staircase on the left, art on the walls, and big, decorative chandeliers. It screams money, and you can see the Asian accents dotted around here and there. It really is beautiful, what a shame.
I wait for the guys to break up, and Ryder looks back at me and nods. I press my bat to my shoulder, holding my gun in my other hand as I suck in a deep breath, and as the bullets fly, I run to the stairs. I have no time to waste, they could kill him if they hear us coming. I can’t let that happen, they are all expecting it from me, he’s expecting it.
They only die if I kill them.
I take the stairs two at a time, ducking when an explosion goes off, until I’m standing on the landing. It opens into a living room, and there is only one hallway off of it. He has to be down there. Hurrying across the living room, I press against the wall as a shot comes from the hallway, aimed right at me. Fucking bastard.
Gripping my gun, I duck around the corner and fire. I hear someone cry out, but the hallway is almost too dark to see down. Rushing down it, I almost stumble over the man clutching his arm. Taking him by surprise, I swing the bat, bringing it down on his leg. I hear the crunch as it gives in, so I swing back again, hitting it from the other direction, and he crumples to the floor, his leg bent in two places. He’s passed out, but I can’t let him sneak up on me, so I grab his gun and shoot him before moving on.
Come on, Garrett, where the fuck are you?
The gun fire from below seems to get quieter and quieter the longer I wind down the hallway until I’m alone. Fuck, when this is through, I need to go on a vacation and ride lots of dick…and have orgasms. Lots and a lots of orgasms.
I want to feel like I’m dying from them. Stupid Vipers and their stupid enemies getting in the way of my dick plans. There’s a door to the left and, remembering what I saw in films, I put my back to the wall and hum the Mission: Impossible theme song. I swing it open and jump in. It’s empty, and it feels kinda anticlimactic, but I slip out and to the next door. There are only three. This one opens into an empty bathroom, so I suck in a breath and approach the one at the end.
This has to be it.
Is he behind this door? Fuck, let him be okay. I ain’t the praying type, but right now, I’m praying to anyone who will listen, God and Satan, ’cause let’s face it, if anyone is gonna have our backs, it’s probably my dude Satan.
Reaching out, I grab the silver handle and steady myself for whatever I might find on the other side. When I swing it open, I have a split second to take in the room, and when I do, my anger surges through me again.
This fucking bitch.
She is poised over him, straddling his lap, his body bare and covered in blood from various wounds. His hands and feet are chained, and she has a knife aimed at his slick, bloody chest.
His face is twisted in a terrified snarl, his eyes wild and wide. I can feel his anger, pain, and terror from here, and see the ghosts circling him. In that split second, I hate her more than I have ever hated anyone.
Not because he used to love her and she betrayed him, but because of the pain I know he will have to live with again after this. The hate fills me, my movements jerky, and I must make a noise because she starts to turn towards me.
I’ve never wanted to hurt someone so much before, to feel them bleed, to hear their screams and know they are suffering as much as they made him. But for her, it’s an expectation. I get it now. Why Diesel does it, why Garrett fights. I need that too.
I need this bitch to suffer.
Striding across the room as her head lifts, I watch as her eyes widen and her mouth drops open. I swing my bat, gaining momentum until I’m next to her, and then I smash it across her face.
She flies from the bed, and I scramble after her, landing above her on the carpet. She screams, grabbing for her fallen knife, and I drop the bat, smashing my fists into her face again and again.
“He’s fucking mine, you cock sucking, son of a bitch, psychotic cunt.” I can hear words leaving my mouth, but all I see is the horror and pain twisting Garrett’s face, the knife covered in his blood, the grin on her lips.
Blood bubbles from her lips as she gasps and struggles beneath me. “Wait!” she calls, her voice choked, but I can’t hear her. All I see is the blood on her, Garrett’s blood. More words tumble from my lips as I smash my fists into her face over and over. I feel my knuckles crack, my own blood joining hers and Garrett’s, but the pain of it only adds to my hate.
I can’t stop.
Her nose breaks, the sound loud, and her lips burst like ripe fruit. Her head thrashes from side to side with my blows. Her face is caving in, her eye dulling as I kill her. It’s still not enough, it will never be enough. When I physically can’t hit anymore, I drop my hands to her chest, panting heavily and looking at the bloody pulp which was once a woman.
My own hands are slick with her blood, and I know some is Garrett’s. With a pained scream, I bring my fist back and smash it into her face again, my arms sore and aching like I’m lifting weights.
Breathing rapidly, I fall to the side and crawl along the floor to the bed before I stumble back to my feet. Ignoring her unmoving, bloody body, I rush over to Garrett, who is thrashing and yelling in the chains. His eyes are wild, his chest heaving, his blood covering the bed.
He can’t see me.
He’s seeing her, lost in his own memories and panic. Fuck.
But I have to try, I have to get him to see me, so I climb up next to him and yank on the chains, trying to free him, knowing better than to touch him right now, but she must have the key. He stops moving, and I look down into those eyes, those damaged, pained eyes, and I can’t help it. Tears slip down my cheeks as I cup his face with blood-stained hands. “I’m here, big guy, she can’t hurt you again,” I whisper, before choking on a sob. I slide my hands back into the chains, slipping with my blood-covered, clumsy fingers, but I manage to finally undo one.
It was a mistake.
I don’t see him coming, and he doesn’t see me—no, he sees her. His hand darts out and circles my throat, squeezing hard, cutting off my air supply. My eyes widen as my hand comes up to claw at his before I stop myself, that won’t help. Instead, I relax into his touch, even as my lungs scream for air.