Page 17 of Savage Warrior

Rome

It’s been two days since Moses’ funeral. I’ve managed not to attack anyone in that time, mainly by hiding in my apartment at the mansion. If I don’t see anyone, then no one can piss me off enough to collect a punch to the gut. Right?

Wrong.

Forced out by hunger, I prowl down to the kitchen in search of sustenance. I help myself from the fridge and I’m gnawing through a chunky cheese sandwich when Tony and Jack stroll in. They both send me a passing nod by way of acknowledgement, then proceed to fill up the coffee maker.

“Can we tempt you?” Tony waggles an empty mug at me.

“Nope.” I don’t even look up. I’m a surly bastard, I know that, but they’re supposed to be giving me space.

“How’s it going, bro?” Jack plants himself opposite me and rips open a packet of chocolate biscuits.

He takes one, then nudges the packet towards me.

I shake my head and get up to leave. I’ve had enough company to last me a while.

“Prayer meeting in ten,” Jack calls after me as I make for the door.

“What?” A prayer meeting is what we call our regular briefings with Ethan and the men stationed on Caraksay. Ethan is a great fan of communications and keeping everyone informed. Usually, I’d be fine with that, but today I’m just not in the mood. “Count me out,” I mutter and resume my escape.

“No can do,” Jack yells to my retreating back. “The boss said if you’re still hanging around here you need to get your arse in gear and make yourself useful. He expects to see you there.”

He doesn’t mean literally. The briefing will be online, so all I need to do is get in front of a screen, but even that’s too much fucking trouble right now.

“Like I said, count me out.” I offer him my middle finger for good measure.

An hour later, I’m lounging on my bed feeling sorry for myself and getting slaughtered at God of War. My PC is a mean bastard of an opponent. The door opens, and Jack marches in. He dumps a set of car keys on my chest.

“Get up, get dressed, and get out.” He flings my wardrobe open and drags out three pairs of jeans. “I’ll help you pack.”

“What the fuck are you doing?” I demand.

“Boss’s orders,” he hurls over his shoulder, at the same time bundling an armful of shirts into a holdall.

“What fucking orders?” I roll off the mattress and grab the jeans to throw them back in the wardrobe. “Get your hands off my kit.”

“You’re going to commune with nature or some such shit. Boss thinks it’ll be good for you. Good for the rest of us, certainly. We’re fed up of your pity party.”

“I’m going nowhere,” I protest. “Fuck off and leave me alone.”

“Not happening.” He retrieves the jeans and dumps them in the holdall, too. “Tony’s loading up one of the Land Rovers with supplies. I told him to make it at least six months’ worth.”

“Get out while you still can,” I snarl.

Jack Morgan is about the same height and weight as I am, but he’s deadly as a cobra. Going up against him would signify some sort of death wish, but I’m past caring. When he ignores me and carries on stuffing my clothes into a bag, I lose it and lunge for him.

The battle is swift and decisive. In a matter of moments, I’m on my back with his knife at my neck. He grins down at me and gives my cheek a taunting tap with the palm of his hand.

“Seriously, bro? You need to stop this shit before you pick on someone who doesn’t love you as much as I do.” He re-sheathes the knife then gets to his feet and offers me his hand to help me up.

Grudgingly, I accept his assistance. He’s my boss, my senior in our organisation. I was out of line throwing a punch at him but I’m too fucking wound up to want to accept that yet. Still, I mutter what will have to pass for an apology, at least for now.

“Help me get your stuff together,” he replies, unperturbed by my attack. “You need to be off if you’re to get there before nightfall.”

“I’m not scared of the fucking dark.”

He shrugs. “If you say so. Still, it’d be best if you can see the wolves coming. And I just checked the weather forecast. It’s not great.”

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