Page 11 of Mercenary's Redemption

Part of me wants to lash out, to start throwing punches and smashing anything within reach until this scalding wrath burning through my veins is extinguished. It's been years since I truly unleashed the mercenary lurking inside, and the beast is howling to be set free.

I should warn the girl to get the hell out before I completely lose my grip on control. Open my mouth to snarl at her to run while she still can...

But then her soft, gentle voice cuts through the storm raging within me.

"Chance...I...I had no idea. I'm so sorry for judging you."

Her delicate hands are on me once more, tenderly cleaning away the fresh streams of blood from my re-opened wounds. Somehow, her soothing touch is like a balm against the fires of my rage, slowly cooling their scorching heat.

Drawing in a ragged breath, I force myself to meet her gaze, to focus on those caring eyes instead of the burning hatred and resentment swirling inside.

"Life just ain't fair to anybody," I rasp out hoarsely. “I have to accept that early on and move ahead, one way or another."

She holds my stare for a long moment before murmuring, "Is that why you joined up with a... motorcycle club?" A frown creases her brow. "Not that I think hurting innocent people is right, no matter how unfair the world's been..."

I can't help but throw my head back with a harsh bark of laughter at that, the unexpected sound making her flinch. Me, hurting innocent folks? Shows what she really thinks of me under that sweet, unassuming facade.

"If that's how you see me from the outside, then I can't blame you," I admit with a rueful shake of my head. “I'm the big, bad Mercenary who bulldozes over anything in his path, no mercy given, right?"

I'm about to try and set her straight, to explain that I only dish out pain to those who've got it coming their way. But the distant rumble of a motorcycle engine cuts me off, rapidly growing louder until it's idling right outside.

Instantly, I'm on high alert once more, body tense and primed for another attack. Jabbing one finger toward the metal door of the supply closet, I bark out,

"Get in there and hide, now!"

Holly's eyes go wide with fear, but she doesn't argue, already scrambling to obey. Before ducking inside though, she pauses, throwing a worried glance my way.

"What about you?"

Meeting her gaze, I do my best to gentle my own.

"Just get in and cover your ears. Trust me on this."

Holly hesitates, worry etched into her delicate features, "Are you sure?"

I grit my teeth, forcing myself to raise my voice and sound harsher than I intend.

"Just go! I need to handle this alone. I can't be worrying about keeping you safe, too!"

It's a lie - I want nothing more than to tuck her someplace secure so I can let the beast off its leash without holding back. Truthfully, I'm almost giddy at the thought of having a deserving target to unload all this pent-up rage and hatred upon.

But I don't want her to see that side of me, not with her own eyes...not yet.

Seeming to understand I won't be swayed, Holly finally nods jerkily and scrambles through the metal door, pulling it shut behind her.

As soon as she's out of sight, I roll my shoulders and crack my neck, psyching myself up like a prize fighter before an important fight. Whoever is foolish enough to come slinking back here better be ready for one hell of a fight.

Silently, I slink around the bar, keeping low behind the door, as I listen to the cautious footsteps slowly approaching the entrance. Someone wanting to scout the place first before barging in, smart but not smart enough.

When the front door finally creaks open, I tense, coiled like a cobra about to strike. A scrawny, weasel-like figure in a battered biker jacket slinks inside, knife gleaming in his hand. One of those Outlaw bastards, no doubt here to finish the job his buddies started.

I don't give him a chance. The second his back is turned, I explode into motion, launching myself at him like a missile. My powerful body slams into his, using every ounce of momentum to drive him backward.

The knife clatters uselessly to the floor as the skinny punk crashes back-first over an overturned table, arms flailing. Landing in a crouch, I snatch up a chair and bring it crashing down on top of him with a savage roar.

Wood splinters and the man howls in pain, a cry abruptly cut off by my fist smashing into his face with bone-jarring force. I'm everywhere at once, a whirling tempest of knuckles and boots and pure, unbridled violence.

Just like with my training all those years back in the military, I slip into that cold, detached state of mind. My focus narrows down to the threat in front of me, the rest of the world fading out as each thunderous blow I land releases more of the pent-up wrath and anguish.

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