Page 33 of Ryder

For more reasons than not, it paid to know people in law enforcement. The Knights had certainly taken advantage of the information we’d obtained, giving us the edge we needed, whether it was locations for drops or addresses for people we needed to pay a visit to. Granted, we didn’t bother with such leads anymore, not since the club cut ties with the cartel, getting out of the drug trade a while back. But I’d called in a favor, and it was because of that favor that I was on my way to Roseburg, Oregon.

I’d had the information for two months but only now decided to act on it. The first night I received the news, I had my first nightmare. How convenient, right?

The mind was a strange thing. No matter how much I tried to suppress the memories, they still bled out, finding a way to terrorize me all over again as soon as I closed my eyes.

Close to eight hours later, I was finally creeping up to my destination, the address scribbled on the piece of paper held in the palm of my hand as I pulled off to the side of the road. The house in question was two blocks away, and since I needed the element of surprise, I made sure to hide my bike between two large SUVs.

I wasted no time advancing with purpose, darkness settling in, the low dim of the streetlights barely illuminating the sidewalks. The area was residential, and while the homes had seen better days, it certainly wasn’t the worst place I’d seen.

The building in question had faded green siding with dingy white shutters. A few cracked steps led to a small porch. Normally I was heavy-footed, especially with the shit-kickin’ boots I had on, but I tried to tread lightly. The creaky floorboards weren’t so forgiving, however.

I heard the click of a recliner’s footrest going back into place. I waited several seconds while the footsteps trudged across the floor. Blowing out a rushed breath, I widened my stance and opened the screen door.

“Is someone there?” I heard a man croak out, walking the final steps until the large wooden door slowly opened. “Can I help you?” He opened the door wider, leaning forward so he could see me better.

Standing on his doorstep with the intention of finally ridding myself of the guilt and fear that had stolen my peace my entire life, I was surprised when a pair of dark brown eyes looked back at me. This wasn’t the man I remembered. Not at all. The man standing before me was old, possibly in his early seventies. Feeble. Gone was his intimidating presence, the power he had wielded over me years before. His hair was closely cropped to his head and stark white. Deep lines etched his face, the evidence of a hard life of abuses.

The years had certainly not been a friend to him, weakening his muscles and aging his body faster than I thought possible. But then again, it had been decades—although for me it felt like months, days even.

It was him, though. There was no doubt about that.

I wasn’t sure how I was gonna feel as soon as I saw him again. In truth, fear was a strong assumption, but then I had to remind myself that I wasn’t scared or weak any longer.

Instead, anger and hatred mixed together to form the perfect cocktail as soon as my eyes landed on my mark.

“What do you want?” The longer I stood there in silence, the more uncomfortable he seemed to become. I couldn’t blame him, though. He wasn’t blind. He knew I meant him harm, as was evident when he took a quick step back and tried to slam the door in my face.

“I don’t think so,” I finally said, pushing until he stumbled back and almost fell over. Entering his house, I kicked the door shut behind me, making sure to lock it so we wouldn’t be interrupted.

“I don’t have any money.” He held his hands up in front of him as if he was surrendering. Little did he know he’d be doing that for real very soon.

“I don’t want your money.”

“What do you want, then?” He looked petrified, and I reveled in his fear, the adrenaline coursing through me thick and hot.

“Your life.”

Ryder

Time slowed.

My eyes bored into his, waiting for the moment when he realized the only thing I wanted to rob from him was the beat of his heart.

“Oh my God,” he gasped. “Roman.”

The evilest grin spread across my face before I gripped his throat and shoved him backward. To say I was surprised he’d recognized me was an understatement; the last time he saw me I was only seven years old. But maybe since he knew exactly who I was, he’d realize that I would be the last person he saw before he drew his final breath.

Clawing at my hand, he struggled to walk while trying to dislodge my hold. I slammed him against the wall, tightening my grip until his eyes started to pop out of his head. His hands finally fell to his sides and he was seconds from passing out when I withdrew and put some distance between us.

“Please” was all he said while his body revolted against the air rushing into his body. He rubbed at his throat, glancing at me every few seconds as if he was planning some sort of defense in case I made any sudden movements.

Still choosing to remain silent, an unnerving tactic I’d learned a long time ago, I pulled my gun from my waistband and placed it on the arm of the chair. I removed my cut and set it next to my weapon.

“What are you gonna do?” he asked, slowly moving to the side because I had him caged in. “Listen, I’m sorry. I wasn’t in my right mind back then. The booze . . . the drugs . . . made me . . . different.”

With one stride forward we were chest to chest again, his frail body racked with fear while I stood tall and fierce. The roles were certainly reversed, and I was gonna take full advantage.

I shut my mind off, blocking the memories until he started talking again.

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