Page 50 of Avenging Devil: Part 2

I roll to my back, propped on my elbows with my head raised, and look in disbelief as all four corners of the clubhouse start to drop away. As I stare, flames start to lick on one side. I can’t see the front of the clubhouse from here, but as increasing levels of shouts come to my ears, as well as rapid gunfire, I see men run and fall to the ground.

My God! There are loads of men swarming the clubhouse. The way they’re moving is different to the more familiar style of the Wolves. They’re far more competent and organised.

It looks like war’s broken out, and the attackers are not on the side of the bikers I hate.

I must be a bad person as I inwardly cheer at every Wolf I see go down. Then my instinct of self-preservation sees those flames getting higher. Every Wolf in the clubhouse is going to come running out soon. If I’m going to take my chance, I’ve got to go now while I still can. And risk the dogs bringing their prey down.

Dubiously, I eye Fang and K-9, then take a gulp. “Come on, boys.”

I get to my feet and launch myself forward, this time taking more care where I run, seeking out holes and obstacles that could trip me, not wanting to injure my ankle again. As the tree line comes closer, I’m aware of the dogs galloping next to me, thoroughly enjoying this new game. Then in the periphery of my vision, I see a couple of men running parallel to me. But when I falter, they wave their arms, encouraging me on. They’re not Wolves, so I follow their lead.

A man who’s limping heavily emerges from the treeline in front. In a lopsided run-jog, he comes to greet me.

I stop, my hands signalling Fang and K-9 to stand down, just as I’d seen the men do. To my joy, they obey me, but low rumbles come from their throats, as if waiting for the attack signal from me.

Friend or foe? Is it a case of out of the frying pan into the fire?

I’m shaking, hyped up on adrenaline, my vision blurry with tears, but whether they’re of joy, freedom being so close, or fear of what else might happen to me, or worry about Niran, it’s hard to tell.

Blinking rapidly, my vision clears. When I get a glance of the man who’s approaching me, limping heavily, I have my answer. I recognise him, recognise that smile, can read the words of encouragement on his lips and as I draw close enough, despite that he’s a biker, despite that he’s a sergeant-at-arms, I throw myself at him.

Grumbler’s arms tighten around me. “You’re safe now, Saffie. I got you. You’re safe, you hear me?”

I can’t help the wave of relief that goes through me, but it’s tempered by the shudder that follows. “Grumbler, they’ve got Niran.”

“Not for fuckin’ long,” he growls. His sound is mimicked by two canine versions, which draw his attention. I feel him tense as he asks, “Can you get those fuckin’ dogs to stand down?”

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