Page 82 of Wicked Spite
I’m gripping the steering wheel like it’s the only thing keeping me from flying apart at the seams. The leather groans as if it’s a living thing capable of pain. The world outside blurs into a chaotic mess of speeding cars and honking horns, but all I see is Reagan—Reagan leaving me, Reagan in danger, Reagan needing me. My mind’s full of scenarios that always end with someone dead.
“Fuck,” I mutter under my breath, pushing the gas pedal down harder. The truck roars in response, eating up the distance faster than I can think.
“Shit Penn, her location’s moving,” Ramsey says, his voice tight with urgency. He’s hunched over his laptop in his hands, fingers flying across the screen. “She’s not at Wellington anymore.”
“Goddammit,” I snap, my heart pounding like a sledgehammer in my chest. “Sync that fucking tracker to the nav system. Now.”
“Already on it. I have to backdoor my own code,” he replies, not missing a beat. Ramsey’s alwayshad this annoying way of staying cool under pressure, like he’s got ice in his veins. But right now, I need him to be as desperate as I am.
“Come on, come on,” I hiss, eyes darting between the road and the GPS that doesn’t fucking have my wife’s location on it yet. Every second feels like a lifetime. Images of Reagan flash through my mind. It’s enough to make my blood boil.
“Fucking got it,” Ramsey says, tapping the screen one last time. The truck’s GPS system chirps to life, and a red dot appears on the map, shifting away from Wellington Academy.
“Goddamn finally,” I grunt, yanking the wheel to make a sharp turn. Gravel spits out from under the tires, the truck fishtailing for a moment before regaining traction. “I don’t want any more surprises.”
“Yeah, yeah. Like I can control where the fuck your wife is going,” Ramsey mutters, his eyes glued to the screen. “Just don’t crash us before we get there, alright?”
“Shut up and do your job,” I shoot back, but there’s no real heat in it.
The landscape changes as we barrel down unfamiliar streets, closing the distance between us and that damned red dot.
“Penn,” Ramsey’s voice cuts through the silence, softer now, almost hesitant. “We’ll get to her. She’ll be okay.”
“She better be,” I growl, the words more for myself than for him. Because if she’s not…God help anyone who stands in my way.
“Focus,” Ramsey says, a rare note of gentleness in his tone. “You can’t afford to lose it now. Don’t check out. I can’t handle you and help your wife right now.”
We barrel off the main road, gravel crunching loudlybeneath the tires as we speed toward an abandoned airport hangar.
“Almost there,” Ramsey says, his voice barely above a whisper now. “You ready for this?”
“Ready?” The only answer I’ve got is the searing rage that’s taken over every cell in my body. Ready isn’t even the word. I’m beyond that. I’m a goddamn hurricane of anger, and nothing’s gonna stop me. We’re close enough now that I can see them—Reagan on the ground, her face pale, her eyes wide and wild with fear, and some piece of shit crushing her windpipe like he’s got a death wish.
The truck skids to a halt, the smell of burning rubber mingling with the scent of old oil and decay. I barely throw it into park before I’m out of the cab, feet hitting the ground hard, reaching behind my seat for the Glock, but it’s not there. Fuck! My fingers find the tire iron instead. Fine. This’ll do. It’s almost better—it’ll make things up-close and personal.
My switch is flipped. I crack my neck before I feel my mask fade and who I am, who my father took and molded into his perfect son is all that remains. No time to think, no time to plan. Just pure, unfiltered rage.
I launch myself at him, my body moving faster than my mind can keep up with. There’s a primal roar ripping from my throat, a sound I barely recognize as human.
Death.
My boots pound against the gravel as I close the distance faster than I’ve ever moved in my entire life. As I get closer, everything else fades away—the sound of Ramsey’s footsteps behind me, the crunch of gravel, even Reagan’s gasps for air—all gone. All I see is him and her, and all I know is that this guy’s got about two seconds left to live.
I hit him like a freight train; the impact sending us bothsprawling to the ground. The tire iron feels heavy and solid in my hands as I swing it down with every ounce of fury coursing through me. The first hit lands square on his shoulder with a sickening crunch.
Another crunch, this time his ribs—I can feel them give way under the force.
He tries to fight back, but he’s no match for me right now. I’m a goddamn monster. He claws at my face, gets a few hits in—a split lip, maybe a bruised cheek—but it’s nothing compared to what I’m dishing out.
Then I see someone running out of the corner of my eye. Instinct takes over before thought does. “Ramsey! Go after them!”
For a second, everything freezes as Ramsey bolts after the fleeing figure, leaving me alone with Reagan and this scum beneath me who’s barely hanging on.
“How does it feel, huh?” I spit, the tire iron now slick with blood. “You think you can just put your hands on her and walk away?”
The man’s cries turn into desperate gurgles, but I don’t stop. Not until he’s nothing but a broken, dead heap at my feet. Each hit is fueled by a singular thought: protecting Reagan, eliminating any threat to her safety.
“Penn,” her voice is barely above a whisper, raspy like her vocal cords are bruised. “Psycho, stop.”
