Page 99 of Hellbent
My vision tunnels.
Scar’s face swims above mine, mouth twisted into a smug, ugly smile—
And then his head snaps sideways.
Spit flies. Blood, too—misting in the air, droplets catching the light of the motion detector above the bar door.
He doesn’t fall. Not right away.
He staggers, blinking, like the world shifted underneath him.
And then drops.
A grunt. The dull crack of bone against pavement.
The weight on my chest disappears.
The big one jerks upright behind me with a roar, his hand flying toward his belt, maybe for a knife or gun—but something hits him before he gets there.
Not a punch.
A wrecking force.
A living weapon.
A body slams into his like a meteor—full speed, zero hesitation—and they crash into the brick wall with a sound like a building coming down.
Boots scrape. Bones jar. Breath is ripped from lungs.
I shove up onto my elbows, dazed, barely breathing, and then I see him.
Ryder charging, the living embodiment of fury. Hair flying like a war banner, eyes unholy with rage.
A Viking. A ghost. A god of war. Every atom of him focused on destruction.
He moves like the laws of nature bend for him. And for a second, I don’t know if I’m breathing.
The alley’s too narrow to hold him. The air is too thin to carry the weight of him.
The big one scrambles to get his knife out and Ryder catches his wrist mid-motion and twists.
Snap.
The scream is sharp and immediate. Then Ryder drives his elbow into the man’s face—once, twice—until he slams backward into the brick wall.
Blood spatters.
Before the man can slide down, Ryder hauls him forward by the collar of his cut and throws him against the wall again. He doesn’t check if he’s breathing. Just lets him fall.
Then he turns.
Scar is on all fours now, trying to crawl away. Ryder moves toward him, lethal and relentless. He kicks him in the ribs, flipping him onto his back, and then dropps over him, one knee on either side, and starts swinging.
One.
Two.
Three.
