Skirt (Ruthless Kings MC #5) - K.L. Savage Page 0,81

before a tornado, and in a hurry he pulls his cell from his inner cut pocket and taps the screen. His lips press into a firm, pissed off line. “That was Braveheart. We have a visitor, Prez. He’s alone.”

“Who is it?” Reaper asks, reaching into his gun holster to pull out a .44 Magnum pistol. The damn barrel seems to be a mile long, and the gun itself looks heavy. He definitely upgraded from his last gun.

Badge’s eyes cloud with rage, and his mouth tenses before he speaks. “Seems to be the Prez of the Hounds. He’s alone.”

I stand and thrust my dog out to Badge. “Hold my fucking Pidoodle.” Badge grabs onto the pup, and I run through the house, slipping my brass knuckles in place as I go. I’m going to kill this sorry excuse of a man. I’m not going to stop until his skull is in pieces and scattered amongst the desert.

“Skirt! Stop. We need to know what he has to say,” Reaper calls the order out from behind me, his tone full of warning, but all it does is push me to keep going. If it means I earn an arrow through the heart on my chest, so fucking be it.

The air is fucking dry and hot as I sprint out the door, choking me with the mugginess. I jump down the eight steps and land on both feet, a cloud of dirt engulfing me. The biker rides down the long dirt path toward us, and I run to him, head on, like knights about to joust. I dodge left to miss the tire and fling out my arm at the last possible second. His neck slams against my forearm and the man flies off the back of his bike. His Harley swerves right and crashes to the ground, his mirror snapping off.

I press my boot against his neck and bend down. “I hear that’s seven years bad luck.” I punch him across the face, brass knuckles making contact with his skin, and the feral fighter within spurs me on to keep going until he’s nothing but hamburger meat.

“Enough!” Reaper places the .44 against the back of my head. I know he won’t shoot me, but the slightest possibility that he might has me lifting my hands. “I said to stop.”

“This fucker—”

“We don’t know shit yet. For all you know, he’s innocent.”

“Something tells me he ain’t.” I lift my boot to crush his throat, and Reaper cocks his gun. If that bullet leaves that gun, it won’t leave a hole in my head; it will blow my damn head right off my neck. I take a step away and kick the ground. “Fuck!” I scream.

Reaper turns the gun off me and aims to the Hound. “You better get to talking before I let him loose.”

The man nods and groans, pressing his hand against the wound on the side of his cheek. “You have a hell of a hook, man.” He struggles to get to his feet and shakes his head, probably trying to get the bells to stop ringing in his head. They won’t for a while.

“Shut up and talk before I lose my patience and shoot you dead.”

The guy presses his forehead against the barrel, daring Reaper to pull the trigger. “Do it. Have fun with the feds on your ass.” The guy tosses his wallet to me and I open it to see an FBI badge staring back at me.

“Shit, Reaper. He’s FBI.”

Reaper’s sardonic smile plays on his lips, reminding me of a sinner about to dance on a few graves. “I don’t give a fuck if you’re a fed. Nothing a few buzzards can’t help me fix. Explain why an FBI agent is a Prez of an MC.”

“I’m undercover. Been undercover for a while so I can find this child sex-trafficking ring these fuckers sell kids to. It hasn’t been an easy few years. I’ve had to do things I never want to do again, killed a lot of innocent people, and the only fucking trail I have right now is Aidan.”

“How the fuck do ye know about Aidan!” I roar and slam my body against him, taking him to the ground.

“You must be Skirt,” the agent says, bleeding from his cheek.

I grab his cut and bring him so close to my face, he has no choice but to smell the fury on my breath. “How do ye know me?”

“Cohen brought us Dawn. I came here to tell you of the plan