Chapter 5 #2
I turn and run, abandoning stealth for speed. The woods behind Greyson's house are dense, the undergrowth thick. I crash through branches, gun clutched in one hand and phone in the other.
Behind me, I hear a shout of rage. "Olivia! Don't run from me!"
I don't look back, focusing only on putting distance between us. The ground slopes upward, making my legs burn with effort. I dial Greyson again, praying he'll answer.
This time, he picks up on the first ring. "Livie? What's wrong?"
"He's here," I gasp, still running. "Richard Keller. He shot the prospects. He's in the woods behind your house, chasing me."
Greyson's curse is vicious. "Where exactly are you?"
"I don't know," I admit, panic rising. "Running uphill, away from the house. There's a stream or something ahead, I can hear water."
"I know where that is. Keep going, cross the stream, then head left along the bank. There's an old hunting cabin about half a mile up. Get inside, barricade the door. We're on our way."
"Hurry," I plead, hearing branches breaking behind me.
"Stay on the line," Greyson orders. "Don't hang up, no matter what."
I can hear him shouting orders to others, the roar of motorcycles starting.
The stream comes into view, water rushing over rocks. I splash across, the cold water soaking my jeans to the knees.
"I crossed it," I tell Greyson, turning left as instructed. "Following the bank now."
"Good girl." The sound of his engine revving in the background can be heard. "We're ten minutes out. Less if we can help it."
Ten minutes feels like an eternity with a madman on my trail. I push myself harder, ignoring the burning in my lungs and the scratches from branches whipping past my face.
"Olivia!" Richard's voice calls from somewhere behind me. "You're only making this harder on yourself!"
"He's still following," I whisper into the phone.
"Keep moving," Greyson urges. "Don't stop, don't look back."
The hunting cabin appears through the trees, a small, weathered structure that's seen better days. I stumble toward it, my legs threatening to give out as I reach the door. It's not locked, thank God, and I burst inside, slamming it behind me.
The interior is sparse: a wooden table, two chairs, a small fireplace with ashes long cold. No electricity, no phone. Just dust and cobwebs and the faint smell of mildew.
"I'm in," I gasp to Greyson, leaning against the door. "There's no lock."
"Look for something to barricade it," he instructs, his voice tight with fear and fury. "Anything heavy."
I drag the table across the floor, wedging it against the door. It won't hold for long, but it's something.
"How far out are you?" I ask, scanning the cabin for weapons, anything I can use to defend myself.
"Seven minutes. Baby, listen to me. If he gets in before we arrive, you don't hesitate. You shoot to kill. Understand?"
"Yes," I whisper, though my hand trembles around the gun.
A shadow passes by the single dirty window. I freeze, pressing myself against the wall beside it, out of sight.
"Olivia," Richard calls, his voice deceptively gentle. "I know you're in there. Let's talk about this like adults."
I say nothing, focusing on controlling my breathing. The doorknob rattles, then the entire door shudders as he throws his weight against it. The table slides an inch.
"You're making me angry now," he warns, his tone hardening. "You don't want to see me angry, Olivia. Ask my wife what happens when I get angry."
Another slam against the door. The table slides farther.
"Greyson," I whisper into the phone, "hurry."
"Two minutes," he promises. "Just hold on."
Richard hits the door again, and this time I hear wood splintering. One more good hit and he'll be through.
"Last chance, Olivia," he calls. "Open the door, or I break it down and things get very unpleasant for you."
I grip the gun tighter, raising it toward the door. "Stay back!" I shout, surprised by the steadiness in my voice. "I'm armed!"
A pause, then laughter, cold and utterly devoid of humor. "With what? That little gun you waved at me at the gate? Do you even know how to use it, princess?"
The mockery in his voice ignites something in me, a fury that burns away the fear. This man has terrorized me, hunted me, forced me to run and hide.
No more.
"My father made sure all his children could protect themselves," I call back, moving to a better position with clear sight of the door. "I've been shooting since I was twelve."
"Then you should know." His voice is closer now, just on the other side of the splintering wood, "that most people hesitate. Especially pretty little girls who've never faced real violence."
The door explodes inward, the table flying across the room. Richard stands in the doorway, a tall man with dead eyes and a cruel smile. In one hand he holds a crowbar, in the other, a gun far larger than mine.
I don't hesitate. I squeeze the trigger.
The shot goes wide, hitting the doorframe instead of him. He ducks, laughing as he advances into the cabin.
"See? Hesitation." He raises his own weapon. "I won't make the same mistake."
I fire again, and this time my bullet grazes his arm. He hisses in pain but keeps coming.
"You bitch," he snarls, all pretense of civility gone. "I was going to be gentle with you."
I back up until I hit the wall, nowhere left to go. My phone has fallen somewhere in the chaos, but I can still hear Greyson's voice calling my name.
Richard raises the crowbar, and I know in that moment he intends to beat me into submission. I won't give him the chance. I steady my aim and fire a third time.
This shot catches him in the shoulder, spinning him halfway around. He roars with pain and rage, dropping the crowbar but maintaining his grip on the gun.
"You're going to pay for that," he promises, blood soaking his shirt. "Every day for the rest of your life."
Before I can fire again, he lunges, faster than I would have thought possible for an injured man. His weight slams into me, knocking my gun from my hand. We crash to the floor, his body pinning mine, his blood hot and sticky between us.
His hands find my throat, squeezing with brutal force. I claw at his face, my nails drawing blood across his cheek. The world starts to darken at the edges as I struggle for air.
No. I won't die like this. I won't let him win.
I bring my knee up hard between his legs. His grip loosens just enough for me to gasp a breath and twist my body. We roll across the dusty floor, fighting for dominance. He's stronger, but I'm fighting for my life.
My fingers find something solid—the crowbar he dropped. I grip it and swing with all my strength.
Metal connects with bone with a sickening crack. Richard howls, blood pouring from a gash in his forehead. I scramble away, still clutching the crowbar, my throat burning as I gulp in air.
He staggers to his feet, one hand pressed to his bleeding head, the other still holding his gun. His eyes, when they focus on me, are filled with murderous hatred.
"I'm going to kill you slowly," he promises, raising the weapon.
The sound of motorcycles roaring up to the cabin barely registers through the blood pounding in my ears. All I see is the barrel of his gun pointing at my heart.
I don't think. I react. The crowbar flies from my hand with deadly accuracy, striking his wrist just as he pulls the trigger. The gun discharges into the ceiling as it falls from his grip.
The door bursts open, and suddenly the small cabin is filled with leather-clad men. Greyson is the first through, his face a mask of cold fury as he takes in the scene—me bloodied and bruised, Richard staggering and wounded.
What happens next unfolds with the brutal efficiency of men accustomed to violence.
Greyson crosses the room in three strides, his fist connecting with Richard's jaw with a force that lifts the man off his feet.
Richard crashes into the wall, but before he can slide to the floor, Greyson grabs him by the throat, mimicking the way he'd choked me moments before.
"You touched what's mine," Greyson says, his voice terrifyingly calm as he slams Richard's head against the wall. "You hunted her. Terrorized her."
Each accusation is punctuated with another slam, blood smearing the rough wood behind Richard's head.
"Enough." My father's voice cuts through the cabin. He steps forward, gun in hand. "Not here. Not like this."
Greyson doesn't release his grip immediately. For a moment, I think he might kill Richard right there, consequences be damned. Then, with visible effort, he steps back.
Richard slumps to the floor, barely conscious, blood streaming from multiple wounds—the bullet graze on his arm, the gash on his forehead from my crowbar, and fresh injuries from Greyson's assault.
"Get him out of here," Dad orders. Two club members drag Richard to his feet and out the door.
Then Greyson is kneeling beside me, his hands gentle as they cradle my face. "Livie," he breathes, eyes scanning every inch of me for injuries. "Jesus Christ."
"I'm okay," I rasp, my voice hoarse from the choking. "I fought back."
Pride flashes in his eyes. "I saw that. Remind me never to piss you off when you're holding a crowbar."
A laugh bubbles up from somewhere deep inside me, slightly hysterical but genuine. "He didn't expect me to fight. That was his mistake."
Greyson helps me to my feet, his arm around my waist supporting most of my weight. Now that the adrenaline is fading, I can feel every bruise, every scratch, the burning in my throat, and the ache in my muscles.
"The prospects?" I ask, suddenly remembering the men who had been guarding the house.
"Two wounded, none killed," Dad says, coming to my other side. "They'll recover."
"And Richard?"
A dark look passes between my father and Greyson. "Don't worry about him," Dad says. "He won't hurt anyone ever again."
I know better than to ask for details. Some things in MC life are better left unspoken, especially when it comes to how enemies are dealt with.