WRAITH (Iron Kings MC, #1)

trying to play the big man, as he truly believed himself to be. “Afraid I am. There’s six of us and just you standing in our way. It’s overkill, yeah. I didn’t trust the intel. But it turns out it’s all true.” He shook his head in disbelief. “Damn, Scott must be losing it, only putting one guy on his daughter. A major fuck-up.”
“You’d think,” Finn seethed. His eyes grew dark, the look in them beyond dangerous, promising a world of pain.
Knox hesitated, clearly unnerved by the cryptic comment.
“Prez?” one of his guys called, when he just continued to stand there studying Finn warily.
The call snapped him out of it and in the next second he was commanding, “Put him to ground. Take the girl alive.”
“Truck, Ashley!” Finn called. “Look away!”
I was a split second away from doing just that when the closest biker to Finn pulled his gun.
My ability to breath, to move a muscle, left me. Terror gripped me when I spotted Finn’s weapon still on the concrete floor. How the hell was he going to survive? I fought to think, trying to figure out what I could do. I wasn’t armed either, so the only thing I could think of was causing one hell of a distraction.
But then my plan became null and void as I watched Finn execute a lightning-fast move. I’d never seen anything like it before. His left hand slammed into the guy’s wrist, destabilizing him enough so Finn was able to dislodge the gun from his grip, flip it, cock it, and take aim at the guy with his own weapon. Holy crap!
It was made all the more impressive by the fact that I knew his left wasn’t his dominant shooting hand.
“Amateurs,” Finn sneered. He raised his aim to the guy’s skull, cocked it, then fired off a brutal shot that blew his skull to pieces.
Oh, God. I sank back against the truck, slapping my hand over my mouth, fighting not to chuck up everywhere.
A ferocious roar sounded and another biker came at Finn, promising vengeance for the sudden and brutal cold-blooded murder of his best brother. Finn twisted to the left and fired off another shot, dealing the guy’s buddy the same fate.
He didn’t get the chance to deal out any more immediate death as the remaining three rushed him, Knox hanging back like the true coward that he was.
Finn pistol-whipped the first guy who reached him and swept his leg at his ankles, sending him crashing to the floor.
“Get up!” Knox thundered, and the guy scrambled back to his feet with a curse.
Then all three of them attacked.
Finn delivered a roundhouse kick to the one on his left, knocking him back so he could deal with the one to his right. He fisted his hand in his cut, clearly intending to haul him away. But then his grip faltered, a curse escaping him, his hand seeming to lock in place. It was the hand that’d suffered a nasty gunshot wound. It was the first time I realized the damage he’d sustained back then was irreparable. That was why he’d been shooting with his left hand. He hadn’t wanted to risk that happening while he was firing a gun.
The bikers took advantage of it, the three of them working together to bring him down, fighting to wrestle him to the floor.
I screamed as I watched them succeed, tackling him to the ground and wasting no time pounding on him with their fists and motorcycle boots.
In the next second, one of them wrenched at his left arm and I heard Finn’s pained curse. The sickening sound that followed told me they’d dislocated it.
I ran for the truck and hauled myself across to the glovebox, searching for something, anything, that I could use to help him.
He was a dangerous man. There had to be something, somewhere.
The glove box was my first go-to, because it was the most accessible if he encountered trouble on the road, or something.
I fumbled in my anxious state to open the damned thing.
Finn would be pissed, but there was no way I could stand back and witness him being beaten within an inch of his life. I couldn’t bear another second of it. I had to help him.
As the glove box flew open, a gasp escaped me.
There wasn’t just a weapon inside.
There was an artfully arranged selection of them.
Pistols. Ammo. Blades. Grenades.
Holy crap.
It was a good thing my dad had taught me how to shoot when I was a kid. It was about to come in handy in a big way.
Or, so I thought, until something slammed against the side of the truck, jolting me away from the glovebox.
I jerked my head at the driver’s door to see Knox there, fighting to wrench it open.
He smashed his fist on the window, bellowing, “Get out, little bitch! Now! If you make me rip this fucking door off, it’s gonna be way more painful for you! Open the door!”
A shrill scream rang out through the garage, stilling the both of us.
My eyes darted back to the scene of the fight and I watched in utter shock as a heavily-bearded biker crawled out from the hellish huddle around Finn, that awful scream sounding continuously as he clutched at his ear, blood spewing down his arm. As he pulled it away, I saw that half his ear was missing.
I heard a nasty crack a moment later and a shriek, just as another guy pulled from the huddle, clutching his limp left arm that was hanging at an abnormal angle.
A ferocious roar sounded and I watched in disbelief as Finn surged up from beneath the guys.
His eyes were wild.
He was covered in blood and sweat.
His clothes were ripped in several places.
And he looked pissed.
I realized in that moment that I was seeing the monster.
At Knox’s irate command beside the truck, his boys went for Finn again.
Finn spun into the nearest one, thrusting his fist into his throat. It had the misguided biker choking and