Page 64 of Death Rydes Shotgun

Another flash of lightning tears across the sky.

My breath locks in my throat, and the world around me collapses into absolute, terrifying horror.

Standing on the rotting porch, drenched in the blinding white light of the storm, is Ryder. His arms are resting at his sides, his hand partially hiding my father’s hunting knife so the blade is snug against his forearm.

Standing three feet in front of him, clad in a long, mud-caked slicker with a grotesque, distorted wooden mask covering their face, is a figure holding a heavy, black shotgun lined up straight with Ryder’s chest.

Ryder—the massive, terrifying predator who held me captive all night—is being held at gunpoint. And the barrel of the shotgun is pressed right against his heart.

Not considering my own safety, I yank the door open.

Rain slams off the corrugated tin roof of the cabin, but here, under the porch awning, the sound narrows to a heavy, hollow drum.

I step out through the doorway, clutching my jacket tight against the chill.

My heart drops into my throat.

Ryder stands at the top of the wooden steps, deathly still, staring right down the double barrels of a 12-gauge shotgun.

The man in the hideous mask, holding the gun, breathes in short, panicked bursts, his knuckles white against the dark stock.

Ryder’s hands slowly begin to raise in front of him—left palm open in fake surrender, his right arm bent at a subtle angle. Tucked flush against his inner forearm, completely hidden from the gunman’s view, is the long blade of my father’s hunting knife.

“Ryder—” The name barely scrapes out of my throat, but it’s already too late.

Ryder moves.

He doesn’t pull back; he lunges straight into the muzzle. With a lightning-fast sweep of his left hand, he slaps the barrels sideways just as the trigger snaps.

The blast roars into the night, shattering the porch railing into splinters, but Ryder is already inside the man’s guard.

His right arm lashes forward.

He drives the blade straight into the center of the man’s stomach, right beneath the sternum.

There’s a sickening, heavy thunk as the hilt slams hard against wet denim.

The man gasps, dropping the useless gun, but Ryder gives him no space to breathe.

He grabs a fistful of the man’s collar, twists the knife with a horrific, wrenching motion, and drags the steel violently downward toward his pelvis.

The abdominal wall splits.

A hot, heavy spray of blood lashes out through the cold rain.

It hits me before I can flinch. Warm, thick droplets paint across my cheek and splatter down the front of my jacket.

I freeze as the coppery scent of fresh iron coats my skin.

The man collapses to his knees, completely hollowed out, before slumping sideways onto the wet porch boards.

Steam rises instantly from the open wound into the freezing air as Ryder stands over the body.

Twenty

In Harm’s Way

RYDER