Page 52 of Breaking His Exile

“They talk about you, too. The man who got kicked out.”

Creed’s smile faded at that. “It was bullshit. They wouldn’t listen to me.”

“Why would they? You proved you’re not trustworthy.” Evander rested his finger against the trigger. The rifle was steady. One pull and the threat ended. Clean. Simple.

He didn’t pull.

Killing Creed meant losing everything the man knew. Whether the Sins had more men coming. Whether they’d already found the cabin. What they planned to do with Rainey once they had her.

Information had value. Dead men gave none.

Creed’s mouth curved again, that same cold not-smile. “You’re wondering if you should waste me. I can see it. Right there behind the eyes. Do it.” He leaned back into the barrell.

The fire popped between them.

“No? That’s what I thought. If you were gonna do it, you’d have done it already. You don’t strike me as a man who hesitates.” He laughed and poked at the fire with a stick. “She must be something special. The woman. Rainey Beckett. River’s sister. Mal Granger wants her bad enough to pay five figures for her coordinates. Alive, preferably. He wants you, too, for killing his dear old daddy, but he’d prefer you dead.”

He knew what Creed was doing, needling him, looking for his weakness. He wouldn’t let the words penetrate his mask, refused to show how terrified they made him. “How many men does Mal have on the ground?”

“Enough. Not here yet. I’m the advance party. Not many bikers know how to track like I do.” Creed shifted his weight and his right knee protested. He gave a slight grimace, quickly masked. “Smart man, Mal. Cautious. Doesn’t waste resources. Sent me because I know the terrain and I know the target’s brother. Two birds.”

“You won’t get near her.”

“Maybe not. But I don’t have to. All I have to do is find her and call it in. Rest is somebody else’s problem.”

Evander’s finger itched on the trigger. “She’s not here.”

“Yes, she is. I followed two sets of prints. Yours and hers. Recent.” Creed’s voice dropped. Soft. Almost gentle. “You left her somewhere, didn’t you? Sent her back to your hideaway cabin while you came down to play hero. I’m close, aren’t I? Otherwise you wouldn’t have exposed your position like this.”

He should just shoot the fucker now. He wasn’t going to get anything useful out of him.

Evander tightened his finger, and as the trigger caught, Creed exploded off the log. His right knee buckled on the push—Evander saw it happen, the leg giving way—but Creed used the momentum anyway, driving forward off his left foot with a speed that shouldn’t have been possible. His shoulder caught Evander in the sternum, and the shot cracked the shelter’s roof, raining dirt and splinters, and then Creed’s weight drove him back into the mossy wall.

Creed was younger. Stronger. Trained for exactly this kind of violence—close-quarters, dirty, the kind the Rangers taught men who needed to survive when the guns ran dry. His right hand locked around Evander’s wrist and slammed it against the rock. Once. Twice. The rifle clattered to the dirt.

Evander drove his knee into Creed’s bad leg.

Creed snarled, and his grip loosened.

Evander twisted free and drove an elbow into the other man’s ribs, the impact shuddering up his arm.

Creed took it and came back with a right cross that caught Evander high on the cheekbone. His vision flashed white. He rode the punch, let his head roll with it, and lashed out with his own right that connected with Creed’s jaw hard enough to split his lip.

Blood sprayed. Creed spat and smiled through it, red on his teeth, and lunged.

They went down together. The fire scattered, embers hissing in the wet dirt. Evander landed on his back with Creed’s weight on his chest and a forearm across his throat. The pressure built. Black spots crowded his vision. He drove his thumb into Creed’s eye socket—not enough to blind, enough to make him flinch—and when Creed’s head jerked back, Evander rolled.

They grappled in the dirt. Fists. Elbows. Knees.

Creed got a hand free and reached for his hip. A pistol cleared leather—compact, black—and Evander grabbed his wrist and drove it toward the ground.

The pistol discharged. The round buried itself in the dirt an inch from Evander’s ear. The report deafened him on that side, but he didn’t slow. He headbutted Creed. Felt the man’s nose give and blood splattered hot on his forehead. Creed’s grip on the pistol faltered. Evander reached for his knife—the one on his belt—and drove it into Creed’s flank.

The blade went in clean. Three inches, maybe four. Below the ribs, above the hip. Not fatal if treated, but painful as hell.

Creed roared. The sound went up through the trees, raw and animal. His fist came around with the pistol butt and cracked it across Evander’s temple.

The world went black at the edges.