Page 122 of Lesson In Forgiveness

He knew she was gunning for him.

She’d wasted time dragging her previous kills into a pile, but the mound of dead served a few purposes—easy disposal for the cleanup crew so none of the corpses were overlooked, killing time to let Donaghue stew in his own nervous juices while sending a very clear message, and giving the darkest part of her a hefty thrill she drank like fine wine.

So far, she’d only managed to pinpoint and terminate one of the thugs staking out the club. Her count was up to six, but these guys seemed smarter, more like her—they hunted with care, chose their hiding spots with an advantage in mind, and they appeared to possess hive-mind focus; they wanted her, no matter what.

Her recon was limited, mainly because the assholes kept firing a lot of bullets at her head, but the positions they held told her they were serving a dual purpose—they were trying to cage her in long enough to capture her, and they were guarding the clubhouse.

Donaghue was in there, she was sure.

Humming softly under her breath, Tabitha slid down the wall until she sat on her haunches, then peeked around the corner. The hum turned into a grunt of approval when she saw three big guys crossing over from the pet play area, automatic rifles lifted, to circle the perimeter of the nursery.

If she ran, she’d take a bullet, no doubt. There was someone stationed in the upper story of the clubhouse; she’d already clocked the rifle muzzle poking out from a partially open window.

Evening the odds, she fired off a shot, plugging one of the approaching beefcakes in the head, just above his right eyebrow. Blood fountained in a pretty arch as he dropped to his knees, falling forwards onto his face with a thud.

“Bingo,” she whispered, ducking back behind the corner as a hail of bullets sprayed the wood, raining splinters down on her. The sound of running feet was masked by the gunfire until the last moment, but she was ready for Beefcake’s associates as they charged her.

Beretta back in her waistband, she palmed two of her smaller blades and put her hands behind her head. Adopting an expression of alarm as her opponents came around the opposite corner, she stuttered, “W-Whoa, whoa, whoa! Please d-don’t shoot!”

Brothers? She wondered, getting a solid look at the pair of them. Brothers or cousins, judging by the almost identical shade of mahogany-auburn hair and bottle-green eyes, their bone structure.

“This the bitch Donny wants?” One of them asked.

Leveling the gun between her eyes, the other cocked his head, eyes narrowed. “Hard to tell under all that shit. Can’t hide those eyes, though.” He jerked his chin at her. “Get her weapons.”

The first guy visibly stalled. “Fuck, you’re closer.”

“I’m the better shot. Donny wants her alive, but that don’t mean I can’t kneecap the cunt if she moves wrong.” Ireland teased his words faintly. “Hell, knock her out if you’re that scared of her.”

Oh, that was going to mess up her plans, big time. “Please, don’t. I’ll come quietly, you don’t have to hurt me. My gun is tucked into the back of my pants, and I have a knife in my boot.”

“Don’t trust her, Vinny.” The goon assigned to stripping her weapons stepped forward reluctantly. “Shoot her if she tries anything.”

“I got her, Kellan.”

Tabitha remained perfectly still as he came behind her, as she felt him lift the Beretta from its home. Her jaw tightened as he removed her knives and tossed them with zero respect on the ground, but when he bent to skim hard hands down her thighs, her calves, she let her lips curve into a lethal smile.

Vinny widened his eyes, awareness flooding the green.

“Always check the hands,” Tabitha told him with a low, malicious laugh. “Rookie mistake.”

Before he even had chance to squeeze the trigger, her right hand whipped forward, firing the blade so quickly, she almost missed the moment it penetrated the softest point on his face, sinking through his eyeball to pierce his brain.

He staggered, the rifle swinging away as his fingers convulsed. Bullets plowed into the soil in a deafening barrage of noise, bringing Kellan to his feet with a cry.

She spun, smashing her fist into his mouth, aiming for his throat in a vicious one-two blow. She missed, glancing off the side of his thick neck, giving him the opportunity to return the favor; he cracked her own damn gun against her forearm, rendering her right arm useless.

Stifling a cry, she swiped at his chest with the knife she still clutched in her left hand, slicing through the strap from which his rifle dangled, his shirt, and the flesh beneath. Blood began to stain the material, then bloomed faster as she managed to get in a second and third jab.

With a roar, Kellan backhanded her, spinning her around with the force, then enveloped her from behind. One hand clasped around her throat, tightening so fast she didn’t have time to take a breath, while the other snagged her wrist.

The crack of bone breaking and the resulting flare of agony didn’t quite register as her brain fought to stay engaged. Warmth sank into her clothes, sticky and thick, as his blood soaked into her back.

When he hefted her off her feet, she knew she was in trouble.

Thrashing, she hammered his knees and shins with her boots. Left hand out of commission, vision blurring, she brought her right hand up, digging her nails into his neck, clawing at his face, aiming for his eyes. She latched onto his hair, weakly fisting a chunk of locks, and yanked.

“Bitch,” he snarled in her ear. “Gonna throttle you ‘til you’re about to take your last feckin’ breath, then watch Donny take you apart piece by piece, breakin’ each one ‘til you’re nothin’ but blood and guts.”

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