“What about Nicole?” I asked abruptly. “Why did she help you escape?”
“She finally saw through Pastor Bill’s bullshit. He told Kenzie that you guys died in the explosion, then she heard him talking to Deacon Gary about you on the walkie-talkie.”
“Do you know exactly where Mac’s being held?” I asked.
“Oh, shit.” Hannah paled. “I should have said something right away. Pastor Bill wanted to take me as his third wife tonight—the third Eve in his Garden of Eden. Kenzie offered to take my place, to marry Pastor Bill so that I wouldn’t have to.”
Do you want us back at camp in time for the wedding?
The deacon had been talking about Bill’s wedding to Mac.
If that fucker laid a finger on her... Every muscle in my body tightened and a vein in my temple throbbed so mercilessly that I thought I might have a stroke. White-hot rage pounded through my veins, the kind of anger that makes a man sloppy, that leads to mistakes.
I sucked in a breath and closed my eyes.
Remember your training.
Fighting the adrenaline that surged through my body, I willed a mantle of calm to slip into place. I summoned forth my old friend, my familiar spirit, my lethal doppelganger. He settled into my bones, wove through my muscles and tendons, rippled through my blood, and took possession of my brain.
When I opened my eyes, The Ripper gazed out at the late afternoon sky. I blinked, then glanced at Hannah.
“When and where is the wedding?” I made no threatening gesture, and my uninflected voice held not a hint of menace, but the girl must have sensed the change.
Hannah shrank back against Levi, her fear palpable.
The promise of death that hummed through my veins was not for her, so I took a step back, granting her the false comfort of distance. The Ripper wasn’t a monster. He might forget civility, but he wouldn’t cause undeserved pain.
She faltered. “The wedding is supposed to start at 5 p.m....in the chapel.”
I glanced at my watch. 5:09 p.m.
TWENTY-ONE
Kenzie
It took freaking forever to get through this bogus ceremony. Not that I was complaining. I was in no hurry to become Mrs. Pastor Bill.
The congregation sang along while Ruth played two hymns on the piano. Rebecca read aloud verses from the Bible. Afterwards, Bill pressed a chaste kiss to his number one wife’s cheek before turning to face me once again. Deacon what’s-his-name gave a cringe-inducing sermon on womanly duties and the sanctity of the marriage bed. All the while, Bill grinned at me.
My mind kept returning to his nightstand full of sex toys. Maybe I’d kill him when he was pawing through the drawer, too distracted to notice that I was bearing down on him with a corkscrew.
I sighed.
In the entire history of premeditated murder plots, mine had to be one of the iffiest. Still, I had no choice but to make it work.
The deacon turned to Pastor Bill. “Will you take this woman as your divinely ordained wife and live together according to God’s holy ordinance?”
“I most certainly will.”
“And will you take this man as your divinely ordained husband? Will you pledge to him your duty, service, faithfulness, and obedience as you live together according to God’s holy ordinance?”
Bill watched me with eagle eyes.
I had to pledge duty, service, faithfulness, and obedience? Lopsided vows, weren’t they?
Sure. Why not. The intrinsic sexism of the vows should have rankled, but honestly, I didn’t care. Under the circumstances, no reasonable deity would hold my fake promise against me. The whole point of this little charade was to keep the man’s mitts off Hannah and to give me the opportunity to rid the world of a charlatan.
“Yeah.” I shrugged. “Okay.”
Bill’s eyes glittered. I’d no doubt he planned to make me pay for my flippant response.
“Then by the power vested in me, I now pronounce you man and wife.”
Should I have felt something? Grief? Horror? Guilt?
“You may kiss your bride.”
Those words pierced my apathy.
Bill’s tongue darted out, moistening his lips. My stomach clenched at the prospect of those pink, glistening lips touching mine, and my ears began to buzz.
Smiling exultantly, Bill seized my shoulders. His fingers dug possessively into my skin as he began to lean forward.
I braced myself and swallowed the acid rising in my gorge. The buzzing in my ears grew louder.
Wait. I tilted my head. The sound wasn’t coming from inside my skull.
Pastor Bill heard it, too. Frowning, he looked toward the entrance to the chapel. I followed suit. Everybody in the church had twisted around in their pews and was staring at the wide open double doors.
The noise gained strength, a familiar deep, thrumming rumble—not Ripper’s Shovelhead—but the unmistakable sound of Harley pipes.
Who was riding a Harley inside the camp?
A green motorcycle burst through the doorway and barreled up the aisle, skittering to a stop a dozen feet from the altar. In one smooth movement, the rider cut the engine, toed down the kickstand, and swung off the bike.
I staggered and would have fallen if Pastor Bill hadn’t been holding me up.
Ripper. Larger than life and exuding menace.
I screwed my eyes shut, then opened them again. Not a mirage, not a trick of my imagination. The man I loved and thought I’d lost stood before me.
I fought to wrench away from Bill’s grip, but the pastor spun me around and pinned my back to his chest.
Ripper’s gaze flitted over my face before his eyes locked onto the pastor. Ripper’s countenance was blank, devoid of expression, as pitiless as a raptor.
He’d warned me that he was a killer and had asked if I could live with that knowledge. I’d told him that I could, but it was jarring to finally see the ruthless face he wore when he dealt his own particular form of justice to his enemies.
“Ripper,” I whispered, wishing for a softening of the stern lines, a small flicker of emotion when he glanced at me.
He ignored me.
Over Ripper’s shoulder, I saw Kyle, Sahdev, and Levi—the face in the woods—standing in the back of the church, weapons in their hands. Two of the pastor’s armed guards ran into the church, stumbling in their haste. My friends disarmed the stunned guards, and Levi secured their hands and feet with zip ties.
Pastor Bill slapped his hand over my mouth and raised a knife to my throat. He must have pulled it from his pocket after he grabbed me.
“I’m going to slice her throat from ear to ear and make you watch the bitch bleed out.”
Ripper didn’t twitch.
Slice my throat from ear to ear. The phrase triggered a memory from months ago, back in Portland, when Ripper had made good on his promise to teach me how to fight.
He’d stood behind me and held a rubber training knife to my throat.
“In movies, they make it look easy to sneak up behind somebody and slit their throat. It isn’t. If you put a hand over their mouth, your intended victim might bite you. Any clothes, especially a collar, might divert the blade. A superficial cut won’t do the job. The carotid arteries are buried underneath layers of muscle. If you need to sneak up behind somebody with a knife, go for the kidneys, Mac, not the throat.”