The day was warm and sunny, though cool enough that he’d chosen to wear his leather jacket and chaps. The Harley sported no windshield, and occasionally he would take a bug in the face, though he didn’t mind the brief sting. Wraparound sunglasses protected his eyes from both insects and debris, and also from the glare of the blacktop.
As always, the interstate offered little in the way of interesting scenery, and Wolf found himself being lulled by the hum and vibration of the bike’s motor. His thoughts drifted back to the woman and her son, and of the house and land, both of which seemed somehow tainted. Something was coming to that land—if it were not, in fact, already there. Something dark and oppressing which spread like a virus and sought to infect everything in its path.
The woman and they boy were in that path; therefore, either they must be removed from the path or the threat would have to be eliminated. Wolf thought that it would probably be the latter, simply because that was the way it always seemed to work. Running seldom did any good. Bad things had a way of finding you, no matter how far you ran or how well you hid. It was usually easier to do away with the bad things and be done with it.
As he rode, he engine’s hum became words, chanting the same mantra over and over. The phrase was not unfamiliar to Wolf; it accompanied his dreams, both sleeping and waking, whenever he was charged with protecting someone:
She lives. At all costs, she lives.
Wolf rode into the fading day as the sun settled to his back.
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Dark Hollows (A Finn McCoy Paranormal Thriller Book 4) Page 15