Seven days. It took the Reavers from Camp Hell seven days to find the fucker that had run away from them.
If he wasn't so worried about his woman, Rip might have actually been impressed that the man had led them on a merry chase halfway across the fucking country. However, at this moment, he felt nothing but murderous rage toward the man hanging by his arms from the branch of a sturdy tree in the middle of nowhere.
Rip's fist slammed into the ribs of the man, shattering them under the force of his hit.
The man gasped, his eyes wide as he swung back and forth like a pendulum. His legs had already been broken as soon as the Rip had gotten his hands on him. He wasn't willing to take the chance of the fighter getting away for a second time.
