New York Minute

by Louis Scott

  The hushed roar of the old military mule lumbered overhead. It brushed across the earth at nearly a standstill before completing a giant circle around the airfield. The C130, perfect for unprepared runways, returned to kick up dust as it bounced and teetered across the uneven surface before piloting toward the northeast windsock.

  Justice waited. He saw the pilot’s fist then open palm then fist again. He released the clutch and idled toward an opening cargo bay. Justice swung the HK MP5 submachine gun from the sling around his shoulders and swept his lighted scope through the empty space—all clear. He waved his right hand in a huge circle to rally the others.

  “Thanks again my brother.” Justice patted the last biker on the shoulder as he had each of the others when they roared into the massive hull of the vintage WWII airplane.

  Orange nylon webbing hung from the walls in contrast to the grey interior. Their powerful engines raped the quiet, empty space now only used for tourists and visiting school kids. Dim bay area lights dotted the solid metal welds that replaced a floorboard damaged over decades. They each had served in the military, so a C130 transport was nothing new to them as their bodies swayed to balance tires across ruts and rails in the floor used to load and unload cargo.

  Once airborne, an older looking pilot in jeans and a flannel shirt slipped into the back to brief them. After sharing ETA and location, he and Justice thanked each other for service to their country, and the plane’s owner returned to the cockpit with his co-pilot. Almost three hours until touchdown west of New York state. Alex had secured an airfield belonging to another private aircraft enthusiast.

  “FORCE’s on their way to meet us there.” Justice sat on his HOG in the middle of the other ten bikers. Even here, they had strategically positioned their rides. Bodies jerking and adjusting to the giant workhorse cutting through the air—balancing their motorcycles was a challenge.

  “I hope this ain’t no set up, Justice,” a biker warned.

  “These feds saved our butts back in March. ATF would’ve shoved their fist down our throat if FORCE hadn't tipped us off.” Justice regarded the younger man, who looked like him. All of the Boudreaux brothers bore a strong resemblance. Even Lawless, the police captain over the Louisiana Task Force, looked like his other six brothers.

  “Yeah, well they also caused brother Souls to die in them chemicals,” Rat said.

  Unrelated to the Boudreaux brothers, Rat had earned his colors with the club through multiple tours overseas with the youngest blood brother. Still, he often reacted opposite to Justice’s orders if only for the sake of being contrary. Justice cast a dispassionate glare toward him, but reserved his comments.

  The Savage Souls Outlaw Motorcycle Club had been around for years, but weak leadership and federal indictments had lessened their numbers and effect. Justice had come to know a few of their members while working CIA special ops. He’d never underestimated the value of allegiances with the most vile criminal underworld characters. They usually came through as his best sources of information.

  Soon after his discharge, when he grew disenfranchised with living within the margins, the adrenaline fueled combat veteran sought out the fringe lifestyle and freedom of movement he’d enjoyed while working deeper than any black bag organization. The outlaw ethos drew him in like a needle to the vein. Soon, his charisma and skills established him as a natural leader. Civil war erupted within the ranks as chapters across the country heard of his quick rise to national president.

  Justice enlisted warriors he trusted who not only wanted to fight the battles, but also had the abilities to do it. His brother the cop, Lawless, refused and hadn’t spoken to him since Justice proposed he pledge the club. His other five brothers, who’d served in the military and law enforcement, were either unemployable according to the same government they’d fought for, or hated the mainstream picket-fence life expected of returning war heroes. They pledged without hesitation. Justice soon realized that being war heroes didn’t mean they were all good citizens but for the most part they served him well.

  His combat-hardened soldiers controlled the national chapter of the Savage Souls Outlaw Motorcycle Club with such tenacity, that the rest of the Savage nation soon surrendered. However, not everyone was pleased with the power shift.

  The last time he agreed to help FORCE had almost cost him position as national president. This mission to save Voodoo might be the nail in his coffin—there were other factions in the Savage nation lurking to steal the power that came with the position. No matter, the Boudreaux family had a long history with the Laveau family, and no way in hell would the brothers abandon their childhood friend.

  The old pilot reappeared with a wave and flash of five fingers, three times. Justice nodded. They were fifteen minutes out.

  “Boys, I don’t want no bull between us and these feds. They just got screwed over by their government. They’re out here on their own to save one of ours. Understood?”

  Justice knew his blood brothers would understand—they all knew Voodoo from the days back in Turtle Bayou. It was the other five, like Rat, that bothered him.

  “Makes no difference to me. They still cops,” Rat’s words confirmed Justice’s suspicion.

  “You mess up this mission to rescue our friend, and I’ll kill you before I take out the first Devil’s Own.” Justice stood, towering over his bike.

  He leaned toward Rat’s old Triumph and snatched the pitted ape-hanger handlebar with one hand. The cruiser shook against Justice’s pull forward and Rat’s push back. Effortlessly, the leader's strength dominated. Finally, Rat relinquished and allowed his bike to roll closer.

  “Do you hear me?” Justice barked.

  “Sir, yes, sir,” Rat said, a smirk of sarcasm smeared across his tattooed face.

  “Anyone else got a problem with this mission?” he asked. The other nine bikers shook their heads. Rat averted his glare.

  Chapter Eleven

  At the peal of a bell, Pike sprinted down two flights of stairs at the rear of the eight-story building where FORCE was holed up. The old pre-World War II structure had seen better days, but Hoboken was filled with similar construction. Situated close to an area still showing the devastation of 2012’s Hurricane Sandy, the nearby docks were rife with homelessness and riff raff.

  He’d not heard the thunderous stampede of muscle-motorcycles, so he assumed their other requested guest had arrived.

  His heart raced as he leaned into the peephole. Dusk had triggered a dim automatic exterior light over the entrance. He recognized the body, but couldn’t see the face. His palm pressed against the top of his holstered weapon as he sucked in a deep breath and opened the door.

  “Lawless, thanks for coming,” Pike said with his hand extended.

  “How can I turn down a Black Hawk sitting in my front yard? What’s the latest on Voodoo?”

  The man asked without making eye contact. His head was on a swivel, instinctively scanning the unfamiliar neighborhood. Lawless stormed past him.

  “Sounds like another Black Hawk behind you,” Pike said without thinking. His lips pinched. The shaggy beard hid his grimace. Pike knew what was coming, and he braced for the storm.

  “This better not be what I think it is. You should’ve never gotten me involved.”

  Lawless reached with an overly long arm and grabbed a fistful of plaid flannel. He pushed the former SEAL into the unpainted metal doorframe and tried to walk away but Pike snatched at his wrist and pulled him back.

  “Whatever you got going on with your brother is between y’all. This is about Voodoo. I know she was special to you, so you owe her this much,” Pike challenged.

  “She is special to me—not was. You should’ve been honest,” Lawless barked. “You’ve no idea what hell you’ve put FORCE into. If you’re dealing with Justice, you’re dealing with the devil himself.”

  A low rumble elevated to a roar as Justice's biker army rounded the corner. Eleven Harley Davidson motorcycles lined the block in front of the buil
ding. Pike eyed Lawless. There’d be no walking away this time.

  “What’s that punk doing here?” Justice hollered over the thump and tat, tat, tat of his Dyna Glide.

  Pike suddenly regretted his decision to call in both brothers. “This is about Voodoo,” he shouted.

  “Without him. I only work with warriors,” Justice taunted.

  “I’ll kick his butt right now for being on our block,” Rat dropped his kickstand and leaned his old Triumph Victory cruiser to climb off.

  “Chill out, Rat,” Justice warned.

  “You the prick cop?” Rat provoked as he scuffed across the curb toward Lawless.

  Called Rat because of his pointy nose and narrow, pinched lips, the man stood about six feet and weighed just under two hundred pounds.

  “I’m telling you to back down, Rat.” Justice raised his voice.

  “I’m my own man, and it’s time to set these pigs right.” He snickered with an ignorant jerk of his head.

  Pike watched denim stretch across broad shoulders and pumped-up biceps. Lawless slid his right foot back about two feet. Blood drained from his fist as he cranked knuckles into a wrecking ball. Seemed everyone knew what was about to happen, but Rat. The Savage Soul brother challenged Lawless again. Bobbed his jaw as he cursed the lawman.

  Lawless’ fist erupted so fast, no one saw the punch, though they all expected it. Pike cringed as he witnessed six feet and two hundred pounds lift into the air then crash onto the grime-coated sidewalk. Rat lay crumpled; out cold.

  “I got work to do,” Lawless said as he burst past Pike toward the stairs. “You said second floor, right?” he asked.

  “I never said any floor.”

  “I saw the rifle scope reflect through the window. Y’all better be better than that.” Lawless disappeared into the dank hall and stomped upstairs to meet the rest of FORCE’s team.

  “Justice, y’all coming in?”

  Pike was actually glad to see the club’s president, but wasn’t sure who he'd brought with him since the last crew of the Savage nation got themselves terminated in Chicago. The giant nodded and then signaled for everyone to unload.

  Pike’s lungs burned as the exhaust from the oil-spouting road HOGs spewed toward him while rear tires rolled against the cement curb. He watched as a biker without the club’s main patch on his colors walked Rat’s bike out of the street and in line with the others. His bottom rocker read Pledge—a rookie in the OMC, he would be doing all their dirty work.

  “Drag him upstairs,” Justice ordered the pledge as he stepped over Rat to grab Pike by the hand and triceps. “You did good in Chicago—I owe you and Alex this one. But you should’ve been honest about everything. Everything.”

  “I needed you both more than whatever beef you two have going. This is about Voodoo, not you two or cops and bikers—just Voodoo.”

  Pike’s stance stiffened as each biker approached. He knew they were all combat vets, but he wasn’t sure what their reactions to him would be.

  “I won’t bother introducing you. We won’t be around that long. Can’t believe Easter is tomorrow—I never even bought my little girl a basket,” Justice said as he pointed the others toward the staircase.

  Pike half-smiled at the words. He’d never considered that Justice, or any of them might have a family. His gut churned slowly as he realized his hopes of a family, possibly with Voodoo, were coming to an end unless they rescued her. He stepped back as the pledge tugged Rat through the threshold by his leather vest.

  “Rip those colors Pledge, and Rat will make a new vest from your skin,” Justice bellowed through the narrow foyer. The young pledge hoisted the bigger biker onto his shoulders and crawled bent-knees up the stairs.

  Pike locked the front door before he yanked out his cell phone. Pictures of Voodoo and him on the cypress swing from Good Friday flittered beneath his swiping thumb.

  “I love you, Krystal,” he whispered into the darkness.

  Scarred knuckles that had fought so often for freedom for others brushed away dampness from his eyes. It was time to fight for the one person he’d ever truly cared for. Bonny, and the Devil’s Own better pray death comes quickly for taking his Voodoo. From this point on, he vowed, no more sorrow, only death.

  A message alert popped up—Alex telling him to get upstairs. The sounds of a ruckus suggested he'd better.

  Then another message alert appeared. It was Bonny continuing to taunt him over Voodoo’s capture. The picture of Bonny’s maniacal sneer confirmed it.

  Chapter Twelve

  Dated fluorescent lighting flickered and buzzed above the gathering. A dirty yellowish light bathed everyone, as the factions traded verbal insults, but kept well away from each other. Curses and threats of violence rose and fell until the big man stepped up.

  “You know what happened in the upper room when Jesus broke bread with his disciples?” Justice’s voice filled the cavernous space.

  “No, what?” Ellie stepped into the natural gap that formed between the two groups.

  “A jerk betrayed him. Difference is Jesus forgave Judas, but I won’t.” Justice glared.

  “Then make sure you keep your goons in check, because we won’t either.” Ellie stared up at him, her head angled sharply to make eye contact.

  Justice rolled his head around until his neck cracked. Both shoulders lifted and fell as he stabbed a thick finger toward the windows. “I’m talking about that one.”

  Back bent and palms pressed against the sill, Lawless's attention was directed away from his brother’s scoffs. His sidearm poked from beneath his shirt, and he made no effort to conceal it.

  Pike, still winded from his scramble up the stairs, stepped forward. “Settle this later. Right now, we gotta do something. Bonny and those dirt-bag bikers are raping Voodoo.”

  He shoved his cell and the pictures at Alex. She turned her eyes away.

  “We’re on it brother,” Justice patted Pike’s shoulder. The other Savages glowered in disbelief.

  “Alex, what’s the status on tracking her text messages?” Justice paid no mind to the other bikers, his shadow ops training was on full autopilot.

  “I’ve still got resources, but not those. Lawless was running the info through his Task Force,” Alex suggested.

  She padded across the floor toward Justice.

  “They have a general area, but her smartphone’s GPS is junk. Maybe my IT team will have a better location soon.” Lawless said.

  His interest beyond that window had begun to bother Justice.

  “I’d say we relocate to a rally point closer to where we think Voodoo is until his team contacts us, but we’re safe here.” Alex suggested.

  Alex tried to establish eye contact with the other Savages, but met cold, dead stares directed back to her group.

  “Safe?” Lawless chortled. “They know we’re here,” he muttered—gaze fixed outside.

  “How do you know?” Justice asked.

  The room silenced.

  Lawless leaned closer until his forehead pressed against the glass. “Because your Judas is pushing his bike down the street.”

  Justice spun, his big leather boots grinding into the filthy carpet, as he counted heads. Lips shut, eyes open. Anger boiled from his gut and up his neck until rage whistled through his ears. He was freaking pissed.

  Three huge steps and he stood shoulder to shoulder with his brother. Neither budged.

  “Think he called them?” Alex asked.

  “Not without this,” the pledge approached Justice to surrender Rat’s cell phone.

  “You steal this from another brother?” Justice snatched the phone, and then reared back his fist.

  The young biker cowered.

  “No, sir. While he was out, he was saying something about calling the devil. Figured it's better to be safe, so when his cell fell on the steps, I grabbed it.”

  “Army intel for ya. Good job, boy.” Justice smashed his thick paw atop the pledge’s shoulder. The man sagged beneath the pressure
, but forced a grin.

  “Should’ve known one of yours would flip,” Jim grumbled while unzipping a long nylon bag.

  The unmistakable sound seized everyone’s attention.

  Justice towered over Jim, but the former Force Recon Marine’s attention was welded to assembling the TAR-21 assault rifle. Skilled with a wide variety of weapon types, he preferred the 5.56 round of ammunition offered by the Israeli bullpup rifle. The 7.21-pound gun’s 18-inch barrel whirled together as Jim’s hands worked in a flurry to assemble the Tavor.

  They heard the unmistakable roar of Rat’s Triumph ignite prior to take off.

  “Come on, man, get it done,” Justice demanded.

  Jim worked faster, locating the pieces that had jostled around inside the carry case during transport. The bikers closed in around him—anxiety filled the room. Justice felt it. One of his own would have to die.

  “Y’all back off, give him some light,” Jonas said.

  The pledge shoved Jonas.

  Before the pledge’s fingers left Jonas’s chest, the former Delta Force operative, and FORCE number two, had wrenched the man’s wrist until his knees pounded the floor.

  Jim kept working.

  The sputtering motorcycle engine’s growl wafted through the closed windows. Time was running out.

  Jonas drew back to smash his fist deep into the pledge’s face.

  "Stop," Justice yelled. The big man's roar rattled the confined space. “Everyone shut it down and let the man focus.”

  Silence.

  Jim racked the bolt action to test for assembly. He was done. Though the gun was capable of firing nine hundred rounds per minute, there’d be time for only one shot. He jumped up slamming a thirty round magazine into the receiver.

  Lawless flexed his biceps until the painted-shut window broke from its seal. Jim ran to the opening. Rat twisted his accelerator to pump more fuel into his tattered engine. They heard the solid thud and then crack of his engine as it backfired to life.