by Louis Scott
“Sorry you had to see that, Pike,” Jim said as he climbed back behind the wheel.
“Screw him. Maybe Bonny will take him out along with the president.” Pike scrunched down low in his seat.
“Your traitor will get what he deserves, bud.” Justice said.
“Thanks, Justice.” Pike murmured.
“So, Alex, you owe us a very quick and honest explanation about the doctor.” Jim demanded.
“I checked her out myself. I don’t understand. There must be some mistake.” Alex said.
Jim handed Justice the tracking monitor.
“Thanks, Bro. We’ll skip the ceremonies and head out to see what’s going down,” Justice waved at his bikers to spin around. “Alex, I’ve come to trust you, but if this was a double cross, I won’t think twice about it.” Justice dragged his index finger across his throat.
“Don’t threaten me,” she snapped.
“No threat. Promise.”
Justice checked the screen again and hurried back across the highway to join his brothers.
Pike sat silently with arms folded tight against his rigid body. His head turned out the window, his thoughts on Voodoo. His poor love never asked to be a part of this, yet she had suffered danger more than anyone. This was the end for him. His excitement was going to come from living the married life. If they could save her again that was.
“Pike, I really am sorry about the doctor. I did vet her and trusted her very much. I can’t imagine what might’ve caused her to flee,” Alex offered.
Pike refused to respond.
“We’ll know soon enough. Justice and crew are on the tracker website now and heading toward the beacon’s signal. Looks like the doctor is heading back toward the apartment from the other night,” Jim said.
“The one where Justice sniped the biker?” Ellie yelled from the back seat.
“One and same,” Jim replied with a glance and smile in the rearview.
“That’s an odd coincidence.” Alex stated the obvious.
Jim drove as close behind JW Colt’s motorcade as possible. Thanks to the audacious H1, their SUV looked like a VIP transporter. A flash of gold federal agency badges greeted the security guard at the first of many entrance checkpoints.
“Hang on, it’s Lawless,” Alex said.
The others began scanning the crowds for Bonny.
“Don’t worry about Fats,” Lawless’s voice was flat and serious.
“He change his mind about coming?” Alex asked.
“Vengeance changed it for him.” Lawless hung up.
“Lets spread out. There’s got to be fifty thousand people here,” Alex guessed.
Pike spotted the bodyguard contingency escorting JW Colt through a designated side alley. There’d be no way the U.S. Secret Service would chance trapping POTUS in this crowd without an escape route. The privacy sheeting that covered the temporary fencing provided that path. JW Colt used it; Pike would use it.
The ocean of police blue, fire red, and military green leapt to their feet at the introduction of the national anthem. Pike’s natural instinct was to stand at attention and pay proper respect to his country. He did while scanning the crowd.
Even so, gazing at the sight of the future “Empty Sky” memorial, he became overwhelmed with its significance. The State of New Jersey had lost seven hundred and forty-nine citizens on the morning of September 11, 2001. This Easter Sunday ceremony was to honor them and to serve as a fundraiser for the site.
His entire career had come as a direct result of those seven hundred and forty-nine people’s death, along with the other two thousand, two hundred and forty-seven victims killed in the terrorist attacks on September 11, 2001. As a result, Pike had committed every second to tracking and killing those responsible. He'd been successful, but he’d also paid a huge toll along the way.
Pike wanted it all to end on this Easter Sunday. He was willing to pay the ultimate price to bring peace to a nation ravished by zealots hell bent on destroying America’s security.
He began to slip quietly along the fence before the music ended. The best chance of spotting Bonny was while everyone was standing. The pledge of allegiance was next—he moved closer.
It was just past mid-morning and the sun’s glare shimmered off the Hudson River. Adjusting his sunshades, he systematically searched the audience using the wide area surface scanning technique taught to him while counter-sniping Taliban long-range shooters. The technique had earned him numerous confirmed kills.
There was the president. She was easy enough to spot, and there was the fraud, JW Colt seated about three chairs down from the leader of the free world. A world Pike had helped keep free for sheep by hunting and killing the wolf.
He felt a flush rise at the sight of Colt being honored as a guest and a speaker. Okay, enough of Colt. Where was Bonny? He saw law enforcement from across the country and the world, but no Bonny. He recalled Justice saying she might be dressed as a cop.
Glare limited his vision and made his tired eyes water, so he maneuvered closer to the opening at the end of the makeshift escape route. He moved slowly because he knew once Secret Service detected him, they’d remove or arrest him for being within a restricted zone.
[Anybody got eyes on?] Alex’s text went unanswered.
Pike’s focus strained to eliminate the view of Manhattan just across the river. The President of the United States of America had just been introduced, and Pike knew that would be the perfect time for an assassin to strike.
[No word on Voodoo either] This text from Alex caught his attention. His heart sunk—he’d failed her again.
He forced himself to focus on the mission. Still over one hundred yards away, Pike could see officers stand to applaud as the president delivered her most patriotic speech to date. A British Bobby standing alone caught his attention. Attired in a formal uniform like the other officers present, the distinctive hat appeared overly ornate and outdated. It looked classic when combined in a dress-class uniform.
I couldn’t imagine wearing that hat for a twelve-hour shift.
Seated not far behind the POTUS and Colt, the British officer became a distraction for Pike. He forced himself to scan other locations close to the target zone, but his eyes kept returning to the British officer.
POTUS wrapped up her speech, and would soon be whisked away while other police, fire, and military dignitaries droned on.
Pike paused. He'd been in this game long enough to realize you didn't ignore the little voice or the times when the hair on the back of your neck stood up. No good cop did. He now focused on the British Bobby instead of trying to avoid him. He leaned in. Then lurched across the fencing. His weight balanced across. It rattled the feeble metal and drew the Secret Service’s attention.
“Freeze!” someone called out.
Pike ignored them. Something stuck out in plain sight, but what was it? He glanced at the teams of Secret Service Agents making their way faster toward him. He again ignored them. When he turned back, he saw what it was that drew his eyes like a moth to the flame.
British Bobbies didn’t carry firearms. The one seated about three chairs to the left and one row back was wearing a leather duty belt with a semi-automatic pistol attached. Pike jumped the chain-link fence and hurried through the audience.
He made eye contact with Jonas, who had begun to circle closer to the front. Pike mimed a large hat above his head, and Jonas looked to have understood the reference. Both operatives moved quicker, but unfortunately drew more attention to themselves.
When POTUS moves, the general rule is everyone else sits their butts down.
Four Secret Service Agents were now over the fence and in pursuit of Pike. His heart raced at the danger, but there wasn’t time to stop to explain.
POTUS stepped away from the podium and headed toward the crowd and what Pike assumed would be an exit. Pike moved faster though he had to fight his way through the mass of humanity. He saw the British Bobby rise. The blue felt helmet came off to
reveal a shock of blonde hair, cut above an angular jaw line—Bonny.
“Stop!” yelled the Secret Service agent.
Pike clawed his way over laps and uniform dress shoes.
“Stop or I’ll shoot!” screamed another agent dressed in the typical dark navy suit with the lapel pin of the day.
Frantic, Pike pushed harder. He was within about thirty yards of Bonny when he saw her withdraw a Glock semiautomatic from her holster.
“Freeze!” A Secret Service agent confronted Pike at the end of the aisle.
“British Bobby. Gun,” he gasped.
He saw Jonas sprinting across an opening to the front of the audience.
“Bonny, no!” Pike yelled.
Bonny flicked her head to toss her hair from her eyes. She turned back and fired two rounds.
The president didn’t have the time, nor the training to move out of the line of fire. It all happened so fast. Who could’ve expected her to react? Officers, once spectators, grabbed Bonny’s arms and eventually pulled the weapon from her hands.
Pike froze at the barrel of a Secret Service pistol pointed at his forehead. He glanced over the federal employee’s shoulder to see Jonas being handcuffed by another team of feds. The rest of the team had slowed to a walk but kept filtering in.
His peripheral captured a flash of agents evacuating the president through the fenced escape route. Crowds scattered as emergency medical personnel arrived to the front row.
Though it happened too quickly to see, witnesses with phone cameras and live television had captured the moment. Pike, later saw the footage. The SEAL seated near the president redeemed himself in the end. He recognized the threat, and like every good SEAL is trained to do, he defended the helpless. JW Colt dove into the line of fire. The day's single casualty was United States Navy SEAL, Captain JW Colt—American hero.
Chapter Twenty
Traffic slowed along Louisiana Highway 18 as the procession of police cars, limousines and Harley Davidsons squeezed across a sliver of shoulder that dotted the river road. A levee that held the mighty Mississippi River at bay was also speckled by guests’ vehicles.
Pike’s thumb and forefinger flapped his tuxedo jacket to coax a slight breeze across his torso. He greeted each of the Boudreaux brothers as they marched into the narrow lanes of asphalt. Pike slid the slick sole of his shiny black shoes across the damp surface of manicured lawn. Thoughtful as he read the rocker patches embossed across the backs of their cuts, he’d actually grown to understand their ethos—if not respect it. Pike chuckled at the sight of their leather vests cleaned up—or at least wiped down for the ceremony.
Hands shoved deep into each front pocket, he beamed at the majestic view. Eighteenth century Greek Revival architecture at its most splendid. An eight hundred foot canopied-path lined with twenty-eight grandiose oak trees led to the main plantation home, known as Oak Alley. The most iconic of all Mississippi River Valley antebellum mansions.
Yet, it all failed in comparison to the beauty who had just arrived in an ornate candle-white, Barouche buggy, drawn by a pristinely groomed white stallion. Fingers teased a wave as she rode past. Voodoo’s smile was as innocent and sincere as he’d ever seen.
Cinderella, who would’ve guessed.
“You ready, Pike?” Jim asked.
“As I’ll ever be,” he smiled. They shook hands again before the trek beneath the blanket of foliage. “Jim, I owe today to you,” Pike said.
Mint julep spilled across Jim’s bottom lip. “Owe me for what?”
“Never doubting my suspicions of Doctor Hailey. Dropping the tracker into her purse was pure genius. Without that, today wouldn't be happening.” Pike squeezed Jim’s arm.
“Yeah, it’s nuts that Senator Rogan dispatched the good doctor to kill Alex—can’t trust anyone. Too small a world.” Jim whistled after he emphasized his point.
“No kidding." Pike laughed.
Pike had seen the photograph’s given to Alex by the cleaners. The auto-body shop where they’d left Mercy to watch over Voodoo in the hands of Dr. Hailey, was a mess. The doctor didn’t know that Mercy had been a highly decorated combat medic, and that he would detect anything she tried as a threat. Seems before Doctor Hailey was able to inject Voodoo with a syringe, Mercy shot her in the face.
“Mercy showed that witch no mercy,” Jim simulated pulling a pistol from a holster.
“Good thing Mercy remembered the safe house in New York.” Pike smiled.
“Why didn’t Mercy just haul tail after he blasted the doc?”
“Jim, childhood friendships extend beyond the bonds of common sense, or at least that’s what Justice said.”
“That Justice is a true Renaissance man,’ Jim chuckled.
“Yep, it’s just that simple,” Pike said.
He waved to the rest of the wedding party who waited under the last tree, next to the white lattice gazebo. They began to assemble.
“How do you know that Senator Rogan set up the kill?” Pike asked as they began walking to the made up alter.
“Let you in on a secret?” Jim said.
He pulled Pike back in close to whisper.
“Mercy was going to steal the doctor’s Mercedes to drive Voodoo to the safe-house, but as he approached it with your bride slumped over his shoulder, the Benz zoomed away. Driven by none other, than Senator William Rogan.”
Pike smiled. There’d be one more dragon to slay before closing the chapter to this fairy tale.
“Lets do this, all right?” Pike smiled as they approached the rest of the wedding party.
Seated in the front row next to his daughter and Lawless, Justice stood to tower over Pike. They stared, and then grinned.
“She’s one of our own bayou girls, you better treat her right, California boy.” Justice’s huge hand dwarfed the groom's. “It’s been good learning to trust you.”
“Same here, outlaw.” Pike sneered.
“Seems one more wolf left to slay,” Justice mouthed while he straightened Pike’s boutonniere.
“I’m on it right after the honeymoon, my brother.” Pike assured him.
“He tried running down my brother—the Savage nation will take care of the Senator. You just enjoy your honeymoon on Turtle Bayou.” Justice hugged Pike and disappeared as he walked back up the aisle toward Voodoo
Everyone stood as The Wedding March cued over the speakers.
Pike’s heart pounded with excitement. He couldn’t take it any longer—he had to see her. He bounced on the balls of his feet, trying to see over the crowd. Jim squeezed his left shoulder one last time. It was the silent signal between shadow operatives that it was “Go time.”
Pike embraced the butterflies that raged in his nervous belly. Warm air invaded his lungs, as beads of sweat speckled his forehead. He exhaled forcefully before leaning to peek down the aisle. The lush lawn, dotted with white wicker chairs, flowers, and pastel frocks, looked deep green and cool.
Alex, Jonas, Ellie, Jim and even Dave Miller, sat sweltering in the Creole heat and humidity. Pike laughed at their looks of discomfort, but was ever thankful they’d come to celebrate his special moment. They looked at him and everyone smiled. His nod had just signaled his farewell to the First Ops Response Command Enforcement team.
The music began. He looked to the heavens and mouthed, “Thank you.”
Pike stepped forward so he had a view of the long, rose-strewn path. There she was, his beautiful Krystal Marie Laveau. She looked so tiny, but never so happy. Radiant, smooth caramel skin accented her ivory, satin and lace gown. Spaghetti straps lay across tattooed shoulders, while a ruffled train swept behind her.
White teeth nibbled at her bottom lip, while wide, green eyes looked wet beneath fluttering eyelids. She and her escort waltzed along the grass as gracefully as if they'd practiced it.
“Hi,” she said softly when she reached her groom's side.
“Hi, baby.”
Pike gripped Justice’s hand and thanked him for walking her down the aisl
e. She kissed her childhood friend. Her dad would’ve been proud of this day.
“By the way, I wore this just for you,” she said.
Pike lifted the veil—it was her black leather collar.
The End
More Savage Souls
SAINT:
Book 1 in the DEA Undercover Thriller Series
“If you walk out, don’t ever come back.”
How many times does a person hear that threat in a lifetime? Well, for James St. John it was the last time he expected to hear it. Actually, he wanted to hear it. In all reality, hearing it was part of the plan. He smirked as he slammed the solid-core door shut behind him.
St. John slung his long leg over the gnarly HOG, fired up the giant V-twin engine, and flipped a defiant middle finger as he spit dust behind him. The DEA’s single story, red brick building quickly faded in his rearview mirror as the Road King screamed down an endless black ribbon of highway.
Florida earned its nickname, The Sunshine State, honestly. While the first quarter of the year wasn’t as blistering as the middle, it was still hot. It was south Florida after all. Right in the middle of all of the new sunshine for the new year was Daytona Beach. The ocean-side resort town had swollen in size by at least a half-million people during the annual, early March motorcycle event. The ten days of deals, debauchery and decadence was a welcome income boost to the region, but a nightmare for local police.
St. John was eager to plant himself square in the middle of it all. His Drug Enforcement Administration’s group supervisor had told him never to come back, so what better place to go lose yourself than in the midst of a chrome, leather and tattoo ocean. The strip was ripe for violence or fun. He never knew which to expect—it depended on who set up shop first.
He backed his bike up against a curb about half way down Main Street. The bikes on either side were much more expensive and though he knew were probably trailered there by doctors and lawyers, he promised to behave and not start any crap with the posers.
