Split Second

by Louis Scott

  Here goes nothing.

  Chapter Ten

  Chicago’s Southside wasn’t a place for playing games, or getting turned around. FORCE was laser focused, but the matrix of pitted streets and abandoned buildings made navigating a challenge. Jim piloted the SUV the best he could, but there was still the threat of ambush if he made a wrong turn. Pike squinted his eyes to focus his vision on the area leading up to the rendezvous point.

  Jim made several sweeps around the location to draw out counter-surveillance, but found nothing. It seemed clear. The Southside’s open parking lot contained no vehicles, almost looking surreal. Only a decrepit warehouse sat discarded, with windows busted and electrical wiring stripped bare.

  The front cargo area was pulled open and the rear door was propped back by a pile of bricks. Jonas warned them to stay alert as they slipped out of the SUV and took positions of cover across from the warehouse—his warning was unnecessary.

  They were welcomed by a single man who’d stepped out from the shadows to show he was no threat.

  “Well, ain’t this some crap?” The mountain of a man swept the petite Voodoo up into his full-sleeve tattooed arms.

  “Justice, I can’t believe it’s you. Where’d the time go?”

  Pike felt his skin crawl the longer the outlaw held Voodoo. He surveyed the brute, sizing him up in the event things turned sideways. Towering around six-feet-six inches, the biker had biceps like Mr. Olympia and a body like a professional wrestler.

  Damn, I’d have to shoot his big butt.

  Justice Boudreaux was the national president of the notorious Savage Souls Outlaw Motorcycle Club. Known as a one percent biker club, the Savage Souls were a mixture of ex-military and felons. Sometimes they were one and the same. Justice however came from a lethal CIA background of intelligence and covert ops. He was and wasn’t your typical biker, and that was what made him so incredibly dangerous.

  “How’s my big bro?” his soft voice garbled as if he’d invested a lifetime consuming broken glass and scotch.

  Pike ticked off another observation. Men who spoke above a whisper were the ones to watch out for, and he'd barely made out what Justice had said.

  “Recovering just fine. Should be back on duty in no time. Why don’t you call him—he’d love to hear your voice.” Voodoo's slender fingers trembled as she struggled to reach high enough to touch his jaw—the big bear tilted his face and a slight smile breached his rough exterior.

  “Naw baby, we agreed to disagree. Maybe on the other side.” His eyes distanced for a moment dropping into memories.

  “Your call, but he does miss you.”

  “Enough chat, who’re these posers?” Justice mood shifted.

  He kept his distance and eyed each of FORCE’s team. Pike bounced lightly on the balls of his feet, but realized how utterly exhausted and ragtag they must’ve looked to Justice and his crew.

  “These are my friends. We need your help,” Voodoo said, almost begging.

  Pike wasn’t comfortable with her tone.

  “Cops?”

  “Kinda,” she shrugged with both palms lifted.

  “Kinda don’t cut it. Pigs ain’t kinda cool—they’re pigs. These pigs?” Justice’s voice ground into sinister disdain.

  Each time he spit the word pig, his shadowed face contorted. Although the empty warehouse was open at each end, light was at a minimum. He seemed to loom with the sun behind him—a purposeful tactic.

  Pike didn’t detect any others in the area, so he gambled that the spectacle Justice made was more to establish dominance than concern over FORCE’s jurisdiction. Still, through eyes bloodshot and blistered by fatigue, he kept a narrow lookout for others. He knew the Savage Souls OMC all too well, and still couldn’t shake regret that he had to compromise his integrity by asking these criminals for help.

  “They--I mean, we—are trying to stop some crazy terrorists trying to kill people in Chicago.”

  “Dah’lin, this city got lots of crazy people trying to kill people, why’s this any worse?”

  Justice's enormous hands tucked under a mane of tousled light brown hair and pulled it out of his face to expose a near carbon copy of Lawless.

  “Maybe so, but you in or out?” Pike spoke up out of frustration.

  “You ain’t no cop,” Justice snapped. “SEAL?” Justice said with a thick, ringed finger pointed at Pike, who reared up rigid, his mind shifting into combat mode.

  He didn’t want to go hands on, but he wasn’t going to be disrespected either. “Why’d you say that?”

  “Because I used to eat daisies like you for breakfast.”

  Justice roared with a back-bending laugh. Square-toed Harley Davidson boots creaked under his bulk to balance him.

  Pike’s heart raced as he stepped forward from the group of FORCE operatives. No way this jerk was going to insult his beloved SEALs.

  “I doubt biker scum ever did anything other than what a SEAL told him to do.”

  “Before I saw the light, squid. But I’d still mop the floor with your scrawny hide today.”

  Justice waggled his fingers in a c'mon gesture as he brandished a smirky grin. His fingers sported huge silver rings that featured skulls and crosses. Pike made a mental note to avoid the punches.

  “Before?” His chin jutted toward the biker.

  “I was SAD’s SOG,” He said with a leer.

  Pike eased his posture with that bombshell.

  “CIA?” His face twisted in doubt.

  “I never heard of you.” Alex spoke up—mostly to cool the egos on parade.

  “And whoever you are, I never heard of you,” Justice rebutted. “Who the frick are you, some government agency’s house mouse?”

  Pike’s initial reaction was to attack for the insult. The outlaw underworld used the term house mouse to describe females they swapped for sex. The biker world viewed women as property, or old ladies. Alex was no one’s property.

  “NCS?” Alex asked, as she seemed to ignore his insulting comment.

  “Freaking A, momma—the National Clandestine Service.” Justice let out a slight chuckle.

  “So you know what we do.” Jonas spoke up.

  Justice twisted toward him.

  “I was on my way to being like you Jonas, but their Special Activities Division knew Delta was for wimps. Probably why they accepted you,” Justice squared his jaw and spoke directly to Jonas.

  The Delta Force veteran brushed off the comment with a flip of his finger.

  Pike looked around the warehouse. Surely this was a set up. No way in hell was the president of the Savage Souls outlaw motorcycle club a former CIA Special Operations agent.

  “Are you kidding us?” Pike huffed. “Who the heck are you, dude?”

  Pike kept his body bladed to fight.

  “Forget him,” Jonas exhaled. “He isn’t worth it,” uncharacteristically, Jonas's words came petty and taunting.

  “Just like it read—weak.” Justice snarled.

  His hands spread open his black rawhide motorcycle vest to reveal a chiseled torso. The old leather creased against a matrix of demonic-looking patches sewn into it. Pike scanned the calling cards of Justice’s biker life, typical of outlaws who wore patches and pins like uniformed cops and military wear badges and rank insignia.

  “Read what?” Jonas filed through the others to confront him.

  He was about ten years past his physical prime, but at forty, Jonas was still the best brawler Pike knew. He sensed Justice respected it also.

  “Your dossier. Every jerk wad with a criminal record has had access to the Serpent’s database.” Justice rubbed his thumb and fingers together. “Money gets access to everything.”

  “Okay, enough macho talk," Voodoo said. "I don’t know y’all’s military mumbo jumbo, but I do know Justice left the bayou years ago to join the service. Heck, we all swore the same oath, just wear different patches now.” Both shoulders drew back—she’d never stood taller. "It’s not about police work or whatever the cra
p you do, Justice. It’s about saving America, and unless y’all got a better plan, then my screwed up roommate Bonny, is going to do some serious damage on St. Paddy’s Day.”

  “It’s okay, Voodoo.” Pike placed his hand over her shoulder. “We’ve come this far without help, and help like his, we don’t need.”

  “Hey, warrior,” Justice growled. “This ain’t the Middle East and those cats out there ain’t bin Laden. They’ll shoot back.”

  “What’s that mean, outlaw?” Pike challenged him.

  “That means the rules of this game are different, and I make the rules.” Justice tapped his finger against his own chest.

  “That mean you in?” Pike stuck his hand out.

  “For America; yes. Not the pigs.” Justice grasped his hand.

  Chapter Eleven

  The brownstone looked like any other West Side single-story building. Jim Graham was back behind the wheel. He hurried the team along Chicago’s Division Street until he found a spot to squeeze into between a row of rat bikes. Pike kept his eyes peeled from the shotgun seat, while Alex gave instructions to the rest of them.

  “Voodoo, you sure about this?” Pike questioned her again, interrupting Alex’s briefing.

  She snorted with a shake of her head, but kept silent.

  As they exited the SUV and walked toward the Savage Souls’ HQ, Pike's hands were moist and cold. He felt sweat popping from the flood of heat that rose up his neck. The last time he entered a biker clubhouse, he’d taken a knife in the thigh before he strangled the dirt bag to death with his bare hands.

  “Welcome ladies,” said Justice as he roared his HOG into the space reserved for the chapter president.

  Pike’s elbow tapped the top of his holster as a reassurance that his Glock 9mm was secured and ready for action. He patted the inside of his right calf to adjust the concealed KA-BAR knife he carried. It was his favorite multipurpose tool, given to him as a birthday present by Jim.

  He knew how much Force Recon Marines loved their KA-BARs, and Pike always took pride in maintaining his. He touched the snub-nose revolver strapped onto his left calf for good measure, too, before entering the clubhouse. Pike carried as many weapons as possible, but his mental preparedness was his greatest weapon.

  “Nice place you got here, baby,” Voodoo’s singsong tone agitated Pike, but he trusted her. He assumed—well actually hoped—her flirtatious nature was another tactic to keep Justice mellow and focused on the agreement.

  Pike’s legs stiffened, and steps became labored as his boot soles scuffed across the debris-cluttered street and onto the chipped sidewalk. It was obvious Chicago’s public works departments had avoided this strip of real estate for their own safety.

  Pike surveyed the building’s design as he approached the fortified front door. There were no windows, a steel swing gate reinforced the front door, and a rectangular metal sign bolted into the brick. It alerted the world that this property belonged to the Savage Souls Motorcycle Club, Inc.

  The dinged-up metal banner was white with dark red trim. The demonic emblem and club name also displayed a diamond shape with 1%er inside of it. This announced the club operated in society’s fringe and unacceptable was always acceptable.

  Pike realized Outlaw Motorcycle Clubs, or OMC took pride in shocking the sensibilities of honest citizens. He also saw the letters FSS-SSF, which stood for Forever Savage Souls – Savage Souls Forever. Finally, the last message on the club’s calling card was the letters FTW. He wasn’t surprised by the vulgar motto.

  “Carrying?” Justice asked.

  “Stupid question,” Pike said.

  His elbow tapped the holstered 9mm pistol again.

  “Stupid not to, but you’re good with your hands, ain’t ya?” Justice’s eyes injected frozen slivers into Pike’s spine.

  He stopped in the threshold to glare at Justice, and allowed his eyes to adjust to the low interior light. The drone of heavy metal music echoed from within.

  “Yeah, I am.”

  Pike noticed Ellie clinging to Jim’s side. Both tense, their eyes covered every inch of the confined space. Hands never relaxed or away from their weapons.

  A warped pool table was situated in the middle of the room. A faux stained-glass light fixture swung on chains that clanked beneath oscillating ceiling fans. They only served to kick up the funk that clung to the walls. Pike assumed the sheet of plywood leaning against the west wall was probably used as a desktop during the club’s “bible study” time.

  Alex moved into the light as if to match Justice’s dominance. Jonas lingered closer to the door, and Pike ended up in an odd position between two greasy bikers who leaned against the bar. Voodoo continued her contrary behavior and sat on a stool next to Justice.

  Eight other club members entered through two separate side doors to join Justice and the two bikers next to Pike. Both doors had been concealed behind Savage Soul flags and a Nazi swastika banner. A low ceiling compressed the tension, but didn’t subdue it. Most of the men weren’t as colossal as Justice, but they looked as determined to punish outsiders for invading their turf.

  Crap, this ain’t going to end well at all.

  Pike glared hoping to catch Voodoo’s attention. It was either time to de-escalate the situation, or discover she’d walked them into a trap. His hand slipped beneath his shirt to grip his weapon. Pike’s escorts moved in until their smelly leather-vested torsos were physically touching him. He peeked at Jonas, who now had several SS members blanketing next to him.

  Though the lighting was dim in the furthermost corner across from him, Pike could see two more bikers had angled their fat frames toward Jim and Ellie. The others aligned themselves in scattered positions blocking exits and bathroom doors.

  “So we gonna party or what?” Justice asked.

  “What kinda party you throwing?” Alex’s words snapped through Metallica’s Enter Sandman’s blare.

  “Well…” he grimaced while scratching his matted beard, “…since there are you ladies in the house, how about we dance?” He reached for Alex’s right arm.

  “Dance with this,” she said, twisting her shoulders away from his reach.

  Justice’s momentum carried him one step too far. Before he could adjust, Alex had unsheathed her KA-BAR, pushed her left foot off the top of the pool table, and slung around to land on the giant’s back—her knife pressed into the thickened skin at his throat.

  “Crazy witch, you gonna pay for this,” he rasped as she filleted his skin enough to draw blood. The other ten bikers stood frozen.

  “All we asked for was your help—not your games. We got work to do, so stand down soldier.” Alex commanded.

  Once again, Alex was in complete control of the situation. Pike laughed to himself when he realized her positioning by the pool table was purposeful. She’d anticipated the need for a launch platform.

  “All right.” Justice gagged. “Just checking your metal to make sure you the real deal. We don’t work with porky pigs. Moves like that make me wonder what you’re like in bed.”

  Alex slipped the blade one more inch as payback for that disrespectful remark. His growl signaled he knew it.

  “Time is wasting. I’m going to ask you again, Justice, you in or out?” Pike stepped away from his two shadows.

  “Anything for my country,” he said, coughing once Alex released him.

  “I want your word that you’ll pull no more crap like this. Thousands of lives are at stake—American lives.” Pike pressed.

  “These ten men are all Veterans. Only ones I’d trust not to kill you given the chance. At least not until after we stop this attack.” Justice didn’t glance away from Alex.

  “Understood.” Alex said.

  “They’re all convicted felons and illegally carrying weapons. You got a problem with that?” Justice challenged her by standing close with his arms folded tight across his broad chest.

  “We’re not ATF,” Alex smirked. “As long as they’re willing and able to shoot the snot o
ut of terrorists, I’m okay with it,” she said.

  Pike saw their hardened-stone looks turn into shouts with high-fives.

  Man, Alex just unleashed the Leviathan.

  Chapter Twelve

  Justice’s dank office was cluttered with old pictures covered in dust, empty whiskey bottles and a broken shadow box that held a Medal of Honor. Alex was saddened at the thought of what had driven the most highly decorated warrior in the military into this hellhole.

  “Alex, now that the showboating’s done, let’s get down to business,” Justice said. “What exactly are we dealing with?”

  Justice’s somber demeanor shifted her perception of him. His massive frame settled across from her, his heavily inked forearms rippling against the small military surplus metal field desk. His eyes, sleepy and deep brown, narrowed their focus until her eyes locked into them.

  “We’re not sure, but suspect a bio-chem variant of fentanyl. The Serpent’s disciples tried dispersing it in a few locations around the D.C. area over the last few months, but we’ve been able to stop them in time. Even managed to take out the Serpent in the process.” Her stare remained strong but not uncourteous—this had become a meeting of professionals.

  “I heard—good work. Then what happened?” Justice grinned.

  “His death was like throwing dust into a storm—his blood family, disciples and off-shoot networks went wild trying to unleash his master plan. Most hadn’t the intellect or resources, but one in particular has been successful so far.”

  “The Rougarou,” he whispered.

  “Yes, whatever the heck a Rougarou is, it’s remained one step ahead.” Alex admitted.

  “The Rougarou of my childhood was mythical, seems like this one is real. You believe in legend?” Justice’s tone shifted and he appeared to be flirting with her.

  “Not in the least bit. I deal in facts, and the fact is that this one—myth or real—is going to get busted sooner or later,” Alex said. “We’ve intercepted a member’s diary and have been translating it from an obsolete Eastern bloc language, before being able to decode it. We’re getting closer to a full debriefing soon. Until then, we’ve tracked leads as they’re revealed.”