by LS Silverii
[Hey Bro U OK]
His gaze grew hazy as he fiddled with the phone while he waited for a reply from his former partner. St. John was suddenly knocked out of his seat and onto both knees by a powerful whack against his back. His cell skidded across the freshly mopped tile.
“What the fuck?” He turned with a fist drawn back to confront his attacker.
Mercy stood over him. “I said are you in or out?”
St. John shook his head to shake the cobwebs.
“Are you deaf? I asked are you ready to take revenge on this motherfucking Gray Man?” Mercy looked even more enraged at having to repeat his question.
“Yeah. What the fuck’s wrong with you?” St. John glared as he struggled to his feet. Still unsure what had just happened, he braced himself to fight.
Mercy offered a handshake. “SFFS.”
“Who’s your bro?” snarled Vengeance.
The others stopped the bravado and peered at St. John. His unlocked cell phone sat in Vengeance’s slimy palm.
“That’d be none of you business.” He reached for the phone but Vengeance pulled away.
“I think we found our snitch.” The unsure look of arrogance and ignorance washed over Vengeance’s ugly mug. He waved the cell like a victory banner.
St. John’s ass clenched as he thought about the information stored in his cell. Unlocked as it was, it meant his death.
“Last chance,” St. John warned.
Vengeance shoved the phone into the inner pocket of his leather cut. St. John’s gaze fixed on the vest. The sergeant at arms patch covered the area of his inner pocket. A United States Coast Guard emblem adorned the other side. St. John’s vision was fixed on the vest, but he also knew he’d better pay attention to the others that circled them. The mood was already ripe for violence. He didn’t want it aimed at him.
Justice lurched forward with an outstretched arm, “What’s on the cell, dude?”
“How’s that any of your business, Justice?”
“It’s all my business.” Justice took another step toward him.
“You back to that bullshit again? This is about the Nation, not you. It’s my phone. I pay for it, so go fuck yourself.”
Vengeance grabbed St. John’s cut. “What did you just say?”
St. John had played out the scenario before in his mind. Now that Vengeance’s hand was entangled, St. John wrapped it in his own. Vengeance looked at him with wide eyes. St. John twisted his arm away to create a gap and drop the blood brother.
Like lightning, St. John slammed his right fist across Vengeance’s open mouth. The blood brother collapsed to his knees, but St. John wouldn’t allow him to fall. He cranked harder against his left wrist until the snap echoed throughout the former cafeteria hall.
“You motherfucker,” Vengeance howled in pain.
St. John thrust his hand inside the club’s colors and retrieved his cell phone, “This isn’t the end of it between you and me.” St. John’s words were hard and spoken in a low hush. Reddened skin highlighted dark eyes. His thoughts were about Abigail and Vengeance’s brutal attack on her.
“You’re damn right. This ain’t over between—” Vengeance’s words stopped short once St. John smashed another fist to his face. He released his grip on the blood brother’s limp left hand and Vengeance crumpled to the ground unconscious.
St. John mashed the button to lock his cell phone screen. “As for you, Justice, this better be the last time you turn against me for the sake of one of your fucked up kin.” He held the phone out toward Justice.
Justice sneered. “When I want your phone, I’ll take it.”
“Or die trying.” St. John dropped it into his pocket.
Chapter 3
I usually enjoy dining alone, but his invitation was so delightful, how could I say no? I am Gray Man after all. All I intended to do was get back home to Sonoma County. There’s a shit pile of glorious weapons waiting to be auctioned, and though I had no intention of dining out, he made it impossible to refuse.
California Highway Patrolman Charles “Chip” Diego was wonderful in the beginning. He was so courteous after he pulled me over for going a tad too fast along Highway 1. I understood and appreciated his concern for my safety—the curving coastal roadway can be dangerous after all. But then, he got nasty with his words and accusations. His questions got very personal and, honestly, I resented his tone of voice.
While his hands roaming over my body made me horny as fuck, there was no way I’d let this pig handcuff me. That’s my game. So I killed him.
Now, there’s no sense in allowing good flesh go to waste. Something intoxicating about the delicacy of a muscular man in uniform who keeps his body hard for fighting criminals. Although there weren’t the preferred cooking accommodations like Officer Bart Crane had offered, I still enjoyed the meal. To be honest, I hurried through the dessert to get to the sex.
This would be my first state trooper. For some reason, they were a bit harder to lure than the sheriff’s deputies who were always more than anxious to run their hands all over an outlaw biker. Since he was to be so special, I ate less of him and left more for balling. His soft leathery skin was naturally tanned, and the absence of gritty cop tattoos made him less to read, but more to enjoy.
After I buried myself in him beneath some shady redwoods along Highway 1, I stuffed him in the trunk of his pig mobile and drove it over the cliff outside of Bodega Bay.
I have to get home to Sonoma County. There’s an enchanting person named A. Black just dying to get my weapons.
Chapter 4
St. John wheeled the truck to the front of the clubhouse where Abigail waited. A small cloud of dust wafted behind and settled into the breeze. It was late in the afternoon and she hadn’t eaten thanks to the clamor over Tony and Chomps’ torture and murder, and the dining area being used as a blood brothers meeting. Abigail hesitated—it was the same truck Rage had used to kidnap her.
Her finger wagged. “No fucking way, dude. I’ll starve to death first.”
“It’s better on you than rattling around on the back of my bike.”
Abigail rubbed her hips and ass, both still extremely traumatized from Vengeance’s attack. “But that truck,” she pouted.
“You prefer the bike?” St. John smiled. He beckoned her to hop in.
Slamming the heavy door as if trying to punish the truck, she squirmed against the leather seat to get comfortable—it wouldn’t happen so easily. She bit her top lip as the truck bounced out of a large hole along the hard-packed dirt trail. Pain shot through her lower body as nausea clawed in her gut. She bit down on a fingernail to distract herself.
Abigail tried to distance the discomfort by watching the way St. John maneuvered the big truck through the back roads until they hit pavement. She enjoyed the way his muscles flexed and popped when he did even the most mundane things. All of the Boudreaux brothers were big, physically imposing men, but St. John was as much a product of hard training as genetic gifting. She’d seen him working out but she wouldn’t let him know though. It brought her relief and assurance that the blood brothers recognized his badass ability, and hesitated to fuck with him.
“Ellie’s Outpost okay with you?”
Abigail nodded.
“You not going to talk?”
“Don’t feel like it.”
“You had plenty to say this morning,” St. John chanced a return to the topic of his true identity.
“I said too much, and so did you.” Her arms folded and unfolded repeatedly. She regretted her terse tone.
“At some point you’re going to trust me, Abigail.”
“And what point is that, James?” she taunted, but then smiled once she caught him sneaking glances at her. “Who says I don’t trust you now, Louis Seals?”
Slamming brakes caused the truck to lurch, skid off the highway until St. John was able to power it through a patch of woods and onto a rock cutout. Her heart raced as her fingers dug into the dashboard. Pain from her rec
tum made her dizzy. She slammed her eyes shut so tight she saw the blood pounding behind them.
She shoved the door open to gag, but not vomit. She hadn’t eaten.
“What’d you say?”
An ice cold hand raked across her quivering lips. “I know who you are. I watched you play at Florida and then in the NFL. You were great at the game—what happened?”
“How long have you known. Did you tell anyone else?” His face remained stoic but she saw panic in his eyes.
“No. Not at all.”
St. John’s head bounced against the headrest. He blew out a deep breath.
“What happened to the All-American?”
“A lot of stuff. Injuries. I lost it.”
“So why are you calling yourself James St. John? You ashamed?”
“Yeah. I spent my whole life trying to make it into the NFL. Once that was wasted, I was too ashamed to return home, so I left.”
“Don’t you think this club full of men will recognize you, too?”
“Who cares? Most were in prison while I was in the NFL. Besides, I didn’t last that long and who the hell would recognize me beneath those pads and helmet?”
Abigail unlatched the seat belt and slid across the bench seat—her hand gliding along his thigh. She felt an energy blast through her. It was the same feeling as that night by the river’s edge. The night that he’d kissed her, and expected nothing else.
“We’ve both got secrets, but if we trust each other, maybe sharing them will help us do what we need to get done.” An eyebrow lifted at the suggestion. “Okay, you go first.”
He laid his calloused palm over her hand. Licked his lips. “Thank you, but ladies always go first.”
Abigail watched the rise and fall of his muscular chest, his shoulders turned toward her. His tongue flicked at his lips again. He smiled like a kid with a secret to keep—or tell.
“Do you trust me, James?” she whispered as her hand cupped the back of his head.
Her fingers crawled through his shaggy blonde hair, over his thick, powerful neck. Her lips brushed against his. Their initial touch was soft, but unlike their first kiss, she wanted more—harder, and to taste his tongue. She felt him pull back at first, but she held onto her grip.
“It’s okay, kiss me.” Her words spoken into his mouth.
Abigail felt the steel of his torso as he twisted beneath the steering wheel to fully face her. His powerful biceps flexed as though they’d crush her at his will. The deeper she pressed her tongue into his, the throatier his moans became. Her spine tingled at his touch. She felt alive as his hands stroked gently across her body.
Her hips rocked but were a reminder of what wouldn’t happen—her injuries were still too severe. She lost herself in the anxiety of confronting him about his past and purpose. Abigail felt important and wanted—like she had when her teachers in high school asked about her day. She knew that was childish, but it shined light into a fucking dark childhood.
Abigail felt the scrape of metal against her back. Her eyes sprung open. She grabbed, but it was too late.
“Still carrying this? Planning to use it on me like you did Rage?” Angry, St. John gripped the Glock 9mm pistol in the hand that had just caressed her.
She pushed away from him until her back struck the door. Abigail had become used to carrying the pistol in her waistband. How could she not carry it? Last night, it had saved her life—and her secret deal with Gray Man.
She couldn’t kill every one of the blood brothers, but Gray Man could—and would if they tried to screw with him. She’d read the notes Ricky Geneti had written about him, and knew the Vegas wise guy was scared shitless of the self-proclaimed psychopathic serial killer/cannibal.
She gazed at St. John until she almost saw through him. He presented no threat to her. He was as powerful a man as she’d seen in her twenty-something years, but around her, he was a lamb. She wondered if she could do it, if she could kill St. John to protect her plan.
She finally broke the silence. “If you know what Rage did to me, then you know why I carry it.”
“So you finally confess killing him?”
“I had to or he was going to kill me.”
“Why would he want to kill you?”
“I have a secret, just like you do, Louis Seals.”
“Okay, big fucking deal that I changed my name to save my family the embarrassment of how my life ended up.”
“You lied to me. You didn’t get cut from the NFL. A drunk driver almost killed you years ago,” she said. “You’ve only been patched in a few years. What’d you do in between—attend a police academy?”
St. John reached for her, but she swatted his hand away.
“I heard what you said after killing Rage—something about one down and five to go. Who the fuck are you, an assassin or maybe a spy?”
“No, I’m a fucking, pissed-off woman who had her life taken from her by your pack of asshole butt buddies.”
Abigail couldn’t catch or stop the words once they erupted. She’d been in a state of chaos the last several months, but was finally set free. Sure, St. John held the gun, but she no longer gave a shit whether the has-been ball player would shoot her or turn her over to the blood brothers. She wanted to trust him—she needed to trust him. She was willing to die because she had decided to trust St. John.
“It was you,” he mouthed. A hand came to his face. He shoved a fist into his teeth and forced in deep breaths of the cool twilight air. “The blood brothers talked about the woman on the highway.”
“I want the gun back,” she commanded. Abigail’s gut twisted into a tight knot as a flood of emotions raged to the surface. “It was you that killed my Jack?”
“No, not me. The blood brothers—I was nowhere around. I wouldn’t have anything to do with it.” His words sounded shaky as color drained from his face. “It all makes sense now—it was you.” He reached out for her.
“Don’t touch me!” She screamed out of control. “They should’ve shot me on that highway. Look at me now—I’ve got nothing.”
“You’ve got life. And a second chance to live it.”
“I’m only alive until I get my revenge. I fully expect to die trying.”
A tear trickled down St. John’s cheek. “Let me help you.”
“Help me die?”
“No. Help you get your revenge on the brotherhood.”
Chapter 5
Internal heat at the agency’s Las Vegas Task Force field office had become intense—Lawless recommended a transfer for he and Voodoo but when Special Agent Ted Ford refused, Lawless suspected he wanted them kept close. He’d heard rumors that Ford had assigned a surveillance team to watch them because he suspected they were in cahoots with St. John and the refusal bore that out. Lawless had begun to regret his last argument with St. John. Maybe he’d been right about Ford’s involvement with the desert ambush.
Lawless looked up and saw Eleanor Worthington exit her office and head along the hallway toward him. The team psychologist rarely walked the corridors where common agents gathered. He thought maybe she’d taken a wrong turn out of her plush office space but decided to take advantage of the opportunity.
“Dr. Worthington, any word on Jeff Graham’s recovery?” Lawless asked.
She paused, dressed in a crisp navy pants suit, her white blouse pressed sharper than academy graduation ceremony dress blues. She nervously ran her thumb and forefinger over the generous pearls strung around her thin neck. She looked past Lawless—he wasn’t sure if she ignored him or was about to have a panic attack.
“Lawless, how the hell would I know? What I do know is that a rogue agent is at large and you’ve failed to reel him in.” Her words were harsh and tainted with accusation. She strutted stiff-legged back to her office.
His anger heated to a rapid boil. He strode after her, watched her body winch forward against her massive mahogany desk. She looked to be avoiding him, but he knew she was well aware of the effect her words had had.
He scrubbed his big hands over his face and through his hair. “I don’t know, but it’s time to find out.”
“Find out what, Agent Boudreaux?” Supervising Special Agent Ted Ford asked as he turned the corner. Known for his frumpy lack of style, Ford’s tie sat too high on his round belly and his short-sleeved dress shirt made him look more like a used car salesman than a task force supervisor.
“Find out what’s going on out here. You ever find out who planted those gangsters in that SWAT raid?” Lawless stepped closer to Ford.
“Not yet, but we’re working closely with Las Vegas Metro Internal Affairs to get to the bottom of it.” Ford arched onto the balls of his feet and reached up to pat Lawless on his shoulder.
Lawless twisted to avoid the hand contact. “Listen, Ted, we’re here temporary. We don’t work for you. We were fucking ambushed by a bunch of infiltrators, and one of your own agents was shot in the process. Don’t give me bullshit about working with Metro.” Lawless pressed a long finger against Ford’s chest. “This is your fuck up, so you better fix it.”
Ford tried to resist the pressure against his soft pectoral muscle. “You threatening me?” Pinkish-red blotches stood out on his bald head. Lawless saw beads of moisture rise against his skin.
Lawless laughed with a sinister edge. “Threat? No, but you saw what I did to those assholes who tried to harm Voodoo and me. That’s how I’ll deal with whoever set us up, too.”
Ford stumbled back. His tongue dabbed at quivering lips. He patted a dingy white handerchief against the sweat bombarding his forehead. His mouth opened, but no sound escaped.
“Don’t bother saying anything until you’re ready to brief me or confess.” Lawless’ words promised revenge.
