by LS Silverii
“Fury is dead. Head on with a big rig about twenty miles back.”
“Sorry to hear.” Chu snorted.
St. John clasped Chu’s shoulders. “Yeah, I’m real broken up about it, too.”
A loud bang interrupted their reunion. Both agents jumped. “Outlaw, what you doing in there? Ain’t no place to escape.” The trooper’s tone bore resentment laced with anger.
Chu’s eyes rolled. “What’s he want?”
“Probably about the crash. Jammed the interstate up pretty good,” St. John said. “I only know we’re heading to Sonoma County. No plans to stop until we get there. Whoever Gray Man is, he has the weapons stashed out there.”
“Thanks. Anything else?” Chu asked.
“Yeah, don’t trust messages from Jeff Graham’s cell phone. It’s in someone else’s hands.” St. John punched him in the arm and kicked the wedge from beneath the door. The skinny state trooper almost flopped through the threshold.
“What y’all been doing in there?”
Agent Chu wiped his lips and smiled. “Wouldn’t you like to know?”
The lawman stumbled back into the candy display. “What?”
“You know what they say about once you go Asian, don’t you?” Chu stood almost on top of the trooper until St. John had cleared out.
St. John burst into the sunlight. Squinting, he circled his finger to signal Justice they should mount up and head out—quick. Both bikes kicked gravel and dust before the trooper managed to goosestep to the gas pumps.
They blasted along without words until they were deep on I-70. With still over a thousand miles to go, very different thoughts burdened each warrior. St. John kept a renewed eye out for his surveillance cover-team though he saw nothing except Justice emerge in his side view mirror.
“What the hell happened back there?”
“That trooper tried to corner me in the bathroom. I shoved him into the display and hauled ass.” St. John pounded his chest.
Justice laughed finally. “Maybe he wanted a blowjob.”
St. John didn’t think that shit was funny, but feigned a smile for Justice—he’d just lost another blood brother to a violent death in less than a week after all. He lay back in his saddle and allowed the curl of hot highway grit to bathe him while his mind again drifted.
St. John didn’t understand the depth of conflict he felt about loyalties to the federal agency and the Savage Souls. Had he, himself, become a victim of the Stockholm syndrome? His hammer-sized fist slammed against his thigh. No fucking way that was true—he wasn’t a hostage. But in a way, he was captive. Enslaved by a bureaucratic system no longer representing the ideals he’d raised his right hand to serve and protect.
His experiences with The Savage Nation weren’t that much different, except they weren’t wrapped up in an over-inflated scope of authority. Their mission was pure and simple—live free or die. He associated more with that ethos than the agency’s bullshit about pay grade promotions, preferential transfers, policy reviews and performance standards.
Fuck it—he still didn’t know what had happened to Graham, and whether or not Ford and Worthington were on the take. What he did know was a man who’d served his nation with more dignity than most, rode less than ten yards away from him, but was forced to sneak around highway checkpoints and police raids because the government he helped to overthrow foreign governments had turned their backs on him in his time of need. The same government who paid St. John every two weeks, with a promise of a pension and pride for serving, had made Justice public enemy number one.
St. John tried to rationalize his connection to Justice, yet his void for feeling over Fury’s horrific death. He swigged from the cool canteen of water he’d filled before leaving the station. Poured a stream over his eyes to wash the crusted sweat away.
He was able to pinpoint the time when he’d developed the hard shell over his heart toward humanity. It had been just a few months out of the training academy. He came across an elderly man not breathing. St. John worked his ass off blowing breaths and doing chest compressions. He even thought the man groaned on occasion and he’d saved him, but it was only his own air being forced back out by the cracking ribs during compressions. That night, he’d cried as the late news announced the stranger’s death.
Only a few months later, and hundreds of hours of indoctrination into the culture of cops, he came across another similar tragedy, but this time his responses were very different. He worked like the devil to save the man with CPR, but couldn’t. This time, he laughed amongst his brother officers, and even dubbed himself the angel of death. Somewhere in between, he’d lost—or given up—a vital part of who he was for the sake of fitting in. He’d lost his humanity.
“Hey, Opie.” Justice was back.
St. John bobbed his chin.
Justice gave him a thumbs up. “Thanks for back there. What you said about taking care of my brother. I ain’t a fucking droid, so yeah, I’ll miss him. It’s just that we got too much riding on this mission to get distracted,” he said through tight lips. “So, thanks. I appreciate you giving a shit about him.”
And just like that, St. John knew where his loyalties were deeply entrenched.
Chapter 13
After more hours on I-80 than he ever imagined he’d travel, St. John was ass-worn out. The trek through Utah and Nevada offered glimpses of nothing like he’d seen in Florida, but most of those hours were spent rolling after sunset. The trip’s toll was greater than the anticipated twenty-one hours of saddle time. He and Justice had both suffered great loss—a blood brother, and St. John’s desire to serve the agency.
Camped across the California state line, St. John tossed Justice a piece of beef jerky. “You going to tell me where we’re heading or is it still a secret?”
Justice’s head lay atop his bedroll, his boots propped up on his saddle. “Why you want to know? Just tag along until we get there. Once we do, I’m gonna want that phone of yours.” He held his hand out. “Operational security—you understand?”
St. John felt the bite of insult tear through his flesh. Should he confront him about the way his lack of trust created new barriers between them each time? Would Justice even give a shit? Instead, St. John grabbed as much rest as he could—it’d been almost two days since he slept. Yet, his mind toiled again over why Justice didn’t trust him.
I wonder if Abigail is okay. They’d better not touch her.
He woke feeling as if he’d just closed his eyes. Sun up, Justice up, so he was up. St. John wanted five more minutes. He listened to the roar of the rushing water, but only saw a stream of piss as Justice relieved himself feet from where St. John lay.
“I said it was time to get up.” Justice had a wicked sneer to his tone that morning.
St. John turned in the other direction while he grabbed his bedroll and boots before Justice would notice. The miniature tracking device Chu had slipped him in the bathroom back in Grand Junction had rubbed against the inside of his leg the last fourteen hours. He needed a break from it and to change the batteries.
“We’ll take back roads the rest of the way. It’ll take most of the day to navigate this terrain on these mules and on foot, so don’t expect to get there before dusk.”
The tension in his neck and shoulders ceased as water rained down over St. John’s head from a small pool from a backed up stream. Long hair swung across and in-between his lips. He hesitated, his head hung low, and groaned that the ache in his stretched neck and spine was back so quick.
“We’re supposed to sneak along back country roads, and then up to a secret stash location on Harley Davidson motorcycles?” St. John’s voice hinged on mutinous. “Do I really have to tell you how fucked up that plan is?”
“No.”
“Then what?”
“You’ll know when the time comes.”
St. John threw the canteen against a pile of rocks. Water shot from the open spout. “I’ve had enough of this secret squirrel bullshit. I get that Gray Ma
n is fucking badass. If he wasn’t, we’d just drive up to his door and kick the damn thing in. I’m willing to put my life on the line for you, Justice, but not if you don’t trust me.”
Justice craned over slowly and retrieved the empty canteen. “There you go asking about trust again.” He handed the water container to St. John. “If something happens to me, it’s better you not know everything. There’s more at stake than guns and money. This psycho is beyond anything we’ve dealt with—even considering the wacked out fuckers we dealt with at the CIA. Trust me, I trust you. I also want to spare you a brutal hell if anything happens.”
St. John’s t-shirt and cut were draped across his saddle while he tried to wash away the last twenty-something hours of road grime. The cool stream refreshed him, but his chest tightened at Justice’s words.
“Dude, you’re starting to freak me out with what you’re not telling me. It sounds like you’re walking us into more than a crate of stolen guns.” He reached for his shirt, but Justice moved in front of his bike.
The big boss dropped his broad, well-defined jawline into his palms. His hard masculine look of authority faded as weary eyes moistened and distanced to a thousand yard stare.
St. John didn’t dare touch him, but called his name and snapped his fingers until Justice blinked back to look at him. He noticed Justice’s thumb and middle finger sandpapering each other.
“I think I know who Gray Man is.”
“Fuck, boss, you’ve been holding out on me all this time?”
“No, only said I think I know who he is. The way Chief Perez described the autopsy to Sue—there’s one man I know who killed that quick, that evil.”
St. John reached around Justice’s frozen stance to grab his clothing. He hurriedly shoved his foot into the boot with the concealed transponder. He wasn’t sure how well the federal biker task force would be able to trace him off road, but he had to try.
“Tell me what to expect.”
Justice pressed his forefinger against his right nostril, and forced air and snot out onto the ground near St. John’s bike. “Ahhh, damn sinuses driving me crazy out in this dry region. Always fucked me up in the Middle East too,” he complained. “What to expect? Pray it’s not him, but expect that it is—but pray it’s not.”
“Then why the fuck are the two of us walking into a trap? We got hundreds of brothers within a day or so’s ride. We can smash one man’s ass, can’t we?”
“Yeah, sure.” Justice kicked at dirt to cover the patch of ground he’d slept on. His shoulders slumped and hunched forward. He looked defeated and unsure. “Let’s get going.”
St. John drug his leather cut across his back and over his left shoulder. He felt the thud of his cell phone wallop against his ribs. He knew Justice would demand it soon, but he debated on how to contact Lawless.
“Gotta hit the head real quick.”
Justice pointed to the stream. “Do it there so I can see you.”
“Fuck if I will. You can wait for me.”
He heard Justice snort as he walked off. He balled his fist and released then repeatedly—was Justice using him as bait? His intuition was ablaze with danger signals. Signals that his macho attitude ignored.
[hey man, where are you?] read the message from Agent Graham’s cell phone number.
St. John swallowed hard—there still weren’t the exclamation points behind his text.
He decided to draw out whoever the imposter was. [no where. Meet me?]
[where]
[idk – where are you] St. John stamped out.
[no where. Catch you later]
St. John stuffed the cell back in his vest. That shit went nowhere fast. If he could call Lawless and tell them to triangulate Graham’s cell phone messages, then they might pin him down to a localized region.
He looked up, and there was Justice standing above him. “You shit yet?”
“No.”
“Then pinch it. We’re moving.”
St. John’s heart pounded at having almost getting busted texting his task force surveillance team. He knew texting Abigail would be too risky. He glanced up—Justice had disappeared. Fuck, that dude was dangerous.
Chapter 14
“Here, you’ll need these soon.” Justice handed St. John a pair of night vision goggles, or NVG, with a scope for seeing long range and navigating the terrain in the dark. Their hike from where the bikes were hidden to the target compound was a treacherous journey. More importantly, they’d have to navigate the entire time without being detected.
Sun fell quickly—and so had Justice’s energy. They’d been on a dusty trail of hills and vines that roughly intersected the Russian River on more than a few occasions. California’s Sonoma County might’ve made for beautiful scenery and wine, but there was something ominous about it.
“Can we take a knee? We’ve walked the last thirteen hours straight. Fuck, I’m from Florida, we ain’t got these climbs.” St. John hunched over with hands against his knees gasping for air. The hot afternoon temps had finally dropped but the reprieve came too late to be of any relief. His lips folded over his teeth as he fought for air. Bugs gathered around his face—he spit out mosquitoes like hairs in restaurant food.
Justice felt no compassion. “I thought you were a warrior. Said you were in training for the time when the battle would be fought. Son, this here isn’t the battle—it’s the apocalypse.”
“I’ll be ready, don’t worry about me.” St. John panted out broken words.
“Opie, I hope so, because from what I’m seeing this ain’t gonna be nice.” Justice stuck his index finger between St. John’s bicep and chest. He lifted the biker upright. “Standing opens your lungs—more air.”
Justice suddenly turned away and rubbed the back of his aching neck. He froze at an unknown noise. Felt an increasingly hot sensation like his limbs were tingling. He couldn’t seem to relax all of a sudden and moved from one foot to the next.
“You okay, boss?”
He heard St. John’s question but couldn’t form the words to reply—he nodded. Justice smoothed his hair back out of his face and closed his eyes. His senses took over. He was back inside of his CIA Special Ops Group mentality. He felt it, and was glad for the shift—like flipping on a light switch. Over the years it had been difficult to turn it off once it got switched on—that’s what the CIA counted on—his mechanical approach to killing.
Life’s problems came once Justice was no longer able to turn it off. It’d been a long time since he felt the surge of evil embedded in his spirit by the federal government’s training program. His intuition told him he’d need that evil if he wanted to survive an encounter with Gray Man.
Justice turned toward St. John as he fumbled for words. He apologized, not out of accountability but to express the unfairness of the situation he’d drug St. John into.
St. John’s expression blanked, but Justice saw through the eerie green glow of his NVG that St. John wasn’t buying it.
“Son, turn around and head back to the club. This is more than I expected. We won’t both get out alive. This is my mess—I’ll clean it up.” He leaned close to whisper, his eyes jetting wildly beneath the lenses.
St. John listened with arms folded over his chest. “Fuck this, dude. Let’s just do what we came here to do, and get the hell back to set up a plan.”
Justice’s fists pounded the air for emphasis. “We can’t. Things have changed.” He grabbed St. John’s left arm and pulled him into a crouched position. “I only suspected who Gray Man might be before, but now I know it’s him.
“So what?”
“I tracked this motherfucker for years.”
“Why?”
“Because I created him, and he’s been turned loose against this country. I’ve got to stop him,” he said coldly.
St. John leaned too far forward and steadied himself on Justice’s shoulder. “A rogue agent?”
“Worse. He was programmed to kill, and to kill in the most inhumane ways imaginable
. The experiment was to turn his kind loose in foreign nations. The indigenous people thought they were devils—chupacabras in the Latin countries. The death counts created such terror in those countries that people, even soldiers, feared leaving their homes or villages.” Sweat glistened on Justice’s forehead and cheeks. “The project got out of control, so I was contracted. I eliminated most, but I heard he made it back from Iraq. It was part of why I gave the CIA the old up yours. Suddenly, they acquired a conscience about killing on domestic soil.”
“You hunted them down?”
“Sure did. Living off the grid brings a dangerous reality. All I did was hunt them.”
“So who do we call now?” St. John’s mouth remained open at the harsh reality.
Justice’s matted hair swung back and forth. “I don’t know.” Chill bumps exploded across him from head to toe—it actually burned. Justice knew he had a mission to accomplish. He sat with the knowledge for a moment, then, against his better judgement, he waved for St. John to follow him into the thick brush.
Justice led the way through thickets and potential booby traps. St John seemed to catch onto the rhythm for moving more silently, but was not nearly as skilled as Justice—the damn guy was a ghost. Justice slowed as the foliage thinned. A stench assaulted his sense of smell. He ducked his nose but it was worse than anything he’d ever experienced.
The overpowering reek of death blanketed him immediately. Justice knew he’d be ill but he’d have to be sick later. He had a mission to accomplish. He heard a distant roar of what sounded like a weed-eater. Specks darted across his field of view—swarms of mosquitoes and blowflies. He crept closer, staying low, to allow the NVG to adjust for maximum sight. There were multiple bodies here. A damn killing field.
And he was responsible for the horror his eyes beheld. He knew his mind would never erase what it registered.
He waved for St. John to turn back. Tremors in his hands and feet caused Justice to shiver. Clutching his throat, Justice knew his failure as a CIA op—his failure to get Gray Man—had cost many Americans their lives. He thrust his hand back to stop St. John’s advance, but he plowed past—wanting nothing to do with a retreat.
