by LS Silverii
The clank of stainless steel handcuffs snapped against Fury’s wrists.
“I think you better come with us,” Perez commanded.
Chapter 7
“Meet me,” St. John demanded. He was crammed into an old-fashion pay phone booth.
“Too close,” Lawless replied.
The old man who operated the general store was watching but seemed to purposely avoid eye contact with him. St. John spewed into the phone’s receiver, “I don’t give a shit. Be in Hope Falls by tonight, or I’m blowing this whole damn operation.”
“Don’t you care how Graham’s doing? He was your partner for years after all.”
“Is he going to live?”
There was a long silence filled with only Lawless’ long exhales. “Yeah.”
St. John smacked the metal phone booth with his palm. “Then that means he’s a suspect too. Lawless, don’t tell a soul you’re coming to meet me. I don’t trust Ted Ford or Dr. Worthington. Had Jeff Graham been killed in that ambush, then I’d be sure he wasn’t part of the set up either.”
Lawless’ voice raised just a tic. “How could you say that?”
“Didn’t he lead the team in? Did you ever actually ever see any of the perimeter snipers, or were they part of the ruse? Lawless, the stakes are fucking out of this world. We ain’t talking dime bags of methamphetamine. The Savage Souls are a multimillion dollar criminal enterprise.” St. John scanned the area—his paranoia at red alert.
“I realize that. We’ve also got a line on where those stolen guns might be. Voodoo is working closely with the agency’s intelligence section—”
“Just be there. Talk then,” he said and smashed the receiver onto the dented metal hook. As St. John left, he nodded to the shopkeeper who rocked on the front porch. He ripped his motorcycle to life and roared out of the parking lot.
* * *
St. John slowly rolled up to the clubhouse over gravel and mud ruts left by the police cruisers serving the search warrant. Three brothers stood guard, including Vengeance. His face was swollen—mouth bloody with a nasty gash in his chin and bottom lip. St. John felt a sense of joy over his injuries. He was sure the son of a bitch deserved it.
“Where the fuck you been?” the blood brother snarled. His glassy eyes peered over St. John’s shoulder, toward the trail that led to the front gate.
“I’ve been on a run. Who kicked the shit out of you?”
Vengeance looked to laugh, though even he couldn’t ignore the pain that must’ve accompanied that busted face. “It was worth it.”
“Really?”
“Yeah, raping your little girlfriend’s sweet ass was worth two ass whippings.” His jagged tongue dabbed across the dried blood coating crooked teeth. His hands formed an open triangle and he imitated eating pussy.
St. John set his feet wide across the bike as he stood off the worn leather saddle. The rush of blood through his veins made him feel hot, like he’d been set ablaze from the inside. His skin tingled while Vengeance continued to relive what he’d claimed to do to Abigail.
“Vengeance, maybe we better cool it and watch the gate,” a tall, skinny brother said carefully as he placed his rail-thin hand upon the blood brother’s shoulder. Known to St. John as Red Rock, the brother seemed to have the cooler temperament.
St. John nodded in agreement.
“Don’t touch me unless you want to go to the Box.” Vengeance spun around, twisting Red Rock’s hand away from his shoulder and into a straight-arm take down.
St. John took note that Vengeance was well trained and still able to apply the military’s close quarter combat training.
“Why don’t you lay off the brother,” St. John demanded. “He’s done nothing except try to save your ass—like I did back in Vegas.”
“Fuck you.”
A rush of adrenaline fueled St. John’s anger as he swung his leg over the bike. Nimble, he charged around it toward Vengeance like an NFL linebacker to the ball carrier. “No, asshole. Fuck you.”
St. John blasted a hit to the blood brother’s left forearm, striking the radial nerve. Vengeance winced at the force of the impact and released Red Rock. Before Vengeance could right himself, he had a sledge hammer-sized fist driven into his sternum. St. John showed he was equally, if not better, skilled at hand-to-hand combat. Vengeance buckled as St. John powered his right thigh up and into the already mangled face. The blood brother dropped to the ground faster than a bag of rocks.
“This ain’t shit compared to what you’ll get if you did touch Abigail.” St. John towered over the limp frame.
Red Rock flipped a thumbs up and the hint of a smile to St. John before turning away to speak with the other biker on guard duty.
“Fuck you. You’ll pay for attacking a blood brother.” Vengeance growled, a glutton for punishment.
“We’ll see about that. It’s your deadly sin, Vengeance.”
He forced a blackened eye open to look at St. John. “What?”
“Gluttony. Your momma said it’d be your demise. Seems that whore was right.”
“You calling my momma a whore?” He struggled to get up.
“If the shoe fits,” St. John said as he slammed the square toe of his leather boot into the pit of Vengeance’s gut.
St. John jumped and spun at the crack of a gunshot. He covered his head as he felt the concussion of the round zing close past him.
“That’s enough,” Justice’s baritone voice barked.
“What the fuck, dude?”
“Come with me. We gotta talk.” Justice lowered the sawed-off Remington shotgun. “Red Rock, take his ride back to the shop.”
St. John’s mind raced. What had he missed being away from the club for just a day? Justice looked worried—that was never a good sign. But what had happened to Abigail was all St. John could think about. He debated asking Justice—might anger the man more—but he had to know. One thing for sure, if what Vengeance said was true, he’d kill him.
St. John stopped along a narrow stretch of trail surrounded by tall evergreens and a stream about twenty yards into the forest; so beautiful it was nearly surreal. This property was still pristine despite the scumbags who inhabited it.
Justice continued to walk on about forty yards before he realized he was alone. His look back wasn’t welcoming.
St. John’s thoughts were lost in the tranquility of the stream as he questioned which side of a blurred sense of right versus wrong he truly saw clearly. Long disillusioned with federal law enforcement’s bureaucracy, their façade of brotherhood went only as far as the next promotion or relocation assignment.
His last straw was the death of his parents. Both had been older and sickly for years. His dad mercifully passed away a week to the day after his mom died. Probably more from a broken heart than the Alzheimer’s, but St. John was thankful they were together again as they’d been for almost sixty years.
Not one swinging dick from the agency bothered to show up for the funerals, or even call. Fuck, the least Ted Ford, the group supervisor, could’ve done was send a card. Jeff Graham mentioned it months later during a phone call, but only said he’d heard they were dead—no condolences.
Discontent had burrowed beneath his skin. St. John had once felt a powerful draw to the rule-free lifestyle of the Savage Souls. It contrasted with the structured bureaucracy of the federal agency. Justice was a charismatic leader, but he seemed to have lost his way. His focus on the blood brothers had driven a wedge between the others, but he either didn’t realize it, or didn’t give a shit.
St. John ignored Justice’s calls to join him. He considered asking to be relocated to Vegas to help keep an eye on Dragon Mike, but he’d never leave Abigail here with them. He was naturally drawn to Mike’s tenacity and willingness to remain loyal despite the constant threats to his life. St. John also knew the agency’s focus wasn’t Dragon Mike or the Vegas chapter—their bulls eye was on the kingpin—Justice and his blood brothers. And that meant he needed to stay as close to the
Colorado faction as he could get.
“Son, you okay?” Justice’s hand came down heavy upon his shoulder.
St. John was shaken out of his pondering trance by the touch and the calm tone in Justice’s question.
“Yes, dad?” He felt a sense of familiarity with that question and being called son.
“Huh?” Justice’s face pinched.
“Sorry, just thinking about my family.”
“How are they?”
“Dead.”
“Sorry to hear that, boy.” Justice seemed sincere.
“Thanks, Justice. You wanted to talk about something?”
“You got more on your mind than club bullshit. Lets just walk.” Justice patted St. John’s shoulder before he turned to continue along the path.
St. John lagged three feet behind, and allowed calm to bathe him. From somewhere had come the answer to his internal dispute settlement—he preferred the Nation.
Chapter 8
Justice stopped about ten feet outside of a clearing. He laid the shotgun atop a patch of pine needles, then ducked into the woods to piss into the stream. St. John looked away.
Across the patch of felled pine trees he saw a clothesline. The club’s old ladies busied themselves completing chores. St. John squinted through the brilliant sunlight at a hanging bed sheet caked in blood.
St. John’s heart sank once again—was that Abigail or Vengeance’s blood? He had to know now.
“Don’t make me use this, but you lie to me once and I will.” St. John leveled Justice’s sawed-off shotgun directly at the big man as he turned to zip up his threadbare jeans.
“Shit, son. Always one step forward and two steps back with you.” He lifted his hands in surrender. “What you want to know?”
“What did Vengeance do to Abigail? Is she dead, is that why everyone’s acting so fucked up today?” His grip was firm. He’d never handled Justice’s gun but he was familiar with every weapon type domestic or imported into the United States.
Justice ground his hand across his bearded chin. “She’s alive, but not by much. Cops took her over to Mercy Grace Hospital in Custer County.”
St. John dropped to one knee. His head wobbled in denial but the weapon remained on Justice. “How?”
“Long story, but the cops came with a search warrant during church. Caught us all by surprise because Vengeance had left his watch post. They found some cop and our brother, Toad, murdered. Chief Perez claims she saw a man leaving the scene with a Savage Souls’ full-colored vest cut. Fury had a shit storm because the dead cop was his butt buddy, so Perez hauled him in.”
St. John climbed back to his feet. “No disrespect, but I don’t give a shit about all that. I want to know about Abigail.”
Justice kicked his muddy boots against a cluster of small boulders. “Like I said, Vengeance abandoned guard duty and found Abigail upstairs mopping the floors like she was told. He attacked her something fierce.”
Blurred vision followed a flush of blood. St. John spun to the right. Vomit poured out of his mouth. He bent and dropped the shotgun, but Justice didn’t take advantage of his vulnerability.
“Go on.” He swiped his arm across the spittle that coated his lips and chin. Eyes watered, snot swung free from both nostrils.
“You really want to hear this? Let’s just say he hurt her real bad.”
St. John nodded. “I want to know.”
“Vengeance took her ass until he couldn’t fuck anymore. Then he raped her with the mop handle and stopped before he’d shoved the scrub brush inside of her. Only thing stopped him from killing her was when he heard the cops coming up the stairs. He jumped out of the window. Partly how he got busted up.”
“Partly?”
“I did the rest,” Justice said as his fist remembered and re-enacted.
“He’s got more coming to him,” St. John assured him. He fought to keep his balance on one knee.
Justice nodded. “Abigail told the detectives, she slipped while cleaning the floor. Of course they didn’t believe her, but there was no one around to blame. Plus, they were here for a double murder, not some house mouse with intestines hanging out of her butt.”
“That’s it,” St. John snorted as he rose to charge back down the trail. Consumed by hatred, his feelings for Abigail cross-wired every rational thought he had.
“Don’t do it, son. Not now. Not here.” Justice beckoned.
St. John stopped, confused by Justice’s failure to physically stop him. Maybe there would be honor despite the blood brother status. He stopped to look up the slope at Justice. He shook his head no. “You not going to stop me?” he asked.
“Nope. What he done was over the line.”
“But he’s your blood brother.”
Justice beckoned him to return. “You were right. The Savage Souls Nation is more important than any one person. Even if they are my blood—they should know better. I won’t stop you from getting your measure of revenge, but now ain’t the time. You’ll know when.”
St. John reluctantly accepted the terms, but made it clear he would avenge the attack.
“Let’s take this route around. No need bothering them women.” Justice placed his hand on St. John’s neck and asked for the shotgun.
St. John obliged.
“We need to stay focused. Rage has a location on the guns, but not an exact spot yet. We deciphered through the e-mails that Ricky Geneti had set up a double-cross deal with some guy and somebody else called Gray Man. After he sold and stole from us, he was supposed to cash out with this ghost.”
St. John struggled to keep his expression neutral. He knew it’d be a sprint between them and the feds to find those guns. At this point, he really didn’t care who found them first, but he was alarmed that they knew about Gray Man. He started to speak, but pressed his fist against his teeth instead of telling Justice what he knew about Gray Man.
“Any luck on the cash?”
“Not yet, but Army’s Intel is busting balls to find out.” Justice didn’t appear to regret allowing the identity of one of his infiltrated sources to slip out.
The military was chock full of gang members, representing every type of club imaginable. St. John had learned in his law enforcement-training academy that the demographics of police and bikers were so similar it was as if they were cut from the same cloth. Predominantly white guys from middle- to low-socioeconomic backgrounds with high school educations—they desired significant male bonding environments such as sports teams, military or other groups. Many agents rode Harley Davidsons off duty and liked to play outlaw dress up on the weekends.
“Then it shouldn’t be long,” St. John said.
“We still got a rodent problem. Rage intercepted communications from this region to an unknown contact talking about the guns and money. Looks like it’s Gray Man they’re talking with but we don’t who on our end.”
St. John immediately considered whether Abigail was involved. “What’s the chatter?”
“Appears like they’re trying to complete a transaction.” Justice hesitated, thinking as his fingers trailed across his lips. “You were right though, I need to get my hands dirty again. I’m going to start by wringing the rat’s neck.”
“Vegas involved?”
Justice cut a curious eye toward him. “No. Northern California of all damn places.”
“What do you need from me?” St. John asked.
“Just be ready. It’s a long haul up there and will take more than a bunch of cranked up knuckle draggers to work logistics. I’m leaving that to you.”
“What about Fury?”
Justice sucked in a deep breath, and then exhaled his agitation. “Fuck him. He’s better off in county lock up. I’m still not convinced he’s not splitting hairs.”
St. John extended his hand. “I’ll start on a plan after I get back.”
“Tell her I’m sorry.”
Chapter 9
Mercy Grace Hospital was about four miles outside the city limits of Mercy
, Colorado. Most businesses and industries located in unincorporated Custer County to avoid the bullshit politics of a small town with a closed, elitist attitude.
The intake nurse had listed her name as Abigail Boudreaux, which twisted her gut. She lay on her stomach and drifted in and out of sleep when the searing pain in her rectum receded, feeling less like a bomb detonating down below and more like the worst cramps in history. Thank goodness for painkillers. The room was dim but blinking lights mixed with the constant drone of machines and beeping monitors agitated her.
How the hell am I supposed to get any rest with all of this commotion?
Her face slid through the damp puddle of morphine-induced drool as the door opened for the umpteenth time. An uneasy smile cracked her dry lips when she caught sight of James St. John. The door to semi-private room 143 pushed closed behind him. Almost automatically, his palm rubbed over the white, dry erase board. He changed the name to read Abigail Black.
“Hi,” she said. The words hurt her hoarse throat. She lifted her fingers in a feeble wave.
“Hi there. Abigail, I’m so sorry I wasn’t there to protect you.”
Her heart ached. He was obviously sincere, but there was nothing he could’ve done to stop it. Her fingers inched across the bed sheet. The heart monitor and IV tubes limited movement, so St. John met her halfway. There were no words to say, nothing magical to make up for what had been done. Silently staring into each other’s eyes was the best medicine for both.
She felt the sting of a tear well in the corner of her left eye. She let it roll onto the bridge of her nose before it fell. She pulled her thickened tongue across sticky teeth. They felt hairy and rough thanks to the heavy pain medications.
His smile was filled with tears. There was no macho effort to conceal them. St. John simply reached behind him and yanked the center curtain closed. She appreciated the effort at privacy, but also tried to remind herself she’d put herself in that situation. She’d known the risks. Strength came in knowing there was a goal—revenge. Problem was, she had no idea how to go about it.
