Vicious

by LS Silverii

  The grip he’d used to intimidate the nurse, now held him up as both knees buckled. “I’d never have hurt you. My wife was a nurse. Just don’t be a smart ass when someone needs your help.” He forced out the words between a dry tongue and arid lips.

  St. John raced toward the back door. He dodged, hurdled and spun more in that short span than he had his entire career at linebacker. The NFL was just a game; this was real life.

  The automatic doors crept open, so he darted between them. His vest caught on the weather guard and the collision shook both doors with a forceful quake. He heard voices, and hoped it wasn’t nurses out back for a smoke. St. John eased behind the large green dumpster and peeked around the corner toward the sound.

  His heart leapt once he saw Abigail. It sunk once he saw she was with Vengeance, as the nurse had said. The back of her flimsy hospital gown was open, exposing her, and a small canvas backpack had been strapped to her shoulders. Just above her bare ass, St. John saw the menacing Savage Souls tattoo Rage had branded her with the first night she appeared at the clubhouse. They both stood near Vengeance’s motorcycle.

  St. John strained to overhear their words. He knew after that sexual assault, there’d be no way she could ride on the saddle of a motorcycle—not that Vengeance would give a shit. It looked like they were waiting on someone—maybe a vehicle to transport her?

  St. John’s anxiety caused an over pour of sweat. His palm slipped off the rusted metal dumpster. His knee crashed into the container, stopping him from falling into the open but he saw their heads jerk his way. Time to move. He’d also have to secure a vehicle to follow Abigail without being detected.

  He raced through the lobby toward the entrance to the employee parking structure. On the third floor of the multi-story parking garage, he found an older model Nissan Pathfinder that would do fine. After smashing out both brake lights, he breached the window and busted the steering column. He fought the urge to gun the car down the ramp, but knew it would only draw attention from hospital staff and Vengeance.

  St. John’s knee bounced while he waited restlessly across the parking lot, in the corner farthest from the two. He searched the glove box and center console of the stolen vehicle for anything useful. He tossed shit around, amazed at the crap people kept in their vehicle.

  As headlights bounced across the pitted parking lot on the west side of Mercy Grace Hospital, he ducked deep beneath the steering wheel. St. John recognized the truck as one kept at the Savage Souls’ mechanic shop. It didn’t belong to anyone in particular, so he wouldn’t know who was driving unless he got out.

  St. John’s pulse raced. He dug through the Nissan’s console, tossing a small glove and baseballs into the back seat as he pulled himself closer to the windshield to watch the action unfold. A hot bead of sweat rolled down his temple to his cheek. He wiped his forehead and upper lip. Waiting on a hot night inside a warm vehicle wasn’t the most uncomfortable he’d ever been. He’d live.

  Through squinted eyes, he saw Abigail struggle against Vengeance. He looked to have bound her arms behind her before he shoved her into the passenger side of the truck. The backpack was tossed into the bed of the vehicle. The truck spun out and then lurched once the wheels made contact with cement. Keeping an eye on the taillights, St. John slapped the leather center console as he waited impatiently for Vengeance to leave.

  It was late or early in the morning—depending on whether you were just coming in from a party or getting up to give an honest day’s work. Either way, the roads were quiet and St. John drove the stolen SUV like an Indy 500 racer until he spotted the brake lights at an intersection about a quarter mile down the highway.

  They weren’t heading toward the clubhouse. Where in the hell was he taking her?

  Chapter 14

  St. John’s eyes darted between his cell phone and the winding roadway. He thumbed Justice’s number into the smartphone but hesitated. His mouth curled up and to the left as he thought over his dilemma. How should he approach Justice about whether or not he’d ordered a hit on Abigail?

  Time was running out, and there were key decisions to be made. Blowing his cover meant nothing compared to saving Abigail, but he also knew she was more capable of taking care of herself than any of the Savages realized.

  He took his thumb off the send button. Should he call the cavalry to intercept the truck and save the girl instead? His best hope was Lawless and Voodoo. Sighing, he smacked the cell into the seat—they were out past Hope Falls. He wrapped both hands around the steering wheel and focused on the highway. One call to the local cops would do the most damage to the case, and mostly to her since he wasn’t sure they weren’t on the Savage payroll. Abigail would be better off on her own—with St. John in the shadows.

  Impatient, he tapped the brakes to keep his distance. His heart ached to know what was going on inside that truck. He might be Abigail’s only hope. No, that was wrong. Who was he kidding? Abigail was her own best hope.

  He remained a safe distance—eyelids heavy from the long, hot day. The extreme stress of escalating danger burdened him. He chewed on his bottom lip, thinking how miserably alone he actually was. Even memories failed to bring consolation. St. John tried to recall his wife before the addiction—the happy times and why he married the woman determined to be the best nurse she could be. Yet his mind kept going back to his last image of her and the dirty hypodermic needle that still vibrated in her arm when he’d found her.

  That vision brought the same feelings of isolation that had haunted him earlier. He also obsessed over the unproductive meeting with Lawless and Voodoo and their argument over the same petty procedural bullshit that continued to drive him away from his loyalties to the feds. Sure, he’d once loved the agency. He would’ve given his life for it and anyone associated with it. But, over the years he’d sacrificed plenty. By operating in the margins of society, he began to see life, as it actually was—not how it was portrayed.

  St. John was still bitter at Graham, supposedly his best friend since the academy. Not even a fucking phone call when his folks died. Hell, Graham had spent more than one night at his parent’s home in the early assignment days. He wiped his eyes—the oncoming vehicles’ headlights exploded into starbursts as moisture flooded his eyes. He had to focus on the here and now.

  His right fist pounded against his thigh as he again considered coming straight with Justice about being an undercover cop and asking forgiveness. He still got mad at himself for pondering that, but his anger was losing steam as the reality of confession seemed more and more like an attractive option.

  St. John needed the close bonding opportunities and the environment of brotherhood. He thrived on society’s ragged edges. He’d migrated away from the agency’s rigidity of conforming to a manual of policy and practices that made something as simple as reimbursement for a tank of gasoline nearly impossible.

  The realization that he was still following the truck but had no clue where they were broke his reverie. “Shit, I never even looked at a highway marker. Get your head out of your ass, James,” he said aloud.

  Ahead, the truck pulled off the pavement and into an abandoned open-face shell of what looked to have been a warehouse. Just the truck—Vengeance hadn’t followed. St. John’s gaze darted across a barren black horizon. He rolled down the windows to listen for any sound that might clue him in to where he’d ended up. Even his cell phone was without service bars. He stashed the stolen Nissan behind a patch of bushes, and took off on foot across rugged terrain until he was within earshot of Abigail and her escort.

  “Let me go,” she pleaded.

  The biker forced her to sit on the open tailgate of the truck. He took a dark bag off her head and smashed a fist into her jaw. The muscles in St. John’s legs ignited for another sprint into action, but he realized rushing in would only jeopardize everything.

  A stream of moonlight hit the man and he realized it was the blood brother, Rage. St. John’s heart fell. He was the oldest of the crew and the mo
st intelligent by far. Not known for violence, the way he treated Abigail seemed uncharacteristic. Something important was going down.

  “Please let me go,” she demanded.

  There was fierce determination in her voice.

  “You’re not going anywhere until I get answers,” Rage taunted.

  Her shoulders rocked back and forth as both feet dangled from the truck bed. “Just untie my arms. It’s cutting off the circulation and hurts like hell. I can’t think.”

  Rage yanked his KA-BAR from its leather sheath, spun her around and sliced the ropes that held her immobile. She rubbed her wrists briskly.

  “Tell me about this e-mail you sent yourself,” Rage asked.

  “What are you talking about?”

  He grabbed her face and smashed her cheeks together, grinding them against her teeth. “Don’t fuck with me,” he said. With his free hand, he smacked her. Abigail’s head slammed back into the metal truck bed.

  St. John winced and pumped his fists. Fuck this. He wiped his hands over his jeans, and chewed his bottom lip. His heart screamed to rescue the girl but this was no movie. He’d blow both of their chances of discovering how much the Savages knew if he intervened. Reluctantly, he waited and watched.

  “From the apartment, you scrapped all the data and sent it to yourself. I traced the IP address to the e-mail and the e-mail address to you.”

  St. John dared to crawl closer, struggling to hear every word.

  What e-mail was he talking about?

  Rage’s hand filled with Abigail’s long, half-black, half-blonde hair. Gone was the jet-black crisp-edged reverse bob that had haunted her pale complexion and light eyes. Unkempt over the last weeks, she’d begun to show the stress of an abusive existence.

  Rage shook her by the throat until her ass lifted off the metal tailgate. “You thought torching that shit hole apartment would stop technology? Stupid bitch. I knew it was you.”

  Rage held her head up with his left hand. Her mouth sipped for air since her nose looked cracked and bloody. The blood brother drove his right fist into her teeth. St. John winched. He clamped down on his own teeth so tight he thought they might snap. He drew his knees together at the sickening sound of fist meeting facial bone. Abigail crumpled against the truck bed then slid like a rag onto the ground.

  Rage landed a boot somewhere in her mangled flesh. “Get up or I’ll kill you right now.”

  She grunted. He lifted her by the hair. He slapped her so viciously she twisted like a top before landing back in the bed of the truck.

  St. John mashed tears that blurred his watch. How much more could she withstand? How much could he allow?

  “Last chance. Tell me about Gray Man and the guns.”

  St. John’s ears picked up on that name like a bat’s sonar to a cave.

  I knew she had something to do with Gray Man. Who was she?

  “I don’t know anything.” She gasped and coughed as her words barely crawled across busted lips.

  An uppercut sent her flailing deep into the bed of the truck. St. John had had enough. Undercover mission or not, she needed rescuing. He came to a kneeling position and flexed his muscles to get blood flowing back into them. All the time he’d spent putting up with the horrors of undercover work and the outlaw persona that had come to define him, it was time to sacrifice all that for her.

  “Crawl back over here and get away from that backpack. I ain’t done with you yet. Answer my questions, or I’m going to tattoo you until there’s not one spot of your skin that ain’t covered.”

  “Please don’t,” Abigail begged from deep inside the truck bed.

  “You fucking whore. Get over here.” Rage’s voice became harsh, more sinister than ever. He still held the KA-BAR knife in his left hand.

  St. John crept toward the two. His approach had to be silent. One slip and Rage would slice her throat. Sweat continued to explode from his pores and mix with the dust that coated everything. Darkness concealed his shadow, but crunching over loose pebbles slowed his movement. He knew he’d have to quickly overcome Rage to disarm him—or kill him.

  “Fuck the tattooing, I’ll skin you first.” Rage roared like a beast as he lunged for her leg. Abigail withdrew it and screamed.

  She sat upright in the bed of the truck. St. John saw the glint of something metal in her hands. He ducked. She stretched out both arms and pointed her fists at Rage’s head. His knife didn’t beat her gun. She fired three rounds. Struck Rage in the forehead. One of the bullets made a hole in the front of his head and exploded the rear of his skull as it exited. Rage folded onto the ground like a suit off the hanger.

  A chalky mist of bloody brains and bone coated St. John’s face. He ducked to wipe his eyes. Abigail hadn’t said a word but the sound of the shots continued to ping off the canyon walls. St. John lay prone and held his breath. He didn’t care about the corpse about fifteen feet ahead of him, but he did want to avoid spooking her into more gunfire. Slowly, he inched back, behind brush cover. The putrid taste of tacky brain matter and hard bone was embedded on his face and in his mouth.

  St. John planted himself in a dark wedge. He watched her for reaction or emotion but saw none. She crawled out of the truck bed, dug in Rage’s clothing until she found the keys, and puffed hard as she unsuccessfully tried to push his body out of the truck’s exit path.

  She stood confident over the corpse. The glitter of a moonbeam almost revealed a smirk. She held the pistol pointed much more confidently at Rage than it had been at St. John beneath the canopy at Ellie’s Outpost. He considered going to comfort her. Instead, he remained frozen with confusion over who she was or had become. Abigail yanked at Rage’s corpse until she jerked the leather vest and colors from the headless lump of outlaw.

  “One down. Five fucking blood brothers to go,” she snarled.

  Chapter 15

  St. John buried his palm into the jagged rocks for leverage, springing out of the way as Abigail barreled toward the exit. The headlights swept across and bathed him for a second. He didn’t think she’d noticed. His arms covered his head as she bounced over Rage’s body in her haste to escape the killing ground.

  Sweat coated his torso. His t-shirt clung to his chest and back. His scuffed boot soles kicked loose rocks as he paced close enough to see the full extent of the bullets’ damage and far enough away to not get caught with a corpse.

  Back at the car, St. John scrubbed his face with an old rag from inside the Nissan. The thought and taste of Rage’s body matter all over him was making him ill. His heart raced, yet he stood still—unsure what to do next. The darkness had softened, and dawn would soon force his hand. He shoved the body into the back of the SUV.

  Pressed for time and still a little freaked out by Abigail’s cold-hearted response to killing a man, he swerved across the open space until the stolen vehicle lurched behind the massive warehouse. A headlight scan showed only a desolate expanse of rugged terrain.

  St. John’s legs drug like lead as he circled the SUV. The easiest thing would be to rig the truck for an explosion in hopes of delaying Rage’s identification. Fire was the sloppiest way to dispose of evidence like a car or body. Blazes served as a beacon and firefighters were attracted to the flickering embers like moths to a flame. If he set a fire, he’d never get far enough away to evade detection.

  Think, James. Think.

  He slammed his fist into the other hand while he circled with measured steps further back and away from the warehouse. The terrain continued with craggy topography as far as he could see. He was in a jam. His skin prickled with worry—if Abigail returned to the clubhouse, what would the blood brothers do to her?

  Frenzied, St. John crawled back into the truck and fishtailed out of the parking lot and back onto Colorado State Highway 16. His mouth was pinched in a straight line as he sucked air through dust-filled nostrils. Fuck destroying or hiding a body. There was a war going on and warriors died in wars. Rage was going to become a martyr of senseless gang violence.

/>   St. John eventually regained cell service and found his way back to town. He dumped Rage’s body right in the middle of an intersection between the clubhouse and Mystic. What better place to leave a calling card that signaled to the Savage Souls shit was heating up? St. John’s head throbbed. He gnawed the inside of his cheek until he tasted blood. Some other gang would end up paying for this murder, but the blood would be on his hands. It was worth the stain if it saved Abigail.

  Blood blemished the cell phone’s screen but he had to talk to Lawless.

  “You know what time it is?” Lawless’ sleep deprived tone barked.

  St. John steered with one hand as he made his way back to the hospital’s parking garage. “Yeah, time to tell me the fucking truth.”

  “Sorry, Seals, but shit is weird right now.”

  “It’s, St. John, you asshole. This is an unsecured line.” Damn Lawless, he knew better. Even one slip could cost a life. “I just witnessed a Savage’s execution by a house mouse. She never flinched, almost like she had a plan. Tell me what you know about Abigail Black.”

  “I’m under orders from Special Agent Ford to advise you to turn yourself in. This mission has been compromised and you’ve been classified as AWOL. I’m not ending up on federal charges because your ass went rogue,” Lawless snapped back.

  St. John zipped the Nissan Pathfinder up the circular entrance. He parked it two floors above where he’d stolen it. That would buy him time before the owner realized where it was.

  He ducked into the empty stairwell, “You know better. I don’t doubt Ford was behind your ambush. You ever get any answers from the agency about who approved the fake SWAT team?” St. John slogged down the stairs much slower than he had ascended earlier. Fatigue had become dangerous.

  “All I know is that I’m getting too much bullshit from people who ought to know better and you’re one of them.” Lawless’ response smacked with accusation.

  “You’ve got to be out of your damn mind to suspect I’m behind it.”