by LS Silverii
DAMAGED
Savage Souls Series
Book 2
LS Silverii
Dedication
This second book in the series is dedicated to my family.
Acknowledgements
This series allowed the opportunity to incorporate my experiences as an undercover agent as well as what I’ve learned through my studies of human fringe behavior. I appreciate all of my brother and sister law enforcement officers who walk the jagged line daily. Those who keep the faith despite the frayed conditions have my eternal gratitude.
The writing community is amazing for surrounding each other with genuine support. These wonderful people generously support and mentor me without hesitation. I thank you for your time, talent and truth. Liliana Hart, Jean Jenkins and Danielle Dauphinet.
Product Warning
ABOUT THIS SERIES:
**Please note this book is dark romance and deals with adult themes. Recommended for mature readers only**
This story unfolds over five volumes.
Table of Contents
Title Page
Dedication
Acknowledgements
Product Warning
Copyright Page
Chapter 1
Chapter 2
Chapter 3
Chapter 4
Chapter 5
Chapter 6
Chapter 7
Chapter 8
Chapter 9
Chapter 10
Chapter 11
Chapter 12
Chapter 13
Chapter 14
About the Author
Author’s Note
Links to my Other Books
Copyright © 2015 by L. Scott Silverii
SilverHart, LLC Publishing
Damaged: Savage Souls Series
All rights reserved. No part of this book may be reproduced or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic or mechanical, including emailing, photocopying, recording, or by any information storage and retrieval system, without permission in writing from the author.
This is a work of fiction. Any resemblance it bears to reality is entirely coincidental.
Produced by LS Silverii at SilverHart, LLC Publishing.
Thanks for being a Savage Souls reader. To show appreciation for joining me on this outlaw adventure, I’m giving away Sterling Silver Biker Pendants. Each episode in the series has a unique piece of biker jewelry that symbolizes that book. Enter by clicking the link below and you might become one of the Savage Nations Most Wanted Prize Winners.
forms.aweber.com/form/32/368041932.htm
Chapter 1
Justice’s heart slammed inside his chest. His giant biceps sunk deep into the cast iron claw-foot tub. Cold water slopped over the sides, saturating his jeans and scuffed leather boots in bath water and blood. Abigail’s lips were pale, her skin bluish, fading to violet.
He hoisted her body out of the pink flood. Heavy splotches splashed onto the wooden floor in his second story suite. His boot crushed what remained of the razor and the few pills she’d dropped onto the floor once the blade rode jagged lines across her wrists. Abigail hadn’t known what she was doing. There were hesitation marks—the slits weren’t meant to end her life.
“Get Fury up here stat,” he commanded.
His voice and words reverted back to his military training. Justice had grown used to casualties in the field, but never in his own bathtub. Forefinger against Abigail’s neck to check for a pulse, he glanced away toward the door anticipating Fury’s arrival. His blood brother had been trained as a medic in the Navy. His attachments to Special Forces components had steeled Fury’s composure under pressure—but where the fuck was he?
“He’s coming boss,” Viper said as he gawked over Abigail’s nude form. “Said he was on a phone call.”
“Get the fuck out of here unless you know how to sew,” Justice swatted a jerky hand at him.
“Getting my medic bag. What the fuck happened?” Fury slipped in between Justice and Abigail’s body. In seamless streams of motion, he cleaned and stitched the wound on her right wrist, and was threading an IV needle to a fluid bag. Justice stroked his eyebrows as he watched in amazement. He and Fury had run in different circles their whole lives, so they were never very close. At this moment though, he was damn impressed at his brother’s skill under pressure.
“Viper, be useful. Get over here and hold this bag up high. Make sure it doesn’t stop dripping,” Fury ordered.
“Good thing she crossed the road instead of going down the river with that blade.” Mercy whistled as if she’d really dodged a bullet.
“What can I do, bro?” Justice leaned over the girl’s face to check for a pulse. His own pulse still raced like wild, but first things first.
“The left wrist is a little deeper—she could use a little blood.”
“No way. She’s not going to the ER. Fucking Police Chief Perez will swarm all over this place, and now with feds in town, we’d be better off burying her.” Justice paced, pushing long, wet tangles of hair from his face. “Maybe the Sheriff can keep the Chief off our ass.”
“Bury her? Dude, she ain’t gonna die, she just needs a transfusion. I’ll get the Ipecac so she’ll vomit up those pills.”
“Then no outside help?” Justice asked.
“I’ll start a field transfusion, but she should see a doctor.”
Justice glared at Viper’s leather cut. Each member wore a patch on their vest that showed their blood type—his was A positive. He snapped his fingers, “Toad—he’s O negative, a universal donor.” Justice yanked the walkie-talkie from his back pocket, “Toad.”
“This is Toad. Go ahead boss.”
“Meet Fury in my bedroom now.”
“Uh, yes sir. Again, you mean?” Toad’s voice sounded unsure.
“Now,” Justice’s roar didn’t even need the transmitter.
Viper laughed at the insinuation.
“Think something’s funny?” Fury asked. Viper’s expression blanked—he shook his head.
Justice towered at the top of the steps to greet Toad. His hand snatched Toad’s tight-fitting leather vest, brought the patch closer—O negative. “Roll up your sleeve, son. You’re about to save a life.”
“Fuck’n aye, but I’m high as a winged baseball bat.” Toad giggled as he smashed one boot against the floor to steady himself. His pupils looked like pinpoints and his skin was flushed red.
“Oh well, so she’ll have a buzz when she comes to.” Viper smirked.
“You gotta make that phone call, Justice.” Fury’s look told him he wasn’t sure she’d make it.
Justice chewed the inside of his cheek as he studied the butcher job Fury had done sewing her up. Justice walked into the hall to speak in private. Instead, he shoved the cell in his pocket and lumbered back into his room.
“Why didn’t you make the call?”
“Can’t do it. The Sheriff is fine for hanging around here, but we don’t know if the old cowboy will shit a brick when the chips are down. Best not to chance it with the feds floating around his county,” Justice said.
“Yes, but she needs real medical help, I can only do so much.” Justice connected glances with Fury, whose head tilted to signal it was too close to call.
“Do the best you can. If she lives, fine. If not, she was a lost soul anyway.” Justice stormed out of the room.
* * *
“I can’t believe that motherfucker just walked out like that,” Fury spouted once he broke concentration on Abigail to allow seething anger to vent.
“Why don’t you just ditch her out back, and be done with her?” Viper’s somber statement set Fury’s soul ablaze. Toad’s jeering didn’t help.
He grumbled low, like a tiger stalking prey, “I’m
going to act like I didn’t hear that. You must be out of your mind to say something like that after I just busted my balls to save her.”
“And ’dem pigs out front might see us dumping her body,” Toad sputtered from a drug-induced rush and the lightheadedness of surrendering blood.
“What did you say, Toad?” Fury wobbled on stiff knees to stand over the bed where Toad sprawled. He bent below the curtains to peer through the windows and out into the thick evergreen forest surrounding the compound.
Toad’s greasy lips vibrated as he rapidly expelled musty air. Eyes concealed behind thick eyelids, Toad mumbled incoherently before he passed out. Fury slapped him hard, opening a gash in the left side of his jaw. The obese biker never flinched.
“Viper, hang that bag on the bed post and head down to tell Justice what Toad said.”
“Who’s going to hold this IV bag?”
“No need. Just hang it up.”
“Then why I been standing here all this time holding it?”
“I thought I might need more blood,” Fury said.
Chapter 2
St. John looked around—his sense of paranoia had increased a hundredfold since he’d begun the dangerous undercover operation almost two years ago. He and the six other agents huddled behind the fleet of government issued cruisers. No one wanted to turn their back on the access road, so they formed a semi-circle around the trunk of a car. St. John stood off to the side, feeling a sense of separation from his fellow agents.
The lead agent, group supervisor Special Agent Ted Ford fumbled with a stack of printed papers. Wind riffled the pages of his operational briefing, so he pressed his paunchy gut against the car to hold his plans in place. His high-water khaki pants exposed white socks and black dress shoes. Ford cleared his throat often and removed and replaced his expensive sunglasses before he decided to rest them on his shaved scalp.
St. John snorted as he looked across to his former partner, Agent Jeff Graham. They still read each other like a book, and knew Ford would forget the glasses on his head. He and Graham had gone through the basic training academy together and battled to place as the top graduate. Their careers mirrored, mostly because they worked as partners for years and requested locational transfers simultaneously.
It wasn’t until St. John returned to his home state of Florida to help his ailing parents that Graham promoted up the GS ladder of federal government service. It’d been three years since they last worked together, but as fate would have it, the outlaw biker task force had brought them back together.
A University of Florida alumnus, St. John starred on the gridiron as a monstrous All-American linebacker for the Gators. His NFL career cut short by injuries suffered at the hands of a drunk driver, he soon found the brotherhood and competitive spirit he long desired in federal law enforcement.
“Seals, pay attention,” Ford’s arrogant verbal slap pissed off St. John.
He arched his back off the car. The trunk lifted about two inches without his hulking frame pressed against it. St. John was nervous enough without this government-issued prick giving him grief.
“I’ve lived as James St. John for over two years. Don’t you dare screw it up by being careless,” he said, moving toward Ford.
Dr. Worthington slid between to intercept St. John. She’d talked to St. John before about the changes in his personality. He’d become more aggressive lately—like his days playing football. It was the outlaw ethos and the rush of an adrenaline-fueled kick ass lifestyle. St. John gravitated to it. That was the reason she, as the agency’s psychologist, had approved his selection for the long-term assignment. Not many people possessed the capacity to create order out of chaos, and Special Agent Ted Ford sure in hell wasn’t one of them.
“I’ve got ten minutes tops until they come looking for me. I ain’t going to be found standing here with a bunch of narcs. Get on with the briefing, or contact me later.” St. John glared deep into Ford’s eyes, challenging his authority.
Much shorter than the rest, Ford stood about Voodoo’s height at five feet, five inches. He zipped up his parka and flapped fingers across a loosely held pancake holster. St. John’s aggression rose through his body and he felt the sensation of heat cooking him. It felt fucking amazing.
“Okay, listen up. We got agents back in Custer County keeping an eye on the Savage Souls’ movements. They are in direct communication with the Sheriff there. Sheriff Roger Reed.” Ford read from a paper like a principal calling off the graduation roll.
St. John rolled his eyes at the mention of Sheriff Reed. If the man wasn’t on the take, he was at least under Justice’s influence.
“We know this gang murdered Ricky Geneti back in Las Vegas. Mr. Geneti’s three-year-old son was also a victim.”
“How do you know we were involved?” St. John demanded.
Graham shot a glance but St. John averted his eyes. Instead, he locked into Lawless Boudreaux’s big brown eyes—nothing friendly in that scowl.
“What team you playing for St. John?” Lawless asked.
St. John pressed toward him. “What the fuck does that mean?”
Lawless, much larger than even St. John stepped forward. “You said we. You were referring to the Savages. You crawled over to the other side?”
“Who the fuck are you to question me?” St. John pushed his leather cut open to reveal his pistols and KA-BAR knife.
“This is only your job. They’re my family. I’ve stood alone against them for years. They avoid coming home to Louisiana anymore, which is why I decided to come after them. They’re going to be stopped, and I’m going to help do it, but you got to be clear about who you’re fighting for,” Lawless said. “And put that shit away, we all got guns out here.”
Voodoo and Graham spoke in hushed tones to settle St. John. The undercover agent raised his hands in an “I give up” gesture. Stilted speaking, he tried to convince them they couldn’t understand. Most were experienced agents and weren’t buying his bullshit—they’d been there before. James St. John was in too deep.
“St. John, I believe its time for you to come in from the cold. You are suffering from DID, Dissociative Identity Disorder. It happens to the best of agents,” Dr. Eleanor Worthington said.
She was one of only three professional shrinks who’d also completed an entire law enforcement-training academy, and had been assigned to accompany the group for the specific purpose of either diagnosing or clearing him for further activity.
DID was common among agents. The danger started when they became so enmeshed in their undercover identity that they began to consolidate who they actually were with who they pretended to be. The façade even begins to surface in non-operative modes—such as family or social life. It was expected, but to what degree it was harmful to the individual agent was up to Dr. Worthington to decide.
“Agent Louis Seals, I hate to do this, but this is the end of the undercover mission for you,” she said in a dry, clinical manner.
St. John wanted to punch her in the throat.
He grabbed clumps of his shaggy hair. “I’m James St. John, to you.” Panting as if he’d run miles, he looked up to the painted sky. His biker persona went deeper than playing an undercover role. He’d gone beyond pretending to be James St. John; he had become James St. John.
“That’s the problem. You aren’t James St. John. You’re Special Agent Louis S. Seals.” Worthington taunted him with his own identity, or lack of one.
He stomped away, talking to himself to calm down—he felt as if he had a better grip on things, but why did he feel so out of body? His fists curled tight, fingernails bit into his palms. St. John had had enough of their bullshit—he had a job to do.
He lifted his chin, “I gotta meet my brothers. They’ll come looking for me.” He swung into his saddle and powered up the massive twin cam engine. Unclenched, his hands hung limp over the chrome ape hanger handlebars.
“If you leave, you’re fired,” screamed Ford. He broke away from Worthington’s weak gr
ip and advanced toward St. John like a toy soldier.
The biker’s long legs straddled the custom airbrushed gas tank. A local Savage Nation supporter who owned a paint and body shop just outside of Mystic painted it. The flat black metal sported the club’s iconic passion cross in chrome and brushed silver. The royal blue ribbon twisted around the cross with the name of the club in old English lettering.
The biker straddled the custom airbrushed gas tank and smashed his gloved fists together. “Come closer.”
“It’s not worth it, sir,” Worthington shouted.
Ford fidgeted like an alert K9.
“You sent me off to handle this shit, now let me fucking handle it. As for you, Doc, go fuck yourself,” St. John roared like a madman. He glared at Lawless and Jeff Graham who stood speechless. He scanned the others and saw Voodoo had walked away.
He caught her eye, eased his glare, and winked.
Chapter 3
Sunlight broke through the thin shades and brightened the bedroom. The morning’s wildlife serenade called Abigail’s attention to windows that looked out over a thick grove of pine trees. Distant mountain ranges formed a backdrop that challenged the sky. Abigail hadn’t slept so soundly since she couldn’t recall when.
She enjoyed the quiet comfort, and soon wondered whether baby Jack had awakened before her. Mind drifting back and forth in a half-awake dream state, Abigail thought she’d called out for him, but wasn’t sure her lips had moved.
“Jack. Are you awake, baby? Come to mommy,” she said softly.
A dull throb ached behind Abigail’s brow. She tried to rub the sleep from her eyes and shield the bright sunlight but couldn’t. Neither arm would move. Abigail’s arms were belted against the sides of Justice’s bed. She rattled her shoulders and rocked side to side against the comfortable mattress, but was helpless. Her abdomen quivered while she craned her chin toward her chest. She blinked in confusion and horror.
