by LS Silverii
St. John laughed and patted his brother on the triceps. “Where can I make a call without ears?”
“Outside. This ain’t no safe place.” Jorge’s face flattened. He twisted his steps to shuffle a hasty passing across St. John’s position.
“Jorge, I’d suggest someone toss this memorial to Red. The blood brothers see this shit and someone’s going to bleed—a lot.”
St. John grabbed Jorge’s forearm and uttered, “SFFS.” Then he slipped out the side door. The heat had come into full effect and his shades were left on the Hog. No time to go back. There was a stop-and-rob a few blocks down that the brothers frequented to shoplift beers. He’d make his calls there.
Through slitted eyes, he tried to estimate the distance and speed of oncoming traffic as he bounced on the balls of his feet along the highway’s shoulder.
Come on sucka. Okay, go.
A black panel van skidded out of its lane and across the white fog line. He leapt back, but before he could retreat, the side door slid open. They almost snatched him out of his boots.
“What the fuck are you doing?” he yelled.
“You’ve got to come in. Ford is contacting the director himself—said you’ve gone rogue. Just submit to a debriefing with Dr. Worthington, and you’re back in the game,” Jeff Graham pleaded. Voodoo and Lawless shook their heads in concert.
“Have y’all lost your minds? Do you even know what’s at stake here? I’ve put in over two years with this shit. Yeah, I’m going to act different, I gotta fit in or they’ll kill me.”
St. John thought about how much he actually enjoyed his undercover role and the break from the structured cubicle-life of federal service. While there were plenty of real deal kick ass cops, most top jobs were filled with the likes of group supervisor Ted Ford. He gnawed on the inside of his cheek while he debated whether or not to jump from the speeding vehicle.
“These dudes are planning a hit tonight on one of the few decent brothers in my club.” He blinked, still trying to adjust to the blacked out interior of the van.
“See, there you go—you said my club. You’re taking ownership of the Savage Souls and their actions. Don’t throw your career and your life away because of one undercover case. There are more, many more ahead,” Graham said.
Voodoo’s hand rested on his thigh. “Baby, you’ve got to care for yourself first. You no good broken,” she pleaded.
“I need to know how Abi’s doing?” He dug in his pocket for the cell phone.
“Who?” she asked.
“Abigail, the girl back at the club’s HQ in Colorado. Something about her, but she’s not house mouse meat. The brothers been gang banging her since she showed up, but Justice promised he’d keep them away for me.” St. John rocked back until his fingers slid into his jeans’ pocket.
“You talking human trafficking?” Lawless leaned forward from his kneeling position across the bare floor of the panel van.
“No. She showed up and asked to be a member of the family.” His eyes wandered while he ran off on some tangent about this mystery woman.
Graham snapped his fingers a mere inches from St. John’s nose, “Dude, who cares. We got a major undercover bust coming together, and you starry-eyed over some old momma—fuck her.”
St. John launched himself into his former partner and friend. “I care, that’s who.” Lawless yanked him back into his corner of the van. “Come on man, you can’t act like this. I’ve been deep before, and yeah, it’s a bitch. You gotta know when to surface—even if it’s just for a quick breather. Don’t let your emotions get tangled with someone on the other side. You’re looking at her through a false set of lenses.” His words came low, his voice rumbling into the space shared by the four of them. Lawless always seemed calm—just like his brother, Justice.
“Listen, I’m not going to the field office. That prick Ford will have me hauled away. The local chapter president, Dragon Mike, is a good dude and a former Marine. They’re trying to murder him. We have to stop it.”
“What’s in it for us?” Graham asked.
“There’s an up and coming group called the Los Jinetes. The Horsemen. They’re a Mexican cartel subgroup trying to clear a path in the US for their boys back south. They were involved in the rip off of the Savages’ quarter million bucks and a cache of high-grade military weapons worth that much.”
Voodoo took notes furiously. The others listened.
“Gray Man is a nomad for the club, which means he belongs to no chapter and is authorized to roam the country,” St. John said. “He comes to places where people need to die. I’ve never heard of him, but he’s supposed to be a diablo.”
“Okay, Bro, but one devil is looking to kill a devil dog outlaw. So what? How do we stop this without blowing your cover?” Graham asked.
“Our wiretap shows where the hit team is staying. They’re sitting on a stash of drugs and illegal weapons. The agency looks like fucking white knights, and y’all get off my ass for a while.”
Voodoo’s nose crinkled. “Y’all run wiretaps?”
St. John grinned and nodded.
“Not a bad idea. Lets get the details and run it by Ford,” Graham said.
“No telling Ford. We’ll do it instead. It’s the Savage Souls’ problem to solve. Just thought I’d cut y’all in on the action. I don’t trust that fat cat Ford,” St. John snarled.
Lawless adjusted his position to relieve his long legs in the cramped quarters. “How do we know you’re not giving us bogus intel to keep us busy and off your tracks?” he asked.
“How is it that six of the Boudreauxs take over their own crime syndicate, and you just so happen to be the only straight arrow? How do we know it ain’t part of the Boudreaux boys’ plan to infiltrate law enforcement?” St. John barely finished his last word before Lawless lashed out. He drove his right fist into St. John’s left jaw with as much force and strength as he could from a kneeling position.
St. John crashed flat on his back like an unsupported two-by-four onto concrete. Lawless’ momentum, and the power of his arm’s swing landed him on top of the sucker-punched undercover agent.
The van came to another screeching halt, “What the fuck is wrong with you people?” the driver yelled.
“Fuck him. Trying to help him keep his shit together, and he’s going to accuse me of being dirty? Fuck you Louis Seals.” Lawless fell to the side as St. John pushed from beneath him.
He grabbed for the van’s door lever. “I’m James St. John,” He declared as he jumped out.
Chapter 6
It was well after noon before Justice tramped into his room. The wretched smell of cum and sex stopped him in the door. Abigail quivered. Her mind cracked at the reality of having to fuck yet another biker. There was a fine line between the unwilling spirit being broken, and being destroyed without a spirit or will.
His usual self-assured, commanding mien altered into twisted lips and a pinched brow that signaled disapproval. She heard his heels drive hard into the reconstructed wooden floors. The large glass pane windows were thrust open. Abigail’s skin tingled. The warm afternoon breeze felt as if it rasped against her sensitive skin. She moaned.
Justice’s made his wrath toward his brothers known through lips contorted by emotion.
Abigail was grateful for his protective nature. Without thinking, her fingers reached out, dallied. Not for circulation, but for making human contact with the one who had taken her in and protected her—sometimes.
Thoughts of the Stockholm syndrome crossed her mind, where captives began to sympathize with their captures. She’d arrived with hate in her heart and revenge racing through her veins. Maybe it was thanks to Justice’s skill in dominating others, but at times she’d forgotten why she’d come. Fuck, at times all she could think about was being dominated. She really didn’t give a shit about anything, anymore, so she thought.
Justice stood beside her. She stroked his thigh with as much motion as she could muster with her arms still restrained.
She rolled her hips side to side. Her groin area had begun to warm. She was already so swollen from the repeated sessions from the brothers that her mind blanked on how she could now desire more sex. He was her daddy after all.
He held up one finger and pressed it to his lips, the cell phone to his ear.
She clawed at his leg. His look remained fixed on something far away. Finally, he reached beneath the bed to unclasp the strap that trapped her right hand. Abigail moved her freed wrist in circles and stretched all five fingers until they burned with a flush of blood to the nerves.
Her rocking hips turned into a grind. Her hand slid down her belly onto her clit. She nibbled her bottom lip once her eyes met Justice’s wink of approval. He dropped his free hand and ran it across her nipple. Her back arched, mouth pouted for more.
Fingers fumbled for his zipper, then his belt. He turned toward her, but was caught up in the conversation. She dug beneath the denim until she wrapped her fingers around his thick shaft. Justice wore no boxers or briefs, so it was one less layer to defeat to free his manhood. He began to talk less to his caller and grunt to agree more. It felt good to feel she had control of something, even if it was a dick. For the moment, it was all hers.
Justice tugged his fingers through her matted mane. It felt good to have him pet her. She squeezed the ridge behind the big heart-shaped head of his cock. His knees buckled. She maintained the pressure, but pulled back against him. Her circled hand pressed against his balls, and she delighted at the sight of his full measure suspended above her face. Strings of clear pre-cum draped from the head of his dick.
He stretched across her nude torso and worked until her left hand was freed. Abigail mouthed a thank you as she flexed those fingers to encourage blood and feeling to return. She held his dick in her right hand like her life depended on it. Her clit throbbed—she waved for his attention from his phone call to ask if she could masturbate. He nodded.
Her right hand stroke never interfered with the circular massage of her left hand across her clit. She thrummed his dick until it grew even thicker and reddened. Her fist whipped between his balls and the head’s tip. First faster and tightly held and then slow with barely a hint of skin-to-skin contact. Abigail delighted in seeing her daddy respond to her efforts to please him.
He held the cell above her chest. She looked up, her expression puzzled. He nodded.
“Hello?” her voice was weak.
Justice held out a glass of water. The sight of it caused her breath to hitch in her chest. Her dry heave pressed it out across a dry tongue. Her knees knocked and clamped together as her gut knotted. She released his dick to press knuckles against her teeth as a whine escaped.
Her mind flashed back. The warm, dingy-colored water in the spotty glass reminded her of lying in her apartment before she torched the thing to head east to Colorado.
After Jack was murdered and after she’d buried him, it was almost four weeks before she’d surrendered any hope of life. She couldn’t take her hurt out on Ricky Geneti—his worthless ass was dead. It was sitting hunched over on the edge of her scrawny mattress, watching that putrid tasting glass of warm water bounce every time a fucking eighteen wheeler bound for anywhere but the hell hole of Las Vegas, that she realized she’d try life. If only for revenge, she’d give it one more chance.
Yet, here she was, with the man who took her life away. She lay bound to the bed like his pet, stroking his cock like his whore. She shook her head—she didn’t want his water.
Justice must’ve sensed her attitude. He clanked the glass down on the mahogany nightstand. He motioned for the cell she’d forgotten was there. The phone had snuggled behind her left ear. She fumbled for it and asked, “Who’s there?” Justice made another swipe for the cell, but Abigail heard St. John’s voice on the other end.
Her eyes pleaded for a chance to hold this conversation. St. John had treated her with dignity—to keep Justice at bay, she reached over to smash her fingers around his semi-erect cock again. She pumped it until he arose with a renewed hard on. He vaulted his back and allowed her time to talk, but no privacy.
“Hi, Abigail, how’re they treating you?” St. John asked.
She hesitated. The sincerity of his question sounded like her favorite teachers back in high school. They’d ask her how she was each morning and she felt special—like they really cared.
“I’m fine, James. Why the call?”
“I asked Justice to have the brothers lay off of you while I was gone. Wanted to make sure he kept his word. Did he?”
Justice’s giant purple dick’s head was less than a crooked elbow away from her mouth. “Yes, Justice is treating me very well.” She felt a tinge of disgust at the deception, but knew she’d do anything she had to. Her body no longer meant much. It was a tool to be used and shared by the brothers.
“I’ll be back in a few days. I told Justice I wanted you and me to go into town and grab something to eat. You need a break, baby.”
Baby? Where had that come from? Was he trying to become her daddy too?
Her hand cramped and her forearm seared from a muscle ache, yet she stayed on the line to hear this genuine voice. And to do that, she had to whip Justice’s cock until he was on his knees crying out her name.
“Abigail, are you there? You sound busy.”
She tried her best to control the exertion, but Justice was close—she could sense it. The shaft pulsed inside her palm. She had to adjust her grip against the throbbing monster. St. John tried to ask her simple yes and no questions because he probably knew Justice was very close by. He would have no idea how close Justice was—an arm’s length away.
“I guess you’re busy. Can I ask you one question, and all you have to do is answer with a yes or no.”
“Okay.”
“Have you ever heard of, or know about someone called Gray Man?”
She yelped and released the cell along with Justice’s vaulting cock. She covered her mouth as tears burst from her eyes and flowed freely down her cheeks. Soon, tears mixed with the load of cum Justice had dumped on her forehead and face.
She knew St. John had heard Justice’s orgasm, but that wasn’t her biggest problem. He knew about Gray Man—so did St. John also know about her?
Chapter 7
“Look, I don’t like him either, but everything checks out,” Lawless leaned his big body against the wobbly cubicle wall inside the agency’s Las Vegas field office. “Los Jinetes are stacked for a hit tonight. We can also put an end to most of the gang violence that’s rocked sin city over the last months.”
The other federal task force agents sat in a semi-circle against the three walls to face their group supervisor, Ted Ford. Everyone knew he was purely a paper pusher who’d climbed the government service ladder by kissing ass—and he’d bumbled through the prospect of launching a high-risk raid against the confirmed killers. He stood alone, backlit from the open venetian blinds he kept bumping into.
“How do we know it’s not a set up?” Ford straightened his eyeglasses.
Graham held his hand down low to signal Lawless he’d handle the question. Lawless exhaled so it was obvious he wasn’t happy.
“An experienced federal agent swore to the information he witnessed first hand. We took his information and compared it to what we knew—it matches,” Graham waved a folder over his head. “Our field teams also verified the address he gave as inhabited by members of Los Jinetes. The same names hired to kill another person. Each are convicted felons.”
Lawless slid a quick glance across the room—Graham’s mouth turned up, but his glower remained focused on an undecided Ford. Lawless knew the case as well as Graham did. There was no confirmation of three names, much less felony convictions.
“Well, if you’re sure Jeff, then okay.” Ford released a huge gulp of air. “Let’s do this.”
Graham’s genuine smile looked awkward but he beamed as
if he’d won the Super Bowl, or a checkers game.
* * *
Voodoo sat in the passenger’s seat while Lawless drove back to the agency’s Vegas field office. Thanks to vouchers for the federal government’s reimbursement rates, they were barely able to afford slum rooms in the boonies.
“St. John messaged. Said one of their own, an ex-brother named Panchito confirmed that three of the four killers are in the target house waiting. They’re supposed to leave at two-thirty to find and hit their mark,” she said.
Lawless flipped his fingers across the steering wheel as he squinted against the bright Vegas strip’s lights. “Why then?”
“The killers said Metro Police’s power shifts end at zero two hundred hours and the on-call detectives have either gone home or will be too exhausted to get out of bed to do a half-ass job on the case.”
Lawless half-laughed. “Makes sense to me. Cops are so predictable.”
Voodoo stared out of the window, but then laid her small hand over his forearm. “We go way back. Tell me what happened between you and the family.” She turned her electric green eyes on him, a challenge for the truth.
Voodoo’s caramel colored skin glowed in the vibrant lights along the outer Strip, and the series of radios and computer screens inside the unmarked police unit.
Lawless felt an ache in his chest. He’d grown up with Voodoo and even dated her for a while. He didn’t so much mind her asking, as he wanted to avoid the pain of retelling. He also wanted to avoid too much personal exposure. She’d just experienced the loss of her husband, and was vulnerable. He feared sharing past hurts might bring them closer than professional associates.
“I’d rather not hash it out. It’s taken years but I think I’m finally advancing in my evolution toward being the best I can be,” he recited.
“Are you fucking serious?”
He bellowed, “Yes, I can’t pull off that psycho babble.” His thick palm slapped the steering wheel.
He swallowed hard as his right hand spun and whipped the wheel through different turns until the unit was headed on the right course. His left fingers massaged his forehead as he reflected on the questions he’d never answer. He knew his deadly sin was pride. His heartless mother made sure each of her sons realized what possessed them. The idea was to identify it, and work to avoid becoming a victim of it. They’d failed—all of them.
