by LS Silverii
It was his pride that had played a part in their fall. Lawless’ adversarial relationship with Justice was once compared to Lucifer’s pride in challenging God. It wasn’t that Lawless thought he was better than the others, but he desired acknowledgement for accolades that never came as easy as they did for his brother. He’d changed, but damage was done.
“I understand, but just know I’m here for you. We go way back—all of us do, but I’m ready to stand against them also,” Voodoo said.
His spirits lifted whenever he saw the petite but feisty Creole cop stand just as committed as he against a criminal juggernaut like the Savage Souls.
“So you’re not going to give up what went sideways between you and your six blood brothers? I guess I’ll never know.” She tried one last time, but he knew she knew it wasn’t going to happen.
“Voodoo, I’m more interested in what happened with us. Where did we go sideways?” His words stunk up the car’s interior. It was too soon after she’d lost her husband to dig up old wounds.
Her look waffled between sad and angry.
“Sorry ’bout that kid,” he offered and mashed the accelerator. They were late for the briefing.
* * *
About twenty miles outside of Las Vegas, the Mojave Desert got really sketchy. Shit, about twenty feet outside of Las Vegas everything got really sketchy. Even more than the city itself, the untamed dry land was a haven for the psychologically deranged and criminally insane. Toss in the after-midnight hours, and it was a world unto itself. Cops surrendered the vast territories to those of the night. Bandits, poachers, drug dealers and smugglers—it was all theirs. Just as long as they didn’t dare bring that shit across city limit lines.
The Outlaw Motorcycle Gang Task Force operated counter-intuitive that night. They risked a breach beyond the outer banks of the sleepless city. There were three murderers waiting to kill. They would murder no more—Lawless would see to it.
The series of transport vans, SWAT trucks and APCs rolled north along I-15, past the Las Vegas Motor Speedway and the small arms range where not only cops, but also bad guys, came to train. They entered Clark County. The caravan zipped past the twelve-mile mark. Supervisory Agent Ford had secured an asset from the agency’s air wing support group, but the night flight surveillance fixed wing had no night vision capabilities. No one mentioned it, because it took a set of balls for him to authorize the operation—as usual, he didn’t participate
The target location was a single story, ranch-style home, set alone, without perimeter fencing or protection. Law enforcement had dismissed it for years as an abandoned or squatter’s abode. In fact, it was a stash house for the Los Jinetes. Illegals mostly used it, but it was a depot along the trade routes for sex slavers, drugs and counterfeiters to regroup until being dispatched into the nowhere of no return. Intel reported a soft exterior with a deadly interior.
Jeff Graham had run a check with the Clark County Clerk of Court to gather as much information on the structure as was available. There were no utilities connected, but the deed listed a Mr. Louis T. Pumpernickel, as responsible for paying the property tax. It made no sense, and Graham wasn’t even sure if that was a real name.
Lawless snuck his cell from beneath his bulletproof SWAT vest. He found a message from St. John telling him they’d relocated Dragon Mike. His text went on to say that killing Panchito had been bloodier than anticipated and the already contentious chapter was unstable.
Lawless tapped Voodoo on the shoulder to show her the text, and gave her a big thumb down signal. Her downturned mouth showed she also understood the hell that might cost St. John. Lawless tried to grin, but only managed a worried glower.
Their mission was simple—drop one mile out, move to target, enter and secure. Graham commanded the tactical mission because his background in SWAT and high-risk management usually tagged him as the lead dog. He’d briefed the anonymous multi-agency tactical task force back at the field office, and now they were executing his plan. Other than Agent Jeff Graham, Lawless and Voodoo didn’t know anyone.
Lawless’ hands-free head mic clicked as Graham’s voice came on. “We’re one and a half miles out. Perimeter sniper teams are in place—no movement. We let down soon. Go lights out.”
His heart pumped faster, Lawless hadn’t operated with this task force before—much less executed a super high risk raid for murderers. Confidence was high in Voodoo, and he’d heard Graham was a solid soldier, but the others looked like a ragtag band of shoot ’em ups. His palms’ moisture soaked through each fingerless glove—he focused on controlling his breathes. Even the one-mile hike in this heat worried him.
A string of red LED lights lit the ceiling of the armored personnel carrier they arrived in. The red glowing clock on the dashboard read 00:15 hours, “Time to roll. Drink plenty of water—it’s a long walk,” Graham called out.
“You ready?” Voodoo asked.
Her knees buckled when both feet hit the hard, dry earth. Lawless hitched her beneath the arm.
“No armored carrier or legit air support? This shit seems fishy, but I’m going to trust Graham. You just stick next to me, no matter what.”
“Lawless, you think something might happen?”
“We’re way out in the Nevada desert—that’s a long ass way from the South Louisiana bayous. I’m their brother, and you grew up with all of us. Seem fishy now?”
“Shit, don’t say stuff like that.” Voodoo’s eyes popped wide beneath the eerie green glow of the night vision goggles.
“I’m serious—stay close.”
“Lawless and Voodoo, stay with me. Teams one, two, and three lead the way. This is your county,” Graham ordered. “Sniper teams, the cavalry is moving out.”
“10-4, dude. Y’all got a long walk ahead, better make it quick,” called an unidentified voice that sounded more like a smooth late-night DJ than a police rifleman.
Lawless pressed his headset deeper into his ear and shouldered Voodoo. He pointed to the communications headpiece and signaled a question mark with upturned palms. That sure didn’t sound like any sniper he’d ever known.
Silence settled in, except for bouts of labored breathing. The closer the SWAT team drew, the slower the scout teams walked. A steady stream of information was fed into the tactical communications headsets by the advance teams that trekked toward the target location.
“You okay?” he asked Voodoo.
“Yeah, and I know—stay close. Hell, I might have to jump on your back if we don’t get there soon.” Voodoo’s shoulders slumped, belying the emphasis in her voice.
Each of them wore a full tactical gear kit that included a fully loaded Colt 9mm submachine gun. Their heavy nylon tactical load-bearing vests held six, thirty-round magazines pressed to the hilt with extra 9mm ammunition. The vests also held three sets of stainless steel handcuffs and zip-tie flex cuffs. Multiple canisters of tear gas and Def-Tec 25 flash bangs were strapped beneath each arm and around the back of their waist lines for easy access. Finally, secure communications equipment was jammed into deep front pockets to carry along an encrypted radio, power cord with microphone, earpiece, and extra batteries.
The weight of the vests and rifle was compounded by the ballistic Kevlar helmet and bulletproof vest. Also strapped around each one of their waists was a nylon duty rig that held a 9mm pistol with magazines for extra ammunition, and spare gear. The long sleeve tactical dress uniform, or TDU was made of fire resistant Nomex material.
It was all hot as hell.
Graham turned back and laid his gloved hand across her shoulder, “You gonna make it?”
“Hell yeah, you?” she said, and straightened up her gait.
Lawless peered through the haze of green illumination typical of third generation NVGs. He encouraged Voodoo to pick up her pace to catch up with the others. They’d moved ahead about fifteen to twenty yards. His gut matched his intuition—fishy.
“Graham, how long you worked with this team?”
The senio
r agency agent shrugged. “First time. Why?”
Chapter 8
Abigail was awake after finally being allowed to shower and wash her hair. She noticed her natural blonde was clearly showing beneath the color job she’d mashed together before fleeing Las Vegas. She lingered at the master suite’s bathroom mirror, dallying with the dabs of makeup she had left. It was almost one in the morning, but her body had been so jacked up that the time didn’t matter. Outlaw time was any time the mood moved you. She was in the mood to be pretty.
“Damn, baby girl. You’re looking amazing.” Justice gawked. A slight part of his lips showed his tongue pressed forward.
She’d been through hell and wasn’t yet back, but his words and behavior caught her off guard. She blushed in appreciation—he seemed so sincere. Very different from his orders to bend over or drop to her knees. Then, she realized, she’d not spoken yet.
“Really? Thank you. I guess I just felt like getting dolled up,” she said, forcing her fingers away from tearing at the tape that held gauze wrapped tight around both wrists.
“You look beautiful. Come to daddy.”
Her breast tingled with the anticipation of his muscular hands working their way around the piercings. He’d even promised to buy her jewelry for her nipples.
“What can I do for you?” Her alert blue eyes cast a flirtatious battery of glances. She felt sexy, almost human again.
“Not tonight, sweet thing. It’s what can I do for you?” His straight white teeth snuck from beneath his usual scowl. There was something different about him—his look.
“Daddy, you shaved,” Abigail said with an enthusiasm that jolted her back to the reality of why she was there—revenge.
“Had to trim up a bit. It was my little girl’s daddy date night,” his voice softened at her reference. “Even wore a tie.”
Her fingers entwined against each other, as one knee buckled against the other. She knew he was responsible for Jack’s death, but she’d already lost so much of who she used to be, did anything really matter anymore.
“You look very handsome, Justice.” She’d said his name. His real fucking name. The real name of the man who’d murdered her son. What the fuck was she doing flirting with this monster? Her fingers turned reddish purple and she chomped her teeth into her bottom lip. And he’s making me horny as hell—that’s where I’ll end up anyways.
“Thank you.”
“Something bothering you, baby?”
“Nothing for you to be concerned with, club business.”
His hands bridged the divide and pressed atop her shoulders—his size alone was incredible, as was the weight of his hulking stature. Abigail relaxed her neck and shoulders as his fingers rubbed against her still soft skin. Most of the bruising had begun to fade, so she didn’t bother covering up.
“Daddy, you sure you don’t want to tell your baby girl what’s bothering you? I can see you’re hurting.” Abigail saw the moment of weakness in this mountain of a man.
His nose crinkled with what looked like an extreme burden. His fingers dug deeper into her neck and around her throat. His massage turned to penetrating pressure until he began jerking against her torso in awkward tugs.
“Stay out of club affairs,” he growled. But she read him to know it was worth the chance to press for information.
“Sorry, baby. Just want to make my daddy feel good,” she said in a baby-speak that seemed to sooth him.
Abigail reached across the closed gap to unbutton his black jeans. Her heart stopped at the sight of a leather holster strapped to the inside of his waist. The shiny coating on the pistol looked as if he polished it every day. Still, her hands pried apart the opening of his denims. It took both hands to slide his flaccid dick free. He closed his eyes, moaned and loosened his grip. He soon began to respond to her touch.
Abigail couldn’t help it—she’d never had so much access to so many well-endowed men. The damned Boudreaux brothers must’ve had a stud stallion for a father. She even wondered what Fury’s cock was like—though he obviously had no interest in letting her find out.
“Baby, you feeling more relaxed?” she snake-charmed him with a hypnotic stroke of his shaft. She wasn’t trying to make him orgasm—it was time for her to discover his Achilles Heel. His big body dwarfed her five-foot-ten inch frame. His eyes fluttered and his body swayed.
“Daddy, you can trust your baby girl. I’m here for you.”
Justice muttered something. His knees became elastic and solid arms flailed with ecstasy.
“Ohhh, daddy,” she sung.
“We got a rat in the house.” Confessing those words seemed to strike pain deep inside him.
“Daddy, I’m sorry but you sure. You run a tight ship. How could that be?” She spit into her palm and increased the intensity of her lubricated stroke. His fingers again dug into her shoulders as all six feet, six inches of him, of badass ex-government Special Forces, swayed in disappointment.
“Someone close. I’ll know soon. Baby girl, you are amazing. This is just what I need,” his speech slurred. Abigail questioned whether he was stoned. Word had been that Justice didn’t screw with drugs or alcohol but kept his mind sharp.
“Just relax, I’ll be good to you.” Her words burned her soul with shame.
Be good to him after what he did to her life? She cupped his balls in her palm and pumped his dick harder. His body was super responsive to her light touch even though she wanted to rip his big cock from his body and shove it down his throat. Fingers blanched white with an undertone of purple as they wrapped and then squeezed his member. He groaned louder. His smile grew.
“Swallow me, baby,” Justice demanded.
“Baby, I’m still having fun with it.”
“We need to take a ride to town. On your knees.”
He shoved her down. Both knees smacked the hardwood floor but she blinked back the sharp pain. Abigail’s imagination ran wild with thoughts of riding into Mystic with him. She wanted to ask if that meant she’d be his old lady from now on, but his long dick jabbed its head against the back of her mouth and curled down into her throat. She swallowed and sucked air through her nose to prevent gagging.
“Come on. Good, girl. Suck me. Suck it, bitch,” he roared like a fucking beast.
Hard hands slapped the rear of her head and left cheek. His knees flexed, and smacked against her chest each time he bobbed.
She’d been smothered in testosterone since she arrived at the clubhouse, but only now did claustrophobia overwhelm her. She was trapped against him from his waist down. She finally experienced the raw, sheer brute strength of this murdering outlaw. It scared her. Fuck it—she would suffocate on his giant cum-pumping cock. At last, she felt him relax.
“Thank you, baby,” Justice said, then took her face gently between his fingers and kissed her.
Surprised, her body stiffened. Both arms welded against her sides. Her cheeks flushed at his reaction. She grabbed his right forearm. He hesitated but she tugged at him for another go. She kissed him. Her tongue was relentless inside his mouth. She felt electric that he’d kissed her without anticipation of sex, or having restrained her. Yet, she was also repulsed by the same reasons.
“Here, put on this jacket. It’s cold out this late. Tell you what, we’ll take the truck instead.” Outside, he held the door open to a brand new pickup truck. “Being president has its perks.” He slammed her door closed, and marched around the bed of the black and grey machine.
The road into Mystic was a tunnel through forest and streams. Abigail only saw what the headlights allowed, but she felt a sense of sudden defeat at the realization how isolated she was. Her initial joy of taking a ride, switched to panic and uncertainty due in part to Justice’s silence. He’d seemed so connected to her before they left. Had that been a ploy to get her in the truck?
“Justice, can I talk?”
“Sure, why couldn’t you?”
“I don’t know. You seem distant or angry. I don’t want to screw up anym
ore.” Her hand rubbed the peeling skin over her belly. The discipline tattoo still itched.
“I told you, there’s a rat in the club, and he’s close to me—too close. I swear Abi, you think that tattoo was bad, if you run your fucking mouth about this shit, I’ll skin you alive.” Sinister, his glare matched his tone.
“I came here for family,” she clamped teeth onto her lip to stop the quivering at saying those words. “I want to belong, so why would I betray you?”
“I’m trusting you. Mercy called from Vegas. Shit is going down bad in the desert. One of the brothers had to be taken out. Panchito was against us. He did say that there was a spy at HQ.”
“Who?” Abigail asked with too much interest and empathy.
Justice cut his eyes away from the ribboned highway. She understood. The inquisition had gone too far. She tried to smile but opted to focus her gaze through a dusty window and out across black nothingness.
“That’s the problem—I don’t know.”
“Is it okay to ask where we’re heading?” Abigail decided to again push her ability to gather information.
His shoulders rocked up and down as a chuckle escaped his lips, “Seems you already asked the question. Yeah, my little girl left her school bag in the truck. Her aunt’s been texting all night to drop it off. I needed to get out of the clubhouse anyway. Not knowing which is Judas is driving me mad.”
She rubbed her left hand against his triceps and shoulder. They exchanged deep stares in the rearview mirror. She unbuckled her belt and scooted closer.
“What’s with you and St. John?” he asked.
“Not sure what you’re asking?”
“He wants the brothers to back off you, and then he calls my phone to speak to you. He your old man or something?”
