Sabotage: Beginnings

by LS Silverii

  Boyd looked left then right, took another gulp from his Styrofoam cup, then plopped into the leather seat of his paint-faded Volvo XC90 SUV. The dated high-end vehicle belched to life with a patch of black fog coughed from the exhaust.

  He’s not very spy like, Batya thought.

  Left blinker activated, Boyd crept into the easy flow of meandering traffic heading west. Batya snuck a five-dollar bill beneath the weight of the mug. She dipped her face at the passing Harley Davidson Road King as she hurried across the painted curb toward the rented white panel van.

  The van vibrated as the ignition charged it into action. Her eyes remained on the motorcyclist down the road. A bright yellow safety swatch across the back of the biker’s jacket allowed Batya to spot it easily and remain a safe distance behind it and Boyd.

  She wasn’t crazy about Justice’s new passion for motorcycles, but she understood their association with the Savage Souls’ outlaw club was the best way to disappear from the CIA’s grid. They’d also aligned themselves with an unholy host of military combat vets.

  The Volvo and Hog hesitated at a four-way stop. Batya chewed at a fingernail—had they been made? This was an intuition operation based on a loosely formed plan. Neither one used electronic communications to signal their surveillance tactics. They were both experts at in-the-field improv, but this was Langley after all. And while Boyd was a half-ass at best, much craftier men were involved and had a stake that couldn’t allow for failure.

  The road looked abandoned with only new home construction on each corner of the intersection. The bike’s brake light popped bright three times. Batya nodded though she knew he wouldn’t see her acknowledgement. His bike cut quick to the left and accelerated like a bolt of pissed off lightning around Boyd’s SUV. She laughed as Justice shot an angry middle finger at Boyd when he roared past his driver’s side window.

  It looked like a case of road rage, but Batya knew it was a ruse to ensure Boyd wouldn’t suspect a tail. Her plain work van was a better fit for the heavy construction zone. It was her turn to take the primary eye on their target. If she knew her husband, he’d soon return to the mission with his jacket turned inside out and something else on his head besides the full facemask.

  The Volvo eased into the intersection and stopped. Batya hit the brakes. Big jugs of water rolled around the back over heavy plastic bags. Her fingers slid smooth over the Pachmayer grips on her Sig Sauer 9mm P226 that she pressed beneath her thigh. Her thoughts turned to baby Grace—no way did she intend to be taken by surprise. She slammed both palms onto the van’s deep warbling horn and threw her arms up in the air when she saw the dull brown eyes peer back at her through his rearview mirror.

  Boyd flipped her off and turned left toward the cul de sac. She turned right. A slight wiggle of her fingers danced across the top of her steering wheel as she and Justice crossed paths. Most neighborhood layouts were similar, and it would be just a matter of time until they met again. She made the first left hand turn and began to worm her way back toward Boyd.

  Batya gasped as she made the final right turn. Her eyes popped wide open. She was shocked to see Justice’s motorcycle lying in a nearby drainage culvert and his body sprawled across a v-shaped dent in Boyd’s Volvo.

  “I’m calling the cops,” Batya yelled.

  Boyd waved his arms. “No, he’s all right. No need to call the police.”

  Perfect, no cops called.

  Batya saluted him. “Okay, I’m not an insurance agent.”

  “This biker trash slammed right into me out of nowhere. Probably high on dope,” Boyd said, anger in his voice, but a foundation of fear quivered in the undertone.

  “Probably so. Us working stiffs out here every day and crap like him sucking off it.” She slid her fingers beneath Justice’s meaty shoulder and bearded chin to check his pulse. She jerked back when he kissed her hand.

  “I think he’s out cold. You can’t leave him over your hood like a deer.”

  Boyd ran his fingers through his thinning hair and shoved his sunglasses on top of his head. Panic she thought—what a sorry excuse for an operative. Batya pulled a baseball cap down across her chaffed skin. She’d switched clothing from the coffee house to prevent Boyd from picking up her being the same person. Oldest trick in the book—but effective.

  “You need him to vanish?” she asked bluntly.

  His mouth twisted while his eyes slipped from left to right and back again. He spun around and walked toward a cement slab driveway—the area was vacant with a cluster of unfinished homes. She watched his hands as they alternated between his thick lips and warm overcoat pockets.

  “Times wasting. You want him to vanish?” she repeated. Her body felt stiff but prepared for anything. “I’m heading out to a solid waste dump to drop junk from our build down the street. Don’t mind taking him if you let me go through his wallet and shit first. I’d love to have that jacket for my old man.”

  “Uh, yeah sure. I can’t do this. I need to call the cops,” he stuttered.

  “Okay, I’m out, but mind if I peel that jacket off him? My old man might not feed me knuckles if I give him this badass coat.” She wiped her forearm beneath her running nose.

  “What?”

  “You know how it is. Tough times makes him angry. Why I’m working three jobs. So he can focus on his music.”

  Boyd’s face dropped. For once, he looked like he’d gotten a taste of what the real world dealt with. Batya fought butterflies while he digested her bullshit story—time was really running out—like her patience.

  “Oh hell, lets do this.” Boyd reached beneath Justice’s shoulder. Batya grabbed the other.

  “Hey, mister.”

  “What?” came his reply, short of breath.

  “I can give you a blowjob while we’re in there if you’d like.”

  He rolled his eyes. “How much?”

  “Five dollars—cash.”

  He nodded. “I’ll give you three.”

  “Deal mister.”

  Batya and Boyd tugged at Justice’s giant frame. He wasn’t helping, and they were too far into the move to drop him in the middle of the street. With huffs of air and muscles on fire, Batya managed to lug Justice into the open cargo door. Boyd tried to push but she noticed his lack of real effort.

  “You sure you can handle him?” Boyd kicked Justice’s boot all the way inside the cargo area.

  “I’ll strip him and dump his big ass along the landfill. Just don’t say nothing, mister. Promise?” Batya buckled her knees and tilted her head until her chin rested in between both palms. “Pretty please.”

  “Yeah, sure. Let’s just get going.”

  “Okay, thank you, mister.” Batya began to hustle around the van.

  “Uhm, excuse me.”

  “Yes?”

  Boyd waved three-dollar bills in front of his crotch. He nodded toward the van.

  She averted her gaze and followed the money like a dog after a bone. She snatched at the money.

  Boyd crawled over Justice’s body, further into the rear of the van. “You’ll get it after you’re done.” He clucked his teeth with a sneer. “What’s with all this water, you a delivery girl, too?” He laughed—alone.

  “Ain’t you afraid this jerk will wake up?”

  “Fuck him. I got something for that biker trash if he does.” Boyd lifted his pants leg to reveal a snub nose revolver. He mimicked shooting Justice with a pointed finger. “Prick didn’t know who he was fucking with.”

  “Damn, that thing loaded, mister? You some kinda secret agent or detective?” Batya forced her charade to continue but her patience was dwindling. She’d rather kill him and get it over with.

  Boyd unbuckled his trousers and shimmied them down to his knees. The weapon was visible and accessible over the top of his dropped pants.

  “Yeah, you could say that. I’m a secret agent with the CIA—your first and best line of defense. Baby you ain’t just going to suck a cock, you are going to have the privilege of sucki
ng a real-life spy dick.” Boyd pointed toward his crotch. “You should blow me for free.”

  She pressed a finger against her bottom lip, licked it, and moaned as she leaned onto all fours and began to crawl over Justice. Her pulse raced as the thought of what was coming. She’d been out of circulation for the last two years; it never got easier, but it hurt a lot less.

  “Whip it out spy man, I’ve got work to do. Don’t want this beast to wake up before I strip him clean,” Batya teased. It didn’t appear he had much of a hard on, or his prick was as insignificant as he was. Either way, it would be his last erection.

  She felt Justice’s finger scratch against her thigh. Time to react. They’d bonded in the worst of times, and developed an understanding that needed no words. Batya knew what to do.

  Her left hand snugged inside Boyd’s waistband and she giggled. He leaned back and after a few nervous exhales, closed his eyes. She grimaced. What a prick that would actually victimize a woman for paid sex. Of course, that was the least of his character flaws—he’d destroyed both of their careers for his selfish ambition.

  “That’s right, secret agent man, just relax.” Her right hand massaged his inner thigh—finally his cock peeked through the boxer shorts. She sat back. “There he is.” She chuckled.

  “Lets get on with it,” he snapped.

  Batya slipped her palm over the ankle holster and in two swift moves—an unsnap with a lift and pull—the Smith & Wesson five-shot revolver was in her hand. She thumped Justice with her thigh and he sprang to life by jabbing a syringe into Boyd’s soft, bare quadriceps. He yelped, but Batya shoved her free hand into his windpipe to cut his call for help short.

  Boyd tried to yank the needle out of his leg, but the curare invaded his body like a rabid animal. Panic flooded his face. He loosened his shirt collar as the effects caught, causing a feeling of warm dizziness. Batya rested on her haunches with the pistol pointed at his head while the poison seized him.

  Boyd tried to form words, but the South American extract attacked the neck and face muscles first. It became difficult for Boyd to speak. Batya held no sympathy for this man who had set out to destroy her family.

  Batya watched the rise of his chest slow until he labored to breathe. Boyd struggled, but his hands flopped like lead weights against his sides for help.

  “I told you not to fuck with us,” Justice growled.

  Even seated, Justice’s giant frame filled the open space. He pressed a breathing mask over Boyd’s mouth and nose and began compressions.

  “As long as I help you breathe, you’ll stay alive. Lie just once and this is going out the window. And I sure as shit ain’t giving you mouth-to-mouth. How about you, baby?”

  Batya wrinkled her nose in disgust. “No way. He wanted a blowjob for three bucks. Cheap asshole.”

  Boyd’s eyes bled red and his mouth twisted into an odd shape without the musculature to control his body.

  Batya was quick to unzip the heavy plastic body bag. Unable to move his limbs, Boyd was maneuvered until he was inside the bag.

  “Why?” Justice demanded.

  Boyd strained but couldn’t answer.

  “Whose idea to erase us—yours?”

  Boyd shook his sunken face left to right.

  “Carrigan?”

  Boyd repeated the motion, though much slower. Justice pumped the plastic respirator three times. Color returned to Boyd’s purple lips.

  “He’s lying.” Batya shrugged.

  “Who?” Justice jerked the breather away.

  Boyd trembled.

  “Who?”

  Batya snapped the plastic top off the first five-gallon jug of water. Liquid splashed as it emptied into the half zipped plastic bag.

  Boyd waggled his fingers to beg for air. His muscles had all but frozen. Paralysis of his diaphragm meant asphyxiation would soon claim him. Water streamed down his motionless cheeks. His tear ducts seemed to be the only operable part of his body. The South American poison worked like a charm. Batya had suggested curare, as it was something she’d used often before retirement.

  “Who?” Justice lowered his voice. It was clear that Boyd was in distress and only moments from panicking to death. Neither Batya nor Justice blinked—neither cared.

  Justice pumped four hard breaths into Boyd. The bureaucrat sucked the air like a drowning man who’d just breached the ocean’s surface. Batya dumped two more jugs into the plastic coffin. Boyd’s eyes quivered. Splotches of blood burst through the whites of his beady eyes.

  Spit drooled down the crease on the right side of his lips. Snot ran from his nostrils. His right hand juddered against the inside of his watery tomb.

  “Last chance, Boyd,” Batya warned with a calm that showed she was already comfortably looking forward to his death.

  Boyd struggled as saliva accumulated in his throat. He’d feel as if he were drowning. Batya sneered with an evil temper—she knew how horrible the effects were. Part of her intense Mossad training had involved experiencing the effects of various poisons. This one, she’d hated most because the victim felt everything, especially the pain, but was helpless to do anything about it. It was also the reason she favored it over other chemicals.

  His left hand still outside the plastic body bag, Boyd shook the purplish tip of his index finger through the dust that covered the van floor. He sighed, a last gasp for life. Boyd blinked and crunched a wrinkle in his pitted forehead. He whispered toward Batya. “Jew.”

  Insult set her aflame. Batya allowed the anger to push her into reaction. She leapt over Justice’s shoulder with a palm open to slap Boyd, but he stopped her. She looked down to see what Justice meant. Her mouth also froze. Boyd had managed to etch the symbol for a Nazi swastika on the dirty floor.

  Justice brushed his palm to erase it. Batya emptied the last of the water jugs. Boyd made muffled grunts as she pressed his head inside the bag before zipping it sealed.

  “Baby, you get your bike and his SUV out of here, and I’ll dispose of him,” Batya said coolly.

  Justice brushed his hand through her hair. “You okay with this?”

  “Of course my love. We are one step closer to protecting our family.”

  “Good.”

  “Hey Justice,” Batya called as he rolled out of the van. “Remember what I told you I would’ve done to baby Moses in the river?”

  “The daughter of God. Yes, I do remember.” Justice smiled.

  “Consider Moses drowned for the sake of family.”

  Chapter 21

  “Yo, pledge. Get your faggot ass over here,” yelled a full-patched biker.

  Justice didn’t know his name, but the bottom rocker patch on his weathered leather cut meant the loud mouth was a member in good standing. Justice tried to hide his snarl—this wasn’t boot camp and he wouldn’t be treated like some nineteen-year-old wannabe.

  Justice nodded and took his time to walk his Hog backward against the cracked concrete curb along Chicago’s Division Street. He was careful to avoid the space reserved for the club’s president. Didn’t matter whether it was head of the PTA or the President of the United States—Justice still respected chain of command.

  He twisted the high-slung ape hanger handlebars and cranked against the lock to secure his Harley Davidson. The jerk against his right shoulder caused him to tip the bike to the left, but his denims stretched across his flexed thigh as he righted the bike.

  “Hey, motherfucker. Rhino called you,” said the meth-thin freak slathered in leather.

  A surge of temptation pumped through Justice to snap the guy in two. Lights speckled behind his eyelids, an anger that screamed the entire outlaw scenario was a mistake. He bit at his tongue until he felt his teeth breach the fine layer of skin. He painted the blood against the front of his teeth before he bared them to the biker whose name patch read Guano.

  Justice swept the shaggy mane of dark brown hair from his face as he twisted like a tank turret to face Guano. “You said something?” he tried to keep an even tone.
Popping off at the crank head might drop the guy quick but it wouldn’t be worth the beating he’d take from the entire club.

  “Yeah, pledge. When a Brother calls you, you better run to him. Understand me?”

  Justice stretched the full measure of his legs as he straddled the old black matte painted Hog. He towered over Guano and set his face to stone before he spoke. Guano’s legs looked to have come unhinged as he buckled before Justice.

  “You know what Guano means?” Justice whispered.

  Scarce yellow teeth juddered from behind the biker’s burnt lips. “No, what?”

  “Who named you Guano?” Justice asked with an already disgusted disregard for the mighty Savage Souls Outlaw Motorcycle Club.

  “The Brotherhood gave me this name.”

  Justice craned over him. Guano flinched. “It means shit.”

  Preoccupied with what his finger discover inside his nostril, Guano smiled. “Naw way.”

  “Yes, way. Now go see what your Brother wants.” Justice turned away as Guano skidded along the sidewalk.

  Fucking dumb ass.

  Justice surveyed the single story brownstone building. Sandwiched between other abandoned structures, the West Side was the same shithole he remembered while tracking potential domestic terror threats for the CIA. The rumble of heavy death metal music shook the walls to snatch his attention.

  There were no windows, which didn’t surprise Justice. But it did concern him, as his escape options would be limited to the single, solid metal door with steel reinforced bars that slid into the frame for an impenetrable barrier. He kicked debris from beneath his boots as he ran a finger along the wall until he reached the metal sign bolted into the inconsistent mortar.

  “Savage Souls Outlaw Motorcycle Club, Inc.,” he read. His gut sank as he realized he’d left one blood-in, blood-out club with the CIA, and was about to join another.