Sabotage: Beginnings

by LS Silverii

  “I love you too, momma.” He squeezed his eyes shut—water pressed from beneath. She read the agony in his expression. “It’s best to go while she’s asleep.” He reached around and snugged Grace into his huge palm. Justice looked back to Karen and offered a crooked smile. Batya retched and fell to her knees as her sister-in-law took hold of her entire world.

  “Go,” Justice whispered kindly, and dropped down off the chair to comfort his wife.

  “You’re a good father, Justice. I’ve prayed to my God that if only one of us comes home, it be you. You need this chance to prove to yourself that you’re not the man your father was. Grace deserves to have you in her life.”

  Justice gripped her clasped hands. He signaled for her to hush.

  “Baby, stop that talk. You’re always playing the martyr. That girl is too much like her momma to ever be without her.” He laughed but they both felt the absence of humor—it was in desperation. Neither could imagine losing the other, or Grace.

  “That is true, Justice. She’d wrap you around her pinky finger. You need my strength to resist.” Their eyes met. She threw her arms around his neck and drew him in. Batya pressed her mouth gently onto his until they kissed like they used to. Like two people who’d faced death, but chose to kill for life—their lives.

  “We’ve got a chariot waiting for us,” Justice whispered.

  Batya clung to him. She showed her teeth, but it wasn’t a smile. “Let’s go do this and get home quick.”

  Chapter 24

  Early February was brutally cold in the Washington, DC, area. The commute from downtown DC to Annapolis, Maryland was about fifty minutes to an hour. It was dark and the thirty-five mile route along Interstate US-50 was expected to meet minimal traffic. Justice Boudreaux knew this—he’d practiced the scenario until the timing was with split-second precision.

  Justice tugged at Batya’s gloved hands and slipped them into his thick leather jacket pockets. He grimaced at her shivering against his back, He was concerned for her safety. The engine to his Harley Davidson’s Road King rumbled with the iconic pat-pat-pat putter of the Hog’s monster V-Twin. Any heat it put out did little to keep her warm. She’d not attended the practice runs with him and he knew she wasn’t prepared for the dangerous effects of extreme cold on motorcyclists.

  He peeled down his heavy wool mouth cover. “Baby, you going to be okay?”

  “Yes, I’m fine. Just a little chilly, that’s all.”

  Justice bobbed his head and glared in the rearview mirror. He brushed his hand below the metal rim and ice cracked. His eyes felt frosted. Once numb fingers squeezed the rubber goggles and lifted them onto his black matte helmet.

  “This will be over quick. Just stay close and keep your right hand warm and loose.”

  Batya ignored the frozen snot that dangled off the tip of her nose—it was time to focus no matter how adverse the conditions. She waved the packets of hand heaters Justice had stuffed in his zippered jacket.

  “One step closer to freedom. I’m ready.” She grabbed him around the waist so tight he felt air expel and mist into a white froth.

  Justice pulled the black wool facemask back in place. With a skull imprinted across the face, it was an intimidating look and the effect he wanted. The other seven Savage Souls brothers wore the same style mask. Justice ordered each to strip all patches, stickers and insignia. He’d run black ops for a living—this would be no different. He’d even gone so far to ensure that the other riders also had females on the rear saddle.

  “Look alive,” the voice cracked squelch on the secured mobile-radio system. Justice racked back on the bike’s accelerator. Batya’s body stiffened.

  “Roger that. Team 2 ready,” Justice replied, the falling snow cool against his lips.

  He and four other brothers were assigned to Team 2. Staggered, they’d parked along Massachusetts Avenue NW toward 13th Street NW just beyond the traffic circle. Justice saw the next bike’s taillight explode into a red starburst through the dense whiteout.

  Because the group was based in Chicago, Justice wasn’t worried about their ability to maneuver the big bikes in the snow. He was concerned about Batya though. She had the will, but he worried about her ability to perform under harsh conditions after so many years out of the combat zone.

  “Target cleared traffic circle.”

  Justice arched his spine until he eased into Batya’s breast and loving hold. She drove both hands deep into Justice’s jacket pockets. He growled at the clench of her thighs against his hips. He eased up on the clutch. The bike slipped on ice. He felt blood drain from his fingers as his death grip strangled the low-slung t-style handlebars. He muscled the bike back to steady.

  “For Grace,” Batya piped over his shoulder.

  “For our family,” Justice barked as he wiggled the goggles over his eyes.

  “Approaching Team 2. Team 1 backing off.”

  Justice peered through the left side mirror. The target’s vehicle, a maroon Dodge Dakota SUV, motored along in the left lane of sparsely traveled Massachusetts Avenue NW. Once past, Justice eased his bike into the far right lane and remained about twenty car lengths back. There was no need to press it, they had a long drive until the interception zone.

  Immediately, Justice felt Batya draw closer to him. He was pushed forward when she shoved her pelvis so hard against him, he almost ended up on the gas tank. It was tough enough to keep the bike steady without her quaking body that jerked and snapped in different contortions. He’d warned her about the huge difference in temperatures once the bike started to roll. She’d only huffed and boasted about a tough lineage of people who endured much more than cold.

  They may have roamed the desert for forty years, but that wasn’t blizzard type weather.

  “Team 2, Bravo – Go,” Justice radioed to signal the next of four bikers to take to the highway.

  Massachusetts Avenue NW had transitioned into New York Avenue NE, enroute to US-50 and Annapolis. Justice kept an eye on the target vehicle. A bright beam of light pierced through the Dakota’s right rear brake light. Justice had assigned one of the stealthier brothers to tap a small hole through the plastic light cover. The dot of light was like a beacon in the whiteout.

  Soon, Justice had alerted Team 2, Charlie and Delta bikers to enter the surveillance mission. Although they’d reconned and rehearsed—this was different. It would go down tonight.

  “Onto US-50, heading east,” Justice chirped into the radio. “Team 1 begin stall.”

  Justice edged to within ten car lengths behind the target. The vehicle’s tinted windows and the weather made it difficult to see the driver, but Justice positively identified the vehicle, license plate and every bad parking scratch and dent on the SUV.

  “Okay?” he yelled.

  “Uh-huh.” Her voice struggled.

  “Tough proud people, huh?” he taunted.

  “Yes.”

  “They should be smart enough to wear warm clothes, too.” He bellowed over the engines twinned rattle.

  He felt her trembling thighs flex against his.

  “Team 1, stalling.”

  That signal told the first three bikers to spread across the interstate and slow their bikes down to about twenty miles per hour slower than Team 2 traveled. He chortled at the thought of the traffic that would pile up behind them. He’d used that tactic many times in high-risk vehicle assaults. It really pissed off everyone to the rear of the stall team.

  “Team 2 leader. Anacostia River quarter mile out,” called Team 2, Charlie biker.

  Justice smiled beneath the heavy mask. He recognized Vengeance’s voice. He’d wanted the Savage Souls brothers he could trust. And, although Vengeance could be a hothead at times, he was still his own blood brother and a highly skilled fighter and general badass.

  Justice pumped his broad shoulder against Batya’s quivering torso, his eyes glued steady onto the road for black ice patches. He yelled, “Ready?” She tapped the front of her helmet’s shell into the back o
f his.

  “Just hold tight, baby. We got a little ways to go.” His attention remained on the mission but his heart raced to know it would soon be over.

  “Team 2, I-495 about quarter mile out. Begin stall.”

  “Big 10-4, good buddy.” Vengeance laughed. His whiskey-soured voice scarred the radio waves.

  They’d only been on the road about twenty minutes, but the stress of running the operation and manhandling the nine hundred pound steel stallion had his body in a battle to stay strong. There was no other choice though—he wasn’t fighting for his country anymore. He was fighting for his family.

  Justice glanced into the rearview mirror—nothing. There wasn’t a headlight in site. Westbound traffic was almost nonexistent since no one would dare travel into DC in this weather. His chest tightened as his mind raced through every maneuver. One chance. They had one chance.

  “We’re between I-495 and Globecom Wildlife Management Area. We got about five minutes to do this before we have to exit onto Highway 424 and disappear,” Justice yelled into the wind.

  Batya tapped her helmet into his twice. He felt her hands move around in his pockets.

  “Tell me once you’re ready for me to move in.” His voice was dry and frigid from a blistering wind. The flakes had begun to sting anything not covered in triple layers. Ice now mixed with the snow. His gut knotted at the reality of the finality—no matter how it played out.

  “I love you, Justice Boudreaux,” she screamed.

  “That’s not the signal, but I love you, too.”

  He felt both of her hands jerk from his pockets and he sensed that each item was removed. Although tension seized his frame, there was a sense of calm, of justifiable retaliation. Carl Dunnigan had fought and killed enemies right next to Justice in the most dangerous and covert missions the world would never hear about.

  Dunnigan had commissioned the Experimental Warrior Initiative that created the twenty-five mass murders of the likes such as Ben Ford. Hell, Dunnigan was the CIA supervisor who assigned Justice to eliminate the experiments once they’d gone rogue. Yet that back stabber had ordered the hunt and kill of Justice and his wife. Fuck CIA Supervisory Agent Carl Peter Dunnigan.

  He felt two taps of Batya’s helmet into his. His eyes blazed narrow and his heart pumped pure adrenaline. His gloved fist clamped hard on the accelerator and his ice-covered boot worked the bike’s gears until he’d made up the distance between the Hog and SUV in seconds.

  Justice used his blinker as he transitioned the bike into the next lane. There was no need to cause Dunnigan suspicion. He might’ve been a desk jockey the last ten years, but the man was once a lethal machine.

  He felt Batya’s body list to the left and he leaned his bulk to the right. Tightness in his chest caused his breaths to deepen—a tactic he used in high-pressure scenarios to remain in focus. He eased up besides Dunnigan’s SUV and slumped forward toward the handlebars.

  Batya, with more room now to operate, twisted fully at the waist until she faced the passenger’s side of the SUV.

  Come on, do it now.

  There were no cars in sight either way, but their window of opportunity was less than a minute before Dunnigan detected an ambush.

  He gassed the bike until Batya was directly across from the window. From the corner of his eye, he saw the bright burst of light from the high-powered Q-beam Batya blared into the SUV. It caused Dunnigan to swerve right. Justice swung wide to avoid him.

  Justice glanced left. “Fuck,” he screamed.

  In the one million candlepower beam, he saw Vickie sitting in the passenger’s seat. Dunnigan’s wife, and Justice’s former Army-era girlfriend. In a nanosecond he tried to stop Batya just as Vickie turned toward the reflected light with a look of confusion.

  Batya unleashed a flurry of bullets through the window. Glass exploded. The maroon SUV tumbled into a skid. Rolled along the highway. She was dead. Justice had seen the window explode open in the chaos of the muzzle flash. He’d planned this execution for weeks. He never planned on Vickie though.

  “Is he dead?” Furious, Justice howled at her.

  “Unconfirmed.”

  He detected the doubt in her voice. She was the single best shooter he’d ever known—better than even he.

  “No stopping. I’ll call the rest of Team 2 for insurance.” He spoke less loud as he’d slowed the bike.

  The bike wobbled. He fought to steady it. Batya had tried to crane her right leg over the saddle.

  “What are you doing?” he yelled.

  “Jumping off,” she said in a calm, business tone.

  “The fuck you are.” He swiped back a hand to stop her.

  “This is my family. I’ve told you—I’ll happily sacrifice my life for you and Grace.”

  “Vengeance will confirm.”

  “Vengeance is not my child’s father. This is our fight.”

  Justice saw the pistol wave in her hand.

  “What are you doing now?”

  “I’ll shoot the rear tire out if you don’t stop.”

  He knew she would. He took the Hog into a controlled skid. She leapt off the back while it still moved and disappeared into the darkness.

  “Team 2 leader to Team 2 Bravo,” Justice radioed as he dropped the bike’s kickstand and headed toward the flames.

  “Team 2 Bravo. Go.”

  Justice picked up the pace as he saw a shadow flash across the highway and onto the wide snow-covered median.

  “Stop all traffic if you can. We’re on foot. Big change of plans.”

  “Copy that. Not much traffic except these big rigs barking at our heels.”

  The sprint back up the highway warmed his body, though his muscles remained stiff as steel. He tugged at a frozen zipper until his jacket popped open. Fingers felt along the leather lining until he located his night scope.

  Goggles shoved in his pocket, he pressed the scope into his eye socket—nothing. Not a flash or shadow break. Not even a grunt. They’d vanished.

  He pocketed the scope as panic compressed his lungs—though there’d not be surrender. Flames licked toward the colorless sky. Angry flames ravished the SUV.

  “Vickie,” he whispered. His head pounded as he took off toward the wreckage.

  Justice slipped and fell. He clawed off the ice and pulled until he was back on his feet. He would save Vickie if possible. He’d never loved her, but they were close and she was innocent in all of this. It was all Dunnigan’s doings—he’d put Vickie in this fucked up scenario. But where were Dunnigan and Batya?

  Justice stumbled to a stop before he reached the burning SUV. He debated calling out for Batya, but was trained better than to expose his partner or himself. He had to help Vickie if he could. Justice sucked in two quick shots of zero degree air. His lungs seared. He steadied himself and hurried to the SUV.

  “Vickie,” he called out. No reply.

  “Vickie,” he repeated as his gloved hands batted at blistering flames that danced like the disco of hell itself.

  He dropped to one knee. Slush splashed. The vehicle rested on its driver’s side windshield. He ducked his face close to the roadway to peer in before the next eruption of flames drove him back.

  He saw a body through the white-hot fire—poor Vickie.

  “Motherfucker!” He crawled closer, as near the vehicle as he could tolerate. It was Carl Dunnigan strapped in the SUV.

  Vickie was still alive.

  “Batya. Batya where are you?” Justice reared up and spun in a circle. It was Vickie he’d seen her chase—not Carl. She was no threat to Batya or him. He backtracked to where he’d last seen the flash of shadow against the snow. He shined his flashlight across the median. There were footprints—two sets.

  He jogged along their imprints in the snow-covered grass. Once away from the flames, he used the night scope. Found them again.

  “Thank God,” he whispered. His lungs and legs felt loose, shaky, like they’d been in a blender. He slowed to a slight jog. He pressed the s
cope closer to his eye. Cops, fire, and EMS would soon be on their way. He and Batya needed to haul ass.

  “Batya,” he called and knew she’d heard him when she twisted her head in his direction.

  Through the scope he saw his wife and his old friend. They faced each other for a moment. Justice stopped. The eerie green light of the night scope washed out facial features but he knew who was who.

  “Batya,” he called again, urgently feeling the crunch of time for a clean escape.

  Batya lifted her right arm and pointed the pistol head level at Vickie. A single shot echoed through the open terrain. Vickie crumpled.

  “Batya.” Justice roared.

  Through the green glow of the scope, Justice watched her casually turn in his direction. Concealed by the emptiness of night and absolved by the purity of snow, she left her prey in a heap.

  “Coming, Justice.”

  Chapter 25

  Sunday wasn’t the best afternoon to travel. So many old fogies out in their antique roadsters, spandex-clad cyclists pee-pedaling up and down hills and tourists looking for free bottles of Sonoma Valley wine to polish off after an extended church service.

  Ben’s palm slammed against the steering wheel. He was still pissed about the way he’d been treated by Heinrich Shultz back in November. He cracked the driver’s window and angled his nose toward the fresh air. It appeared his last encounter had left remnants in the backseat before Ben escorted his corpse into the trunk.

  Mental note: Clean out car.

  Ben’s gaze left the winding road. He peered into the rearview mirror and felt a chill streak across his body. Had something moved in the backseat? He struggled to spin backward, but his neck stiffened, resisting.

  “Keep your eyes on the road, young man,” Ben said, imitating an old lady’s crotchety voice.

  He peered again. Nothing.

  His dark eyes fixed on the rearview mirror.

  “Boo,” Ben screamed. He cackled like a crazy person.

  Quickly, he quieted. Something was wrong and it spooked the heck out of him. He spun the manual handle to drop the window. Cold howls of early March air gusted through the opening. Full weight against his right forearm, he tried to avoid the wind’s force against his pristinely styled hair. As a child, his mother insisted that he groom properly. No need changing old habits now—after all killing for consumption was a messy business.