by LS Silverii
“Fuck,” a sinister voice howled. “Someone’s just been in the computer.”
“They gotta be close. Vengeance, take some of the boys around the area. They couldn’t have gotten far,” the commanding voice said.
“Okay, Justice.”
Abigail almost fainted as the person’s hand slid away from the door and disappeared. They’d be back—the window. It always worked in the movies. She masked her movements with the bikers’ tossing and smashing of Geneti’s cheap furniture. The frame slid up, the screen kicked out, but she hesitated at the drop.
“Hey bitch, don’t move,” an angry voice yelled.
Abigail leapt without hesitation or any more thinking. Right now she had to survive for only one reason—to give Jack a proper burial. She busted her ankle, but easily outran the possibility of any one of the bikers chasing her down. Her car was parked away from unit 2021, so they wouldn’t expect a connection.
* * *
Rage rocked the cheap office chair back onto its hind legs. Fingers mashing keys like lightning, he glared deeper into the screen until he appeared consumed by it. Justice and the rest of the Savage Souls searched Geneti’s apartment and the parking lot for something, anything to lead them back to their money but found nothing.
“There’s a lotta shit on his system. Going to take a while to decipher and recover stuff,” Rage, the information technology guru, said.
“Ain’t got time. Shocked the cops ain’t here yet,” Justice said. “Just bag it and lets get out of here before that bitch calls 9-1-1.”
Rage banged away on the keyboard. “One second, I’ve gotta thread on an e-mail just sent from his address to someone. Probably our guest who just escaped. I’m trying to zip up his hard drive and Dropbox it.”
“Fuck. That makes three things we gotta get done—find my money, recover the guns and kill her. I’ll send the others out of the area so we don’t draw any more attention than we already have. Do what you have to on tracking that e-mail. I’ll cover your six.”
Chapter 7
It was time for church. The small town of Mystic reverberated with the rumble of mighty horsepower as brothers of the Savage Souls Outlaw Motorcycle Club arrived for their Wednesday night services at the clubhouse. It was a weekly requirement for the Savage Nation, and the 4553 citizens of Mystic tolerated the drill.
Justice had relocated the club’s headquarter from Chicago to Colorado because he hated city life. Growing up, he and his blood brothers rummaged along the bayous deep in the heart of south Louisiana’s Cajun Country. While Chicago had wildlife, it wasn’t the kind he wanted to put up with. He’d tolerated the Windy City just long enough to snatch the reigns of power from an antiquated hierarchy. Those he left alive in Chicago weren’t ever going to be anything but pains in his ass—so he bugged out West.
The isolated town of Mystic didn’t seem to mind. The Sheriff of Custer County had actually become a regular at the clubhouse, but Justice wasn’t yet convinced he was one to trust. The Mystic Police Chief on the other hand was pure one hundred percent prick. She’d soon push Justice over the line, and when that day arrived, the big-mouthed top cop would find herself in a war she’d never win.
Church was a time set apart from the parties, dirty dealings, the fucking and fighting. It was a night where Justice held business meetings with full patch holders only. Prospects, supporters and hang-arounds were prohibited. Justice also made it well known that if a full brother missed church, he’d better have a damned good excuse.
The Savages acquired the old Western Ways Saloon, bed and breakfast and stables, from a supporter who’d served in the military. He often invited Justice for visits where they both enjoyed the free culture of America’s last western frontiers. It’s what attracted Justice to the place—people still believed in live and let live and limited government.
The new OMC clubhouse was less than a quarter mile inside the Mystic city limits. With ample space for regular members, visiting bothers were always welcomed at the vast estate. Although it had once served as a quant, rustic destination favored by tourists and families escaping the Denver Metro area, it now resembled a subculture’s stronghold. In true CIA paranoia, Justice had welded security bars to windows and replaced decorative carved doors with steel—the former hospitality center had now become a fortress.
Inside, the sanctuary was immaculate. Each week the old ladies, mamas and house mouse worked to clean the hell out of the business room. Military training had been embedded in Justice’s core values. Cleanliness was one of them.
He rocked back and forth in the wooden office chair, isolated from the gathering crowd. Concerned thoughts swarmed. His burden pressed heavy against both temples—he rubbed his brow often. His club, but mostly him, was under attack.
“I’m trying to keep my cool, Bro, but fucking Vengeance will destroy everything I worked to build.” His square chin rested on his reddened knuckles. “I should’ve left his addicted ass back on the bayou.”
“How could he have been so stupid?” Mercy asked.
“Shit if I know. All he had to do was snatch Geneti and torture the prick until he gave up the goods.” Justice slammed his fists onto the oak desk. “Son of a bitch, he murders the asshole instead. Him, I don’t give a shit about, but lord knows, that little boy. It turns my gut. My daughter’s not much older than him.”
Mercy patted him on the shoulder. Himself the father of four girls, one daughter battling cancer, losing one scared the shit out of him.
“And could he have drawn anymore attention to the Nation? Fuck, the vehicle pileup had news choppers buzzing whole highway. The feds are going to be up our ass any day now. I’m not going down on a racketeering charge because Vengeance can’t keep his drug habit and temper in check.”
Mercy’s hands were clasped together like he was in prayer, the tips of his fingers tapped against his teeth. “I know you say that, brother, but I also know he’s still our kin and we’ll do anything to protect his dumb ass. Savages Forever, Forever Savages.” Mercy said, turning to the door for church.
Justice waved him ahead. He had to think this through. The chapel was full, and brothers wanted answers. It was time to stitch the gaping wound.
Justice greeted each brother at the entrance before he bolted the conference area’s door closed. “Thanks for your loyalty to the Savage Nation and to your president. Please stand for the pledge of allegiance.”
Almost two hundred men, most who looked as if they’d escaped from prison or belonged there, stood rigid with their right hands over the American flag patch sewn on the upper left side of their cut. Not all were military, but enough so that the culture respected service to their country. Other than that virtue, there wasn’t much else admirable about the collection.
“What the fuck happened to Red out in Vegas?” called out a biker who looked to be in his sixties. The group muttered as the cordial tone shifted.
“He made himself dead. Red ratted us out to a mobster, and helped him set up the rip off. Confessed it was for the money.”
The old biker scoffed, “How we know it’s true?”
Justice’s blood ran cold, sinister fury bubbled beneath the surface. “Because I said so. You don’t trust your president, then drop your colors at the door,” he snarled. “It’s fuckers like you who took a shit on the black and blue decades ago. Instead of handling your business like men, you pretended to be bikers and ran from the conflict. It’s posers like you and Red who keep trying to sabotage the Savage Nation because you’re afraid of what it’s become—the real fucking deal.”
A chair scratched across the linoleum floor. It toppled and bounced. An older man groaned to stand straight. The former cafeteria hall echoed with the chair’s noise and his aching moans. Everyone else was silent—this shit was set to erupt sooner or later. The old guards weren’t happy with the power grab—they just didn’t know how to stop it.
Tommy Cloud stomped down the aisle. Shadows disappeared from his round face as he entered t
he lit area of the arena. Justice had to readjust his thinking, as he’d bet the old timer would’ve never walked out. Cloud’s eyes showed it was pride that drove him. Justice slid his right boot back to balance himself. His hammer-sized fist readied at his side. No need telegraphing it, but in case Cloud was unable to keep his shit in check, Justice would drop him.
“With all due disrespect, fuck you.” Cloud kept his distance but ripped the leather vest from his shoulders. It smacked to the ground.
“Thank you. I want everything belonging to the Nation,” Justice said.
Fury, the club’s treasurer, opened the door for Cloud. He also nodded to six other Savages who followed close behind the Cloud. Unfortunately, you didn’t just get to quit the club—it’d take a jumping out. Some didn’t survive the beating, but that was the risk of quitting.
Justice handed one of the six men his KA-BAR knife. “Take anything with our emblem on it.” The biker’s eyes were glazed with adrenaline. He nodded.
“Lets go, Jorge,” Fury yelled.
“Even tattoos,” Justice said.
Jorge nodded.
Justice raised his naturally low voice to speak above Cloud’s screams. Justice ground his teeth at the image of Jorge carving the tattoos out of Cloud’s skin. He’d been assigned to do it twice while a prospect in Chicago. One guy was a newbie who’d thrown himself into the outlaw life before realizing it wasn’t for him. Quitting wasn’t that easy. The other guy was an asshole, and that skinning wasn’t bad—he’d deserved it.
“Anyone else want to turn in their colors?” Justice glared across the sea of men.
Each menacing man was clad in black leather cuts adorned with patches that traced their time with the OMC like a wicked roadmap of deviance. The back of every full-patch member displayed a top rocker patch that read Savage Souls MC. The bottom rocker patch read Colorado, and the iconic passion cross, representing the cross of suffering centered in back of each cut. Everyone also wore the diamond shaped patch with the 1%’er displayed to show they were outlaws. They’d fought for these colors. Brothers had died defending them—the Savage Souls would never surrender their rights to roam.
“Can I ask a question?”
Justice spun to his left at the surprise of a question dared. The fingers on his right hand waved the biker on to continue. Tendons rippled in his flexed jaw as memories of removing the last biker’s tattooed skin swamped his mind.
“Go ahead.”
“I just came up from the South, so I don’t know shit, but why the rift between blood brothers and old guard?” The newbie was built like a Mr. Olympia, but he dropped his eyes and sat down.
Surprised by the legitimacy of his inquiry, Justice grinned. “Good question. When I pledged, the club sold me a false bill of goods. I wanted the same freedoms I had as a covert operative,” he recounted. “By the time I’d earned my patch, I’d become close enough to the leaders to understand they were bullshit artists that talked a great game but had no constitution about them. They’d become outcasts, not outlaws.”
“Then what, sir?” The brother was relentless, but respectful.
“I’d had enough, but I wasn’t quitting. Gave them a chance to retire—they said fuck me. I retired them.” Justice explained in an unconcerned monotone voice. “What’s your name?”
“James St. John, sir.” He had an unwrinkled face with longish hair brushed to the side, he looked like he could take care of himself. Justice recognized him as the chapter transplant from Tallahassee, Florida.
“You turning in your colors?”
“Never,” St. John said.
The air in the room made a sucking pop sound as the doors were jerked open. Jorge stood there, covered in blood. Slabs of inked skin flopped limp in his grasp. Blood dripped from the recovered tats.
“What the fuck, Jorge?” Vengeance had a look that was all eyes and teeth.
Justice, still pissed over the way Vengeance fucked up the Geneti kidnapping, heard the vehemence engrossed in his blood brother’s tone. The erratic behavior caused Justice to further distrust his own kin. He wondered whether Vengeance had run a line of dope before church began. He had the look. Elongated features stressed behind redden skin signaled he was back on the junk.
Jorge froze. An odd expression blanketed his swarthy complexion. His chapped lips dropped open, but he looked as though the experience of skinning Tommy Cloud had freaked him the fuck out.
“Jorge, pull it together,” Justice spoke in an unthreatening tone. His CIA training had taught him how to identify personalities and problems with them. Jorge was on the verge of a blood lust. If not controlled, he’d possibly seek the taste of it again—soon.
“We caught her.” Jorge gasped.
Rage stepped between Jorge and Justice. “Caught who?”
“This bitch.” Jorge snarled as he heaved a tall, thin woman across the threshold. Short black hair dangled over her battered but angular features. Moist blue eyes pierced through dark bangs.
“Who the fuck is she?” Rage tramped toward the girl. His fist rent against the empty air. “This is fucking church, bitch, are you insane?”
“Yes, I am insane.”
Chapter 8
His chamber was dark. The murmur of Black Sabbath’s music rumbled low in the background. Justice liked his room cold—cold enough to hang meat. He heard her struggling. The sound of flesh tapping against the icy, bare wall told him she’d been secured. A light was dialed to cast a glow over her stretched frame. Justice watched her strain to tiptoe over the sawhorse that sat split between her thighs. She fought to keep the tension off her wrists in suspended metal cuffs. They twisted against the stainless steel chain links attached to the ceiling.
“What are you going to do with me?”
Justice ignored her question. He remained in the shadows and watched—but his pulse quickened. His thumb and middle finger sandpapered each other. It was a tick or a habit or an involuntary technique he’d developed to keep his mind in the present. He had the habit of drifting back into combat or other traumatic events that provoked a violent reaction inside his body and mind. A simple act like rubbing his fingers together stopped the psychological drift.
“Answer me, damn it. I came here for you. Is this how you treat your treats?” She curled her full ass forward as her exposed pussy touched the sawhorse
Anger streaked through him. Who the fuck was she to order him? Justice was highly trained, but also highly volatile. One step closer to the breach of shadows and his breath turned to smoke as it mixed with the cold air and yellowish track of light.
“You motherfucker, say something,” she taunted.
Her naked body dangled from the shackles, but she’d seemed to grow accustomed to the bite of the metallic rings into her wrists. Small breasts looked even more so with both arms forced above her head. Solid erect nipples rose prominently. Matching stainless steel bars with balls were set in each pierced nipple. The cold temperature made them more firm. Justice thought he saw humidity collected across the bars.
Flawless skin without a single tattoo began to shimmer with a slight coat of moisture. Justice grinned at the chill bumps that covered her body and knew it’d be extra sensitive to the touch of his hand or his belt. Which one, depended on her attitude—so far it had been shitty.
Always on high alert, the last few days had his suspicions on hyper-drive. Fucking with the Las Vegas chapter and the rip off of a quarter million bucks had him on a razor’s edge. And now, during the Savage Nation’s sacred night of church, this bitch tries sneaking in. The faraway look in his eyes distorted his heart-shaped face. Usually composed, stress affected him.
“Say something or let me go. I’m tired of your fucking game of hide and seek.”
Justice inhaled until his massive lungs filled with cold, damp air. Scared knuckles across his wide right fist blanched white. His fingers gripped the heavy metal and copper belt buckle and jerked until the thick leather belt zipped out from around his waist.
; At the sound, her eyes squinted across the soft glow to scan the darkness.
The belt hummed as it ripped through the air with a mighty draw to the rear. It snapped with the crack of a bullwhip as he twisted his hips to change its direction. The thrumming sound of leather slicing through air grew louder as the thick slab of cowhide raced from the shadows and picked up speed in the light.
She cried out as it ripped open skin between her left hip and rib cage. A light spray of water flung from beneath the belt tip. Her torso cringed. She heaved her left leg up close to her chest. The response to pain was temporary as her strength to hold the leg up faded fast. Blood seeped through the tear, but pooled quickly before reaching her thigh.
Justice exhaled while he leaned forward with the follow through. Righting himself, he listened—there was no cry. He returned to the shadows and watched.
“That all you got, big bad boy?”
“Why are you here?”
“Oh, he speaks.”
Justice slashed the leather belt back again and raked a wide red streak across her ass. This time she winched. His erection sprung at that sound.
Mouth dry from the anticipation of striking her again, he swallowed hard. “I’ll ask you again. Why are you here?” He held the belt coiled by his side.
“I’m selling Girl Scout cookies. Wanna eat some?”
“Usually this would be fun. Nothing beats a visit from a good house mouse, but I’m in no mood for bullshit. Last time I’ll ask.” A rapid heartbeat signaled sexual desires raging against his intuition that she was no more than a set up.
Like a lightning crack across a turbulent dusk sky, his belt strapped her back across the spine. The strike against a less meaty portion of her body caused a much more immediate response. Her back arched. Her nipples hardened. He whipped her again with equal force. This time, her chin fell to her chest. Cut short, jet-black trusses tousled forward.
