by LS Silverii
St. John gagged, vomited, collapsed into the bile. Justice pressed on the back of St. John’s neck to keep him still and quiet. He felt the brother regain consciousness. St. John gagged into his vitriol again. Tried to lift his head to cast eyes upon the inhumane sight.
Justice continued to tremble. Gray Man’s obsession had digressed in unexpected ways. Much worse than he thought it could.
The manicured grass opening was lined with tiki torches and string lighting—backyard BBQ style. Lawn chairs casually dotted the lush green area. Frank Sinatra played softly over a speaker system concealed in faux boulders. It would’ve been a welcoming setting except for the seven crucifixes that littered the outskirts.
The unfinished-wood structures were fashioned in an X-shape. Most had a body attached. All nude. Some completely skinned. Others just started. All were men. It looked like maybe two were still alive, but they’d never recover, their stages of being peeled were so advanced. Even if Justice charged the collection, they’d perish. As he probably would, too.
St. John fought in and out of consciousness. Justice understood St. John was tough, but also knew this scenario was more than most could psychologically digest. It had purposefully been designed by the CIA’s behavioral group to be that way.
Justice whispered to St. John to stay quiet and still. The biker only choked up more bile and blood. If St. John couldn’t keep his shit together they’d have to flee, and running from a natural predator was useless. Gray Man would intercept each of them at various intervals along the route. Their best bet for survival was to lay still and be quiet.
Justice wrapped his fingers behind St. John’s neck and jerked his skull against his lips. “Shut the fuck up. It’s him.”
“I’m trying.”
“Son, pull your shit together, or I’ll kill you right now. You’re jeopardizing both our lives.”
“Oh, my lord, I’ve never seen anything like—not even in the movies.” St. John’s mind had fractured—he was fucked.
Justice switched his NVGs off and on depending on the lighting Gray Man had used. He narrowed his sight to see Gray Man checking his collection near an open fire pit with metal slats across it. Justice’s gut revolted. The lump in his throat was huge. So swollen he couldn’t force air in or out.
Justice kept his eyelids lowered except for quick glances—didn’t want the man to sense him watching. He knew what the fire was for. In training, this setting was called a buffet—Gray Man would sample each of his bodies while the other victims watched. Eventually it would be their turn. One would always be set free to tell what they’d seen.
He would sample each until he’d consumed enough vital organs to bring on a horrifically slow death. Gray Man also liked to fuck the victims, but preferred that be post mortem.
Justice’s voice alerted St. John. “Look, one of our weapons. He’s got our stash.”
“What’s he doing?”
“Target practice. That dude looks like he’ll be lucky enough to die quick.”
Gray Man pressed an index finger beneath the chin of the intended target. The man’s head flopped up and then fell back down against his chest.
“Now, let’s see. What can I shoot out of his mouth?” Gray Man marched among his captives like a toy soldier with a rifle propped against his shoulder. “Oh yes, I’ve got a dandy idea.”
The captive he chose, had hands and feet nailed to each post in the X-shaped crucifix. Gray Man grabbed a fistful of the man’s dick. “Oh you like that, do you?” he said as the man moaned in agony.
Gray Man set the rifle aside, unsheathed a saber and sliced off the man’s penis.
“Let’s see if I’m skilled enough to shoot a bird out of your mouth.”
He counted off ten steps, spun on a dime, and fired one bullet into the man’s mouth.
“Jolly good shot, my man. You deserve a piece of ass for that grand display.”
Gray Man yanked on the corpse until his hands flopped below his waist. He kicked at each leg until they broke and detached from the long rusty nails.
“Dance with me, baby,” Gray Man sung as he hoisted the body to prop it over a wooden sawhorse. He dropped his shorts and jerked up an erection.
Justice noticed St. John peering through slits for eyes. Covered in vomit, and grass mixed with dust, he wore a look of disgust and shame for having witnessed what happened. It was etched deep in his expression.
“Stay cool, bro. We’ll bolt once he goes back in.”
St. John nodded, but his glared narrowed. “Is that a tattoo on that victim?”
“Looks like it. Looks military or police,” Justice said.
“SWAT eagle.”
“I guess so, you know him?”
St. John’s body retched as he buried his face into the soil. “It’s Jeff Graham.”
Chapter 15
Justice and St. John collapsed alongside the Russian River’s sandy shoulder. Their trek back had been faster than the approach, but it was still damn near ten hours of walking. St. John barely spoke a word the entire way back. His life had changed forever. The same government who created that fucking animal back there had also employed St. John to enforce their laws upon citizens.
Soft sand and dirt meshed into the fibers of his t-shirt. The gentle waters brushed against and then around his skull as just the top of his head lay in the stream. He squinted behind sunglasses as another beautiful sunny California day greeted them. Delirium faded as he drifted in and out of a dream state. Exhaustion consumed him, body and soul, with a greater intensity than he’d ever known playing in the NFL.
St. John didn’t have the strength to turn his whole body, so he let his head roll to the side until Justice appeared in view. Justice’s plastered-on smile appeared to be more from an effort to catch his breath than about being happy. But seeing the expression of feigned ecstasy caused St. John to cringe. In the last few hours, he’d not once thought about Abigail. Fingers struggled to dig the cell from his vest pocket.
If they touched her, I swear I’ll murder every one of them.
Tears streamed from the corners of his eyes and down each temple until they pooled in his ears. He never blinked to clear them. He wanted to worry about Abigail, but his mind was riveted on what he’d witnessed. On the loss of his friend, on the federal agency that hadn’t bothered to search for him, or the family who would never know the truth.
St. John looked up at the distinctive sound of a gun’s hammer clicked back. His watery eyes saw the big opening of Justice’s gun barrel pointed between them.
“How?” Justice gnarled tone meant business.
“How what?” St. John’s voice felt the defeat of the moment.
“How do you know that cop back there, Graham?”
“I know a lot of people I told you. He was a friend.”
Justice tapped the gun against the bridge of St. John’s nose, “Bullshit. Savages don’t make friends with cops.”
“Really? Fury sure did. And Sue seems to be enjoying his carnal time fucking the police chief. How you fucking, Justice?” St. John looked away from the weapon. He’d no concern for the threat.
“I’ll fuck you if I discover you’re an undercover narc.”
“I’ll fuck you first if I am.”
Justice shoved the pistol back in its leather holster. He seemed satisfied with St. John’s lack of intimidation and turned to take a seat against a mound of rock and dirt.
“What’s next?” he asked Justice.
“I kill him.”
“How?”
Justice patted his pistol. “Like I’ve killed all of them.
“Why didn’t you just kill him back there? Maybe we could’ve saved Graham.”
“He knew we were there. We’re only alive because he allowed us to be. If we’d done anything but witness that shit, he would’ve killed us.”
St. John felt the gnaw of agitation bedevil at Justice’s pessimistic observations. “How can you be so sure that wormy dude is so skilled. You talk about hi
m like he’s a god or something,” St. John mashed his palms against both eyes to clear the water. “My friend is back there getting butt fucked while we lay here. I ought to just ride into that compound and blow his head off.”
“You’re friend is dead. You ride against Gray Man alone, and he’ll be ass raping you too. Don’t you get it—he’s that fucking dangerous,” Justice spewed his words through mangled beard and mustache hairs that had gnarled around his lips.
St. John dismissed Justice’s comments with a flip of his hand, “Maybe he is your god after all.”
“Don’t you revere, maybe even fear your God?” Justice sat up. His shoulders slumped forward as he rested on his palms. “I trained him, but the difference is where I still have a seed of humanity to guide me right from wrong, he has nothing. They pumped a once young, promising West Pointer full of psychotropic drugs, and hate for humanity. He’s a murder machine. Death is the only way of stopping him.”
St. John tried to sit up also, but was too exhausted. The back of his head sunk deeper into the cool slushy river sand, “You think this was a set up? Something manipulated by Gray Man to draw you in after him?”
Justice cast an objective eye toward the rushing waters. “Maybe so. I can see where he’d have the smarts to buck Ricky Geneti into setting up that gun deal with us. The rip off would’ve been easy enough to bribe an old war bird pilot. He’s got no use for guns—prefers to introduce death slow and intimately.”
“So he shot Graham to show us he has our weapons,” St. John said.
A long, hard grin crawled across Justice’s face. “Exactly right, son. But who back at the clubhouse is communicating with Gray Man to complete the gun deal? He’ll only murder them too.”
Justice rolled toward the rushing waters. His thoughts appeared to wonder into the vastness of the sky’s mixed colors of soft glows and hues.
Oh God, Abigail. It’s Abigail trying to get revenge. She’s trying to set up the Savage Nation so the cops can bust them.
St. John snuck his cell out to text her. He saw the message indicator on his locked screen. His muddy finger wouldn’t open the cell. His nervousness grew while he washed and dried his hands.
[Hey bro. should have stuck around for the bbq] read the text from Jeff Graham’s cell number.
St. John dropped the cell into the sand. He wanted to charge into Gray Man’s compound and torture him like he had his best friend. Tears blurred the screen while he typed a message to Abigail.
[you ok]
“What you doing, Opie?” Justice asked.
“Calling Sheriff Andy Taylor, if you must know, Barney Fife.” St. John’s mind was too busy to remain rational. He felt his reality spiraling out of control. The rock solid federal undercover agent had crossed a line where labels of deviance tend to stick permanently.
He hid the cell phone between his arm and chest, waiting to feel the vibration once Abigail replied. St. John had never been so confused about doing what was right. Shit, at this point he wasn’t even sure what doing the right thing meant.
If he contacted law enforcement with Gray Man’s GPS coordinates, they’d bust him after recovering the bodies and God only knew what else. Of course, calling the cops meant they would locate and seize the cache of stolen military weapons. Unfortunately, that would suck for Justice because he’d be out over a quarter of a million dollars—and probably his life too.
It all came down to who. Who did he owe the most obligation to? The feds would seize the guns—track them back to Geneti and the Savage Souls. A weapons seizure would also mean Savage Nation arrests and the abrupt end to his undercover role. Deep inside, he knew he wasn’t ready to lay James St. John to rest. But why? Would he really be willing to leave an established career to join a bunch of criminal vagabonds? Whatever path he chose would determine whether he called the cops to rat out the bodies and the guns.
St. John felt a slow resurgence of energy radiate through his fatigued muscles. A vibration startled him. His cell phone. He let it slip between his body until it landed in the muck. It had to be Abigail, missing him like mad. Justice was half asleep, so he opened the message screen.
[fuck no. raped again by Vengeance. Fuck them motherfuckers] Abigail.
“Motherfucking animals,” he said aloud.
Justice jerked up from his sleep state. “What the fuck, dude?”
“Your animals raped Abigail. Even after you ordered them not to touch her.” St. John rocked off his knees onto his feet. Still dizzy, he asked, “What the fuck’s happened to the Savage Souls that they no longer obey their leader’s direct orders.”
“You fucking with me?” Justice’s eyes were red where the white should’ve been. His slab-like face was creased with jagged lines and swelling from the sun and the pressure of his arms over his face while he slept.
“Look for yourself.” St. John shoved the cell phone in Justice’s face.
“That fucking idiot. I’ve had enough of Vengeance.” Justice’s roar resounded like a bear’s through the evergreen forest. “I ordered him. He’s disobeyed me for the last time.”
The club president walked to his Hog and rummaged around a saddlebag until he snatched up a cell phone. He madly mashed buttons and pressed the device to his head.
“Raunchy, I want Vengeance dealt with.” Justice growled into his cell phone.
His face crumpled but soon smoothed with anger.
“Yes, dead. Make an example of him.”
St. John watched him pace the short length of his motorcycle. His eyelids flickered, mouth posed to speak.
“I know he’s my blood brother, but he’s not above the Code. My friend, that is more important than anything in this life.”
St. John shook his head at the future implications of that order. The bane of his existence would be dead before they returned home. Usually neutral regarding death, he was happy about this one.
St. John shoved the cell phone back in his vest. There was no way he’d alert law enforcement about the bodies. Screw them on recovering the guns. Justice had just shown him the true meaning of the most important thing in life.
Brotherhood.
CONTINUED IN BOOK 5
About the Author
LS Silverii is a highly decorated law enforcement officer from Cajun country with over 25 years of heart-racing experience.
Shattered is the fourth in the Savage Souls Series. The dark romantic suspense series takes you behind the badge and into an often-unknown world of outlaws to experience the raw rush and ruggedness of true alpha heroes.
Connect with me online:
www.silverhartwriters.com
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If you enjoyed reading Shattered: Savage Souls, I would appreciate it if you’d help others enjoy this book, too.
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Links to my Other Books
Savage Souls Series
Broken – (Book 1)
Damaged – (Book 2)
Vicious – (Book 3)
Shattered – (Book 4)
Redemption – (Book 5)
The Shadow Ops Series
Danger’s Desire – (Book 1)
Danger’s Heat – (Book 2)
Danger’s Passion – (Book 3)
The Cajun Murder Mystery Series
Bayou Roux: The Complete First Season
Bayou Backslide: A Cajun Murder Mystery Series Special Edition
A Darker Shade of Blue: From Public Servant to Professional Deviant; Policing’s Special Operations Culture: A Darker Shade of Blue
Cop Culture: Why Good Cops Go Bad
Thanks for being a Savage Souls reader. To show appreciation for joining me on this outlaw adventure, I’m giving away Sterling Silver Biker Pendants. Each episode in the series has a unique piece of biker jewelry that symbolizes that book. Enter by clicking the link below and you might become one of the Savage Nations Most Wanted Prize Winners.
forms.aweber.com/form/32/368041932.htm
The Exciting Conclusion:
Redemption
Savage Souls Series
Book 5
St. John knew Justice’s psychological profile back and forth. The CIA and the Army’s Delta Force kept detailed records on everything they thought Justice was or did. The man was a mixed bag of genius and devious decedent. His emotional swings were rapid and often with violent results, but the government had trained him to mask those swing outcomes. St. John knew that what Justice said wasn’t always consistent with what he did or intended.
“We go in strong. Eliminate anyone other than the target. I’ll subdue him, and begin the process of extracting intelligence. You’ll stand by to assist me as ordered. There are medical supplies and nutrition in my pack. I may need you to administer them.”
St. John wagged his chin, “You mean I have to feed your ass?”
“No. The trick in this is to not kill the target. There’s no information flow at that point,” he laughed, and then ducked his head after scanning the area. “I have to keep him alive—barely alive while I encourage him to spill it. This shit has been known to go on for days before I do them the favor of putting them out of their misery.”
St. John’s eyes ripped open to interrupt his half yawn, “You’re going to kill him?”
“Trust me. After I’m done, Ford will want to die. Those I left alive were to show others what would happen. It had to have been a miserable fucking way for them to live—I’m sure they killed themselves—hell, I would.”