Vicious

by LS Silverii

  A loud, crisp finger snap blasted. Bart dropped onto all fours. Duct tape applied so tight that looked as if it might cut off circulation in his wrists and ankles strained against purplish limbs. Bart padded across the room to heel by Gray Man’s right side.

  “He was told to ignore your cries for attention,” Gray Man said without expression. His lips barely moved. Hollow eyes never blinked. Finally, he reached and began to scratch the short crew cut on Bart’s head with his fingers.

  “Right lady?” A sinister tone invaded his question. Fury noticed Bart’s body flex in anticipation and angst. It sickened him to see his lover’s reactions. They’d enjoyed reversing the roles of top and bottom, but Bart had a penchant for being topped that went beyond even their most aggressive play.

  Child-like, Bart’s head slowly turned toward Gray Man. His eyes followed until he indirectly addressed the stranger. “Yes, sir. Your lady was told to ignore him, but she failed you.”

  Gray Man’s fingers stopped stroking, and dug deep into Bart’s skin, clutching short hairs and holding tight. Bart’s face flushed red, his eyes widened, his mouth pinched shut.

  The man, who stood about five-feet-seven and weighed no more than one hundred and seventy pounds, was slender but sinewy. A shaved head and long braided beard framed his gaunt cheeks and deep-set, hollow black eyes. Dressed in all black from his custom leather boots to an embroidered Stetson, his clothes were pressed with razor sharp creases along his sleeves and down black denim pants.

  Fury looked over Gray Man’s shoulder for others. No way this motherfucker had such a badass attitude without backup. There seemed to be no one. That caused Fury even more concern—either Gray Man was insane or just that damn dangerous.

  “What do you have to say to Gray Man?” He jerked Bart’s skull back and forth while still struggling for enough hair and scalp to hold onto. Blood trickled onto Bart’s forehead.

  “Your lady is sorry for failing you.” Bart’s voice sounded nothing like Fury had ever heard before. His mind was spinning with the unexpected face-to-face encounter with Gray Man. He couldn’t reconcile that Bart, who’d always been an equal role lover in their role-playing, now seemed to be someone he’d never known.

  Suddenly, Gray Man’s left hand rose, then crashed into the side of Bart’s head. Bart fell to the floor. Blood dripped from the silver rings that adorned each of Gray Man’s fingers.

  Fury stepped forward. “Stop that shit.”

  “Please don’t. His lady deserves it.” Bart held out his right hand to signal stop. Gray Man’s dark eyes never left Fury.

  Fuck, I got no gun.

  Bart struggled back onto his knees.

  Gray Man smashed his right fist into the rear of Bart’s skull and neck. His head rocked forward violently. His chin struck his upper chest. Gray Man jerked Bart’s face up by the ear, and launched a flurry of ten or fifteen furious blows onto Bart’s head and neck.

  Bart grunted beneath the overpowering flurry of experienced punches.

  Fury looked away.

  “Sometimes, when people don’t reply, you should just walk away and be glad they didn’t pull you into their hell. Do you agree Mister Fury?” Gray Man snarled like an alpha wolf hungry for more prey. Blood saturated both fists, but his clothes remained sharp except for spatters of crimson.

  “Is this really necessary?” Fury began to fear for his life.

  “You dare question how I care for my lady? Do I question your methods for handling your life? It’s obvious you’ve made bad choices—your look and smell reflect them.” His nose scrunched.

  “All I came here to do was warn him. I didn’t need to see all this shit.”

  “Warn him about what?” He looked like an evil magician who read Fury’s mind.

  “That’s between me and Bart.”

  “There is no Bart. She is mine. Right lady?” Gray Man snapped a leash into the collar ring and jerked on it until a semiconscious Bart coughed his way back onto all fours.

  “Right, sir. Say your peace, Fury.” Bart’s lip hung split in two uneven pieces. His face and head had begun to swell with violent patches of purple and red.

  Fury rocked his weight from one foot to the other. His fingers on both hands up to the first set of knuckles were dipped into his pants pockets. Eyes avoided direct looks into Bart’s face.

  “Justice is going to kill you. He thinks I’m a snitch and was feeding you information. You gotta get the fuck away from here, from Mystic,” he pleaded, both hands outstretched in an effort to emphasize his words.

  “Oh lord, not Justice. I’m a dead man,” mumbled Bart. His eyes were swollen shut, but streams of tears forced their way between the slits to trail across mangled patches of flesh.

  Gray Man laughed out loud. Although Fury didn’t know the man, he thought his behavior seemed out of character.

  “Now this is an interesting turn of events,” he said, rubbing his bloodstained hands together.

  “What’s so interesting?”

  “You don’t have a clue who I am, do you?” Gray Man’s smile grew wide, and his eyes flickered with life for the first time.

  “You said, Gray Man.”

  “Am I correct to assume you’re a member of the ferocious Savage Souls outlaw motorcycle club?”

  “Fucking right, little man. I’m one of the blood-brothers if you know what that means.” Fury tried to posture, but it’d come too late.

  “Yes, I do, thank you. You don’t know who I am—Gray Man. I’m known by many names in different countries, but I prefer Gray Man. No, ring a bell?” the man goaded.

  “You related to Johnny Cash or something? You look like him, dressed in black.” Fury smiled and imitated strumming a guitar.

  Gray Man chuckled. “No I’m not. You can leave now.” His fingers swished toward the door.

  “You don’t tell me to leave.” Fury scowled in revulsion.

  Gray Man jerked at Bart’s leash so sadistically that he almost lifted the man up off the tile floor. “Lady, tell this intruder to leave. Now.”

  “Lady wants you to leave. Now.”

  Chapter 3

  Another of Colorado’s three hundred and thirty days of sunshine brightened breakfast on the back porch of the converted Western Ways Bed and Breakfast. Justice’s boot heels rested on the painted railing as he leaned back in the rocking chair, his plate teetered on his lap.

  Sunshades were shoved atop his head as he squinted across a dirt trail that led along the rear of the property. Like a bear, he growled at the fresh set of tracks. No way would poachers trespass on the Savage Nation’s territory. Cops would also know better than to leave trails doing surveillance.

  Justice shoveled in another mouthful and returned to his rocking with the solace that it must’ve been one of the brothers after a late night of partying. He became lost in the thought and then his mind tracked back to his days as an undercover operative for the CIA. Memories, almost more real than when they’d happened, were refocused once he felt his thumb and middle finger sandpapering together. Justice couldn’t remember when or why he’d developed that tic, but only knew he needed it to snap his mind back into the current environment.

  “Hey, Justice. Any word from Vegas?” St. John appeared, wearing only a pair of shorts and bedrock running sandals.

  The national president rolled his head toward him and opened one eye to survey. “Where the fuck you going?”

  “Any word from Vegas I said.”

  Justice looked to be weighing his words. “No.”

  “And for where I’m going, is to train. Whether you know it or even give a shit, we’re about to go to war—I’ll be ready.” St. John waited for Justice to move his feet from the porch railing so he could access the stairs.

  “War, huh?”

  “Open your eyes, Justice. Fucking Vegas chapter’s about to implode. You worked too hard to build an empire only to watch it crumble. I’ve worked too hard to be a member of it to watch that, too.” He made a motion with his hand for
Justice to move his feet. “Not to mention the other clubs looking to smash your ass.”

  Justice ignored him.

  “I may not look like I’m worried about it according to you, but I don’t respond to emotion. I’ve got a strategy and it takes time. I’ve also got shit happening here that I’ve got to address before tackling Vegas,” he said. He shoved the last bites of yellow eggs between his bearded lips. “I want my quarter million back.”

  “Well, whether you give a shit or not, I’m going to be ready. I’m loyal to the Nation—SFFS.” He tried to ease Justice’s feet out of the way. Justice’s legs stiffened.

  “I know you are, or at least I think you were.”

  St. John shoved Justice’s boots off the porch railing. The club president’s feet crashed to the wooden slats below and his huge torso was flung forward. A drop-biscuit flopped atop strips of bacon. Both men froze as the tin metal plate rolled around before it landed face down.

  “What the fuck you mean by that comment? You doubt my loyalty?”

  Justice leaned back. “If I stand up, it’s not going to be nothing nice, so I’ll stay seated.”

  “Probably best you do.” St. John started down the steps.

  “You know, St. John, I trusted you. I really did after what you did for the brothers in Vegas. What bothers me is you always make sure I know you’re loyal to the Nation. You never say you’re loyal to me.”

  “That’s your problem, Justice. You think you’re bigger than the nation. My cut’s rocker says Savage Souls, not Justice Boudreaux.” He stalled about halfway down the steps. “You’re an American military hero and a great leader, but once you realize a true leader serves his people and not the other way around, you’ll become a legend. Until then, you’re just a bully.”

  Justice chewed on the inside of his cheek. He wanted to be pissed, to fly off the handle and attack, but instead he considered St. John’s words. His palm slammed against the wooden rocker’s arm. It rattled the entire chair. He knew there was truth in those words.

  Justice wrinkled his brow. Tension hid below the surface. Memories always caused his body to jerk just before sleep and today he seemed particularly sensitive to the terrors of his past. He inhaled long stretches of air through his nostrils trying to settle his spirit. A flood of thoughts about his military Special Forces career and CIA covert missions caused his gut to knot. He ached, and leaned forward to ease the pain.

  He’d been the best SOG operative there was. He went behind enemy lines and led entire regimes to overthrow evil empires. Yet here he was, on domestic soil and in a war he wasn’t sure he’d win. The Savage Souls were just as fierce as any soldier he served with, but while U.S. military fought for a purpose, these fighters fought for the fuck of it.

  “I’m growing weary of your insubordination, Florida boy. If I didn’t trust you, I’d have your ass thrown in the Box with Fury,” he mumbled, shoving a huge chunk of chewing tobacco in his right cheek.

  “So you do trust me still. You’d be nuts not too. I’m the best you got.” St. John stomped the rest of the way down the stairs. His body glistened in the golden son—he looked like a Greek god. Hell, even Justice would think twice before fucking with this stud.

  “Yeah. You also brought Abigail home without smelling like sex.” His laugh trailed off as he watched until St. John disappeared into the piney woods at a lightning pace.

  Silently, Mercy approached him from the rear. “Yo, Bro. When you going to let Fury out of the hole? It’s been four days. We need everyone we can trust right now.”

  Justice had grown accustomed to the way his brothers moved without sound. They’d been brought up hunting and fishing in the bayous and marshes that speckled south Louisiana’s Cajun Country. Each blood brother had also received specialized training in their respective military branches.

  “I told Toad to dig him out.” Justice’s sarcastic tone was followed by a torrent of dark brown spit launched off the porch. Speckles of spray bounced off the railing.

  “I’m guessing by your shitty attitude you haven’t talked to Rage this morning?” Mercy slipped around and leaned on the porch railing, his arms crossed.

  “Why, should I go find him or doesn’t he know to report to me?” Justice allowed more tobacco juice and saliva to build up as he contemplated the condition of his club. Had everyone gone fucking bat-shit crazy?

  He forced a glob of spray from between tight lips. The brown spit lasered just inches from Mercy’s left elbow. Justice let out a bellowing howl, “Go get him.”

  “Be right back.” Mercy moved toward the rear door and stopped to allow another brother to pass, “What’s up Toad?”

  “Hey boss man. Them feds were sure enough active last night, but I didn’t let any of them onto this property.”

  “Good man, Toad,” Justice encouraged the simple-minded brother.

  “Thank ya, boss.” Toad said with the enthusiasm of a new puppy beneath his master’s scratching fingertips.

  “Go ahead and get Fury out of the Box.” Justice asked.

  “Right away, boss.”

  “Toad. What are those track marks running next to the Box? You wouldn’t have let Fury out last night, now would you?” Justice’s muscles began to tighten as he asked his trusted servant.

  Toad unloaded a queasy glare, “No sir. On my honor.”

  He squinted back at the bike tracks across the property and wondered who’d created them. They didn’t belong to a Harley Davidson—maybe another traitor in the midst? St. John’s words rung in the back of his mind. He realized he’d been comfortable at the top for too long. It was time to get his hands dirty again. Just like he did when he tore through the old club leadership before he seized control.

  “Hey Justice, I wanted to confirm my intel before coming down,” Rage’s look was sharp and intense. His dark eyes looked evil as the whites were all but filled with red. Probably from glaring into a computer screen all night, Justice thought.

  Everyone shot glares at Fury. He gasped and then collapsed onto the wooden steps. Mercy handed him a canteen. He looked like hell—like he’d spent four days in the Box—that had to be close to hell itself.

  No one spoke until Justice okayed Fury’s presence. Justice examined his brother. He was eight years older than Fury, and was the fifth child, while Fury was the sixth. Though they followed each other in birth order, neither had been very close growing up.

  Justice never fully trusted him, but often fought to defend him. Today, he wasn’t sure he’d fight again on his brother’s behalf. Something just didn’t sit right. He thought he noticed fresh road spray splattered across Fury’s leather cut.

  Justice launched another oyster-textured mouthful of slime onto the porch steps, “Fury, you square?”

  Fury wiped the chewing tobacco spatter off his lips and right eye. Head hung low—he nodded to signal that he’d learned his lesson. The others ignored him and turned back to Rage.

  “Rage, what’s up?”

  “I got a line on the guns.”

  Justice allowed a grin to beam across his bearded face. “Talk to me.”

  “Looks like Ricky Geneti was into a backdoor deal with someone called Gray Man.”

  “Gray Man?” Fury growled in surprise.

  Chapter 4

  Fury’s feet dangled. Justice tightened his curled fists around his blood brother’s vest. Blood pumped through his veins until his body burned. Hot like the devil, Justice had had enough of untrustworthy fuckers. He rattled Fury’s weakened frame like a rag doll; he couldn’t fight back.

  “What the fuck do you know about Gray Man?” Crazy boomed in his voice as he glared so deep into Fury’s eyes that he saw his soul.

  Nervous laughter curled around the outside of Fury’s straight-lined mouth. “I thought you said Gay Man. Been in that box too long. I’m delirious.”

  Justice didn’t believe him, but how the fuck could Fury know anything about Gray Man? His right fist planted in Fury’s sternum and he blasted him to the gr
ound. “Go clean yourself up.”

  Rage patted Justice on the shoulder. “Dude, go easy. He’s confused, not crooked.”

  Justice slung his left arm in a wide arc to flail Rage’s hand away. “You willing to bet your life on that?”

  “I don’t make bets—only facts. Fact is, we got a problem.” Rage righted himself after Justice’s shove. “Gray Man, who we have no information about, or someone connected to him, might have brokered the rip off with Geneti. I’m not one hundred percent sure though. Seems Geneti double-dipped by selling us the guns for a quarter mil, and then tried paying off someone else for them again.” Rage explained without having to reference his notes.

  Intel and technology were his specialties, and he committed details to permanent memory. “Someone other than dumb-ass Geneti set up the pilot, the warehouse to store the guns and the bank safety deposit boxes where all exchanges of cash took place.” Rage waved the crumpled notes around like a battle flag.

  Justice’s eyes brightened. He felt a burden lift from his spirit as he anticipated the rest of Rage’s briefing.

  “Talk to me, my brother. Give me good news,” Justice sung.

  “Don’t have a fix on banks just yet, but ex-Army intel buddies are sifting through the FDIC’s regulatory bullshit. The stash house for our weapons will be easier to find. We’ve just got to be careful about getting there.”

  “Why’s that?”

  Rage dropped into a rocking chair next to his blood brother and shielded his mouth while his gaze flickered about wildly. “The fucking feds are onto the location as well. It’s going to be a balls-to-the-wall race to find them.”

  “How do you know the feds are on to it?” Justice asked. He hoped his blood brother Lawless wasn’t part of the task force working to seize the weapons—but blood was blood and the Savage Souls were something else. Deeper than blood.

  “My genius digital cloud over Mystic has picked up some messages between the feds and locals. The damn foothills make for great off-road biking but spotty wireless coverage,” Rage said. “I’ve also decoded most of the shit I scraped from Geneti’s computer. That e-mail sent just before we hit the place was sent to a g-mail account, but without a subpoena Google ain’t giving up shit.”