by LS Silverii
“No.”
“Then what,” his voice returned cold and she noticed how rigid his torso had become.
“I don’t know. I thought he was with Fury.”
His laughter boomed. The thick, tattooed arm swung up and over her head to land snugly across her shoulders. She cringed, but held still with a feigned smile.
I hate his touch, but, oh shit, he feels so good.
“Sorry, baby, but hop back on your side. I don’t need no shit from Mercy’s wife about you. Him and Liza have been cool about keeping my baby girl since her mother’s death.”
“Me neither.” She laughed in understanding.
Abigail looked across the intersection as Justice pulled his steering wheel into a sharp right turn. She debated about what to do.
“Uhm, Justice.”
“Yeah, baby?”
“You might want to look over across the intersection.” Her narrow finger stabbed toward a closed general store.
Justice punched the dashboard. “What the fuck?”
Chapter 9
Only a few hundred yards away sat the isolated house outside of Vegas. Graham had radioed to the sniper units to make sure they each knew the assault team was inside their perimeter and to exercise caution. That meant keep fingers off triggers; good guys down range. There was no response.
Lawless ignored his vibrating cell phone stuffed into a pocket of his vest. He sniffed at a chemical scent that wafted downwind.
“Graham, is that shack a hideout or a meth lab?” His teeth gnashed as he anticipated the answer.
A methamphetamine lab meant the information in the briefing had been wrong—possibly on purpose. Tension bound his movements, but he rolled his neck to fight the affects. Voodoo looked cross at him as he nudged her with an elbow. He shook his head to signal no. She replied with a thumb turned down. Should he alert Jeff Graham? Hell, he might’ve been the one who set them up.
The other SWAT members continued their trek across the sands. Lawless laid a hand over Voodoo’s thickly padded tactical vest. She slowed to a crawl until they’d created a gap from the others. Graham was in between both groups. Lawless shoved his fist between his chest and vest to check the phone.
[los jinetes hitmen attacked clubhouse. How swat missed them in desert?] Read the text message from St. John.
Lawless’ gut wretched. He yanked Voodoo behind him and pushed her to the ground. She quickly rolled onto her left side as she pulled the Colt 9mm submachine gun from beneath her and pointed it toward the target house. Lawless dropped to one knee, and covered her. He leveled his HK MP5 9mm submachine gun in the direction of the SWAT teams and Agent Jeff Graham. One of them was crooked but he had no idea which.
Blistering rounds of rapid shots cranked out. Graham was the first to fall. His body lay about twenty yards ahead of Lawless and Voodoo. Lawless immediately trained his weapon on the group of traitors who’d maliciously gunned down a federal agent.
He fired single-shot select. No need wasting ammunition with fully automatic bursts when there would be no more bullets to resupply. Light flashes from a hot burst of bullets reverberated beneath his hamstring. Lawless tapped Voodoo on the bulletproof helmet. Round, vivid green eyes showed beneath the NVG when she glanced up.
“Slow down your shots.”
“Okay,” she yelled.
He crept down until his mouth pressed close to her earlobe below the helmet line. “Calm down and shoot straight.”
Sprays of hard packed dirt bounced into his face—bullets landed all about. His mind screamed flee, but his thighs were weighted like cement columns. Lawless willed himself to calm down and focus his return fire. He began to pick off those bastards until the rest fled toward the abandoned house.
“Cover me,” he told Voodoo. She nodded and readjusted her grip on the rifle.
Three deep gulps of air, and Lawless stumbled forward. Doubt weighed heavy—should he save Voodoo and retreat, or bother saving Graham? After all, the man might’ve also been a traitor. No matter. There was an injured person, and Lawless’ sense of obligation forced his response—help him.
He heard gasps for air and the groans of a man seriously injured. More shots whizzed close to their position. He threw himself over Graham until the shooting stopped with Voodoo’s return cover fire. The volleys were too violent and unpredictable to take off into the open with a dying man over his shoulder. They’d both perish.
Lawless shielded Graham’s writhing body with his own. Heavy breaths clutched in his chest. He grabbed Graham’s headset and ordered the snipers to hold their fire. He then blocked every distraction from his mind and thought about opportunities—whatever chances there were for his survival.
He studied as much of his surroundings as he could see. Despite the hellacious situation, he smiled. Opportunity had just presented itself. The stash of metal barrels strewn out back of the structure made for the perfect spark to ignite the strong residual chemical that hung in the air. He ignored the smacks of hard, dry desert that struck him thanks to the imposters zeroing in on his position.
Lawless drew in a long stream of cold night air. It steamed against his hot mouth and tongue. His lungs were full. He identified the target and only looked where he aimed to hit. The shot had to be about four hundred yards or so. His right index finger slipped inside the trigger guard and rested on the semi-curved lever. Air exhaled from his lungs in a slow steady fog as he increased the gentle pressure against the trigger.
The killers seemed to be coordinating their efforts—shots becoming more accurate. Voodoo’s fire was still hit or miss. Her night vision goggles were beyond the effective range to help her spot targets.
Lawless focused on the target. He felt the trigger tension surrender, felt the recoil against his shoulder, heard the crack of the bullet. His eyes couldn’t detect the speed between the bullet striking the metal surface and the chemical plume. He shielded his eyes from the brilliant explosion. It wouldn’t end there.
Lawless grabbed Graham’s weapon and ammo before he leapt to his feet. He charged toward the remaining assassins. They had no idea what was storming across the divide. Lawless moved quick, but silent. He saw several of them flailing in flames while the others were too panicked to extinguish them. Those who survived the blast, were efficiently relieved of life once Lawless arrived.
Chapter 10
“You don’t think he’s the rat, do you?” Abigail’s shoulders dropped with a sense of relief that someone else might take the fall for treason. Still unsure how much longer she’d be able to deceive the Savage Souls, she only hoped it would be long enough for her to devise a plan to destroy them.
“Blood brother or not, the club comes first. SFFS.”
She noticed Justice’s powerful forearms tremble as he pointed binoculars toward the general store’s parking lot. She squinted her focus at the curious scene. A single street lamp bathed most of the small asphalt parking lot. A white wood porch and most of the store’s front door and windows were also illuminated. It was the right side of the building that was the problem.
Dark, and isolated, the right side of the store had a few picnic benches scattered beneath an expansive tree canopy. It provided shade and a nice spot for customers and cyclists to break during the day. At night, it became a blurry mess of shadows and offered no good reason to be there.
Parked deep in that ghostly bog was Fury Boudreaux’s 2006 Fat Boy model Harley Davidson. The real problem came because of the Mystic Police Department cruiser parked next to it. Both vehicles had lights out, and neither Fury or the cop was around.
“I’m going to kill him.”
“Maybe it’s not what you think it is, baby.”
Abigail feigned giving a shit about Fury, or any of the brothers for that matter. Her heart rate picked up with the fantasy that the best scenario would be for them to turn on each other.
“Really, what else could it be, Einstein?” His tone smacked of condescending sarcasm. Abigail smiled even brighter—on the ins
ide.
“Lets go…” she ate her words. It was Justice’s problem, not hers.
“You’re right. Lets go over there and kill them both.”
She pressed her knuckles against her teeth. “No, not kill anybody. That’s a fucking cop and your blood brother for Pete’s sake.”
He slammed the binos against the leather bench seat, “No, it’s a pig and a rat.”
Abigail watched Justice’s hand meander along his waistband until it stopped where she’d seen the gun and holster earlier. She felt gut sick over the idea of those two dying.
“Please no. I’ve been through enough killing.” She nibbled at the words as they leapt from her lips, but there’d be no catching them.
“What killing you been a part of?” he demanded. Finally, his stare broke from across the street to focus on her answer.
She chewed her fingernails buying time to think through an alibi. The silence grew awkward. “My family was killed by a drunk driver.”
“That’s not what you said the night you showed up.” His questioning tone made her nervous.
Her pinky finger blistered with the pressure of her bite. “Hey, we all got skels,” she said, pointing back toward Fury.
“No shit, huh? I’ll give it a bit and see what’s what later. Don’t want to bring the mighty Chief of Police, Jennifer Perez down on me for offing one of her mightiest.” His wicked snicker sickened Abigail’s senses. She knew he’d have no regrets killing a cop—or his very own brother.
She twitched as his body jerked. He’d spun forward and glued his sight back across the intersection once taillights popped on the police officer’s cruiser. She saw movement from behind the blackness. Someone, unknown to her, but dressed in a Mystic Police Department officer’s uniform, stumbled into the grayish area of the parking lot. He was zipping up his uniform trousers, but wobbled as he did so.
Rippled muscles snapped in Justice’s forearms as fingers squeezed the steering wheel. Abigail saw the rage boiling inside of him. Burying a laugh, she knew he’d take it out on her. The irony of one of his badass blood brothers sucking cock wasn’t lost in the moment. Much less a cop’s cock.
“He’s free to do whatever the hell he wants to do, but this shit is going too far.”
“Because he’s gay?”
Justice’s head jolted toward her with fiery eyes. “No,” he screamed through trembling lips, “because he’s a rat.”
The cop looked around before falling into the front seat of his cruiser. Abigail again bit her lip to stop the delight from escaping as spoken words. Her eyes brightened as she thought about how satisfied the officer had looked. Fury must be an amazing fuck.
Maybe I’ll ask him for pointers, she mused.
“Get your head down.” Justice’s big paw pressed over the crown of her skull. Headlights swept across his truck, but the cop’s cruiser kicked up dust and gravel before it sped away from the general store.
Justice’s eyes narrowed. His lips pinched in a hard line. Abigail saw tension etch into his face like an artist’s chisel into stone. Her heart almost felt for his anger—almost.
“Look at him. Hiding in the shadows like a fucking mistress. He makes me sick.”
Justice slammed the gearshift into drive, and smashed the accelerator. Her head lunged back. The truck bolted across the intersection without Justice looking in either direction. Abigail glanced quickly. It was so late it maybe didn’t matter, but this was a rural farming community and most got started hours before sunup.
Fury’s eyes exploded wide when he saw the vehicle blaring toward him. High beam headlights caught him like a deer. Except, Fury was no deer. He was a highly trained Navy military veteran.
He ditched his bike, rolled to the left while he ripped his pistol from the inside of his leather cut. Justice spun the steering wheel hand over hand until the speeding truck skidded sideways, driver side toward Fury.
“You stupid, rat motherfucker,” he roared through the truck’s open window. The gun in Fury’s hand either meant nothing to him, or he didn’t see it.
“Fuck off.” Fury roared.
Justice flung the door open and leapt before the big ton truck stopped skidding through the parking lot. He reached out and steamrolled his blood brother as he yanked him from the ground with one hand, smashing his right fist into Fury’s head and body. Fury offered no resistance. In the scuffle, the gun was kicked into the weeds of an overgrown attempt at landscaping.
“Get back to the den right now. Counsel will deal with your act of treason, and I’ll deal with that cop.”
Fury finished zipping up his pants. He retrieved his t-shirt, crumpled on the ground, and shoved it inside his vest pocket. “He’s just a friend.”
“You’re a traitor to the Savage Nation. Giving information to the enemy, what’s wrong with you?” Justice slammed his boot into his blood brother’s ass.
Abigail covered her mouth to hide the smile.
Seems like the only thing Fury’s giving is head.
Wiping blood from his lips, Fury snarled, “You ain’t ever going to treat me like this again. I just finished saving your whore right there, and now you question my loyalty? Fuck off, big brother.” He push-walked his Fat Boy backward until it pointed toward the old Western Ways Bed and Breakfast. He ignited the twin cam engine and spun his wide rear tire across the asphalt until a wispy cloud of choking smoke concealed his escape.
“This shit ain’t going to end well,” Justice muttered while he scanned the area for surveillance cameras attached to the old general store. “Get in, let’s go.”
Abigail swept her foot through the tall grass. She shoved the pistol in the back of her jeans.
Chapter 11
The sun beat down on Mystic with a particular fervor. The scent of evergreen layered the warm, gentle winds that always blew through this foothill region. St. John peered toward the compost area of the property in the direction of a strange wailing that seeped back up the steep hill to the clubhouse.
“That’s Fury,” Justice said, “been in the Box the last three days until I figure out what to do with him.”
Shading his eyes from the sun’s glare, St. John asked, “What the hell did he do to deserve that?”
“Caught with his pants down—literally. Mercy called me while y’all were kicking ass in Vegas to warn we had a rat. I caught my own blood brother with one of Mystic Police Department’s gayest.” Justice spit a stream of tobacco across the brush. “Fury’s the rat.”
St. John relaxed—finally. He’d been so afraid his cover had been blown while they’d been assigned to protect Dragon Mike in Las Vegas, that he’d not had a moment’s peace. Lucky for him Fury couldn’t keep his lips to himself, although Fury wasn’t a traitor—he was just horny.
“What you thinking about doing with him?”
“Depends on how much he ran his mouth to that cop. I’ve still got no lead on our quarter million or them weapons. If he blew that deal because he pillow talked, then I’ve got no choice but to kill him.”
St. John exhaled and shook his head. “That’s harsh, boss. Your very own blood?”
“It’s the code that endures beyond all,” he said in a low voice, his tone representing the seriousness with which he took honoring the code. He patted the American flag patch sewn onto the upper left panel of his leather cut.
St. John kicked around at the loose dirt that had baked to hard crumbles with the recent drought. His lips drew into a dusty grimace at the thought of how hot it was in that wooden box with the tin roof. Other than being a shit-bag outlaw, Fury hadn’t done anything to St. John.
I’d love to see Vengeance inside that box. Hell, I’d set fire to it if I could.
“But still, Justice. Did you ask him what information he gave up?”
Justice stepped closer to St. John, his hair smoothed back into a braid with wild hairs jutting into the Colorado afternoon. “Son, I’m starting to trust you again. Don’t question me.”
“Well, boss, I’m
starting to trust you again too, so don’t keep treating me like a child. I earned my respect and my patch—I won’t have either taken from me.”
Justice stared silently—his mouth looked to speak, but no words followed the festering tremors. St. John’s investigative file on Justice Boudreaux read like half all-American hero and half sociopathic menace.
One of the most dangerous CIA special operations group members ever trained, Justice had been awarded numerous medals for bravery and performance of duty. He operated behind enemy lines with the understanding that any exposure would result in an immediate denial by the United States Government of their association. Out far, and probably too long, Justice grew disenfranchised, and soon operated outside the bureaucratic guidelines of diplomacy. St. John knew his initial commitment to the federal government was what had led to his hatred of it. Often times, St. John empathized a bit too much with Justice.
“You did come through for me, boy. Vengeance’s habit has become a liability. Mercy told me what you did to save him and Dragon Mike. He said you single-handedly killed those three Los Jinetes. Fucking good job, son—I’m proud of you.” Justice let loose a sinister grin as if he had recalled a sweet memory.
St. John’s chest expanded with pride. Justice’s acknowledgements had begun to mean more to him than his agency’s quarterly evaluation scores. But it was time to have a talk. His look of pride faded as he scrubbed his face with both calloused palms. Eyes scanned the shaded area just off the back porch. He no longer considered the wails and curses that polluted the isolation box down the hill. His gut knotted preparing for this next conversation with Justice.
“Can I talk to you about something that’s bothering me?” he asked.
Justice stretched his long frame against a rusted flatbed trailer. “It’s the whore, ain’t it? You got to understand she’s club property—no need getting attached to it. Sue should be done with her soon anyway.” Justice ran his finger between his grey t-shirt collar and his reddened skin.