Sabotage: Beginnings

by LS Silverii

  “It wasn’t your fault, Justice.” Sue patted him on the back of his neck. Justice jerked from beneath his touch. “It was my fault. I shot him.”

  Sue reached out again, “It was a hunting accident.” He said as his lips quivered from the hurt that remained just below the surface.

  Justice tossed his long damp hair out of his face. His eyes burned fierce with the shared hurt. “It was no accident.”

  “Good, you beat me to it.” Sue walked away.

  “Sue, I loved him even though. He was our father. I didn’t hate him, I just hated the shit he did to us.”

  “I hated him for both, but you saved me and I will always owe you my life.” Sue slipped the sharp blade between the alligator’s armored hide and the meat below. “Now how do we go about taking care of your issue?”

  Justice peeled off the white cotton t-shirt to reveal a hard-as-rock torso. He’d been out of fighting shape, but the last few years working the swamps, fishing and trapping, kept his body tight and ready for anything. He leaned into the wooden railing and shaded his eyes from the sun’s glare.

  “We gotta disappear first. There are a few militia groups I can connect with, but I’m sure they’re on the FBI and Homeland Security watch list. I need to be free to move unseen.” Justice hocked a wad of spit into the brackish tide.

  “Think we can talk to Lawless?” Sue asked, holding up a perfect gator filet. His grin illustrated the pride he took in his work.

  “No, Lawless is too mixed up with his cop life. He’d never understand the gray areas—he’s too black and white.”

  “Ain’t always a bad thing, I suppose. To see things so clear.”

  Justice kicked at his brother. “See clear? You call wearing a fucking mask of judge and jury seeing clear?” Justice snapped to attention and mimicked his brother writing a traffic ticket, “Your license and registration, please, ma’am. You were doing ten in a five-mile-an-hour-zone.” He chortled and fell back onto the plastic bucket.

  “Come on, Justice, that ain’t fair. Lawless does a good job.”

  “All right. But seriously, I’ll need for y’all to watch baby Grace for us. Batya and I can chop off the heads, but we need to know she’s safe.”

  “How about Vengeance? He’s been hanging out with a pack of low life Coasties across the parish.”

  Justice swiped the t-shirt across his sweat-cover chest and downed a plastic bottle of warm water. “Coasties? What they up to?”

  “A few of his old Coast Guard buddies bought bikes and he’s been hanging around. They got a club house.”

  Justice stiffened. “They wearing colors?”

  “Some sport cuts, but this is Bandido territory, so they watch what they wear,” Sue said. “Bunch of combat vets like us.”

  “Who are they?” Justice’s mind began to pop like electrical bolts over the possibilities.

  “Call themselves the Savage Souls.”

  “Savage Souls. That might be the answer.” Justice smashed his right fist into his left palm.

  Chapter 19

  McCarren International Airport was alive with the glitz and glitter that welcomed lambs into Las Vegas. With big eyes bugged out at the lights and show advertisements, they poked quarters into slots as they sloshed off their planes.

  Ben Ford brushed crumbs from his trousers and straightened his hounds tooth sports coat. He thanked the airline crew then strolled off the ramp and toward the taxi.

  “No baggage, sir?” The cab caller smiled.

  Ben giggled. “Oh, I’ve lots of baggage, but no luggage.”

  “You silly flirt.” Ben chuckled.

  “Where to?” asked the taxi driver.

  Ben flashed a smile at the cab caller and handed the man a crisp five-dollar bill. Inscribed on the bill was, Meet me at the Valencia. Suite 3913.

  “The Valencia, my good man,” he said to the driver.

  Ben nodded. A quick glance over his shoulder and he caught the slight tip of fingers from the attractive cab caller. He rubbed his upper arms with vigor, then scrunched against the padded seat and sighed. The ride was quick and the cabbie polite.

  “Credit or cash?”

  “Always cash my good man.” Ben tipped him for his fine service and hustled into the luxurious lobby.

  Ben clasped his fingers together as he tapped his knuckles against his teeth. The stingy-brimmed fedora sat low across his brow. He gave the navy blue wool band a quick tug and slipped his fingers along the feather that perched inside the Grosgrain ribbon. He glanced up, his dark eyes peering between the slit of his brim and the frames of his tortoiseshell sunglasses.

  “Ahh, I love the fresco ceiling,” Ben whispered to an older man playing the accordion. Dressed in authentic Italian period piece to match Venice’s ancient glory, the hotel employee feigned interest with a half-hearted nod.

  The golden Armillary Sphere towered over both men as Ben soaked in the atmosphere of a recreated Italy. He spun on the polished granite floor and dabbed at the splash from an ornate fountain with his well-shined shoes.

  “You don’t really give a shit do you?” he asked.

  “No,” sang the musician as if it where a line from his chorus. The man arched his back to bellow out his rendition of a song Ben had never heard.

  Ben pulled out a five-dollar bill.

  The man smiled. “Grazie.” He grabbed for it.

  Ben squeezed the paper between gloved fingers and shook his head. “No, you suck.” He dipped his hip as he strutted away from the musician, then passed the bill off to a young Asian child playing near the fountain. Time to check in.

  Ben mashed the button on the wall closest to his bed. The curtains and blinds opened to expose a magnificent view overlooking the swimming pools and the Palazzo Resort. Caesar’s Palace was just down the strip, as was the Bellagio, although he couldn’t see their famous fountains. He tapped his finger against the cool plate glass window toward the five hundred and fifty foot High Roller Ferris wheel.

  “Oh goodie, mommy would love that ride.” Ben clapped his palms and caught sight of his reflection in the window. The smile slipped away as he thought of his mother. He’d not spoken with her in over two years. He missed her.

  “Fuck her. She’s evil.” He sneered.

  “No, she’s our mommy,” he retorted.

  Ben stormed back across the suite, but was careful to hang his sports coat in the closet and folded his tweed trousers across the railing that separated the elevated bedroom from the living room. He hopped on the firm king-sized mattress and tugged at his black dress socks until they’d stretched mid-calf. His light blue boxers pried open at the flap and he watched his dick roll through the opening. He chuckled as he pulled off his fitted blue Oxford and white cotton wife-beater undershirt.

  He laid a condom on the nightstand and picked up the television’s remote. He couldn’t get comfortable in bed. His back ached. He twisted his torso and recalled the powerful mule kick Batya had delivered during their roadside struggle in south Louisiana. He rubbed the back of his neck and felt the total body soreness left from that battle.

  The room phone rang with a chirp. When he answered, Ben was greeted by an automated voice confirming his spa appointment.

  Ben was greeted with startled looks as he entered the spa adorned in only his hotel robe and black socks. In the elevator and along the magnificent halls, he’d collected a bevy of curious looks as he went in search of the spa. He didn’t really care though—when your job description involved eating people for a living other people’s opinions didn’t really much matter.

  “Your room is ready sir. Neka will be your therapist,” The young desk attendant said.

  Ben’s face flushed with heat as his blood rose. He drew himself up. “Is Neka a man or woman?”

  “A woman.”

  “I requested a gentleman. This simply will not do, where is the management?” He stretched his neck as he surveyed the small waiting area.

  “I’ll call her,” the attendant offered.
>
  “Her? Is everyone but me a female in this dive? I want what I ordered. Now, damn it.” Ben’s raised voice drew the attention of other employees and patrons. He slapped his palm against the Ubatuba Granite counter top.

  The young girl draped her left hand over her right shoulder and pulled at the tight skin on her elbow. She looked to be about twenty years old and this was possibly her first job.

  “Sir, the manager is on her way. No need to make a scene,” she said, then pressed her thin fingers across pink lips and twisted away red-faced.

  Why am I acting like this? This isn’t proper behavior.

  The stress of returning to his hometown without the ability to visit with his family had unnerved him. His father, Theodore “Ted” Ford was a career federal employee who’d hopped from one job to another if for only a slight chance at promotion. Somehow he’d found a task force supervisors job in the enforcement section of a high-level government agency. The man had never been a law enforcement officer his entire life—but now he was the top cop.

  Ben considered a quick call to his father meet for lunch, but remembered how horrible the last failed attempt had been. And if what his mother was true, his father had announced he wanted nothing to do with Ben once he began human consumption. He twisted his mouth as his tongue dashed over his teeth. Yes, he was unnerved.

  He saw a woman approaching, escorted by two men. She pulled at her ill-fitting casino-issue blazer and coughed, probably due to the smoke from the gaming floor. Ben clucked as he silently judged her blonde-over-grey dye job and scuffed flat-soled shoes. Overly tall and gut-soft, both men looked to be former cops. Their attitudes outshone their intelligence, but their clenched fists and anxious strides signaled Ben was in for a challenge.

  “Is there a problem here?” she asked.

  Ben withheld his reply. He leaned toward her and stared at her nameplate. He never acknowledged either goon, but licked his lips as he straightened to address her.

  “Yes, Margaret, there is.”

  She rolled her eyes. “Seems you’ve caused a disturbance.”

  Ben pressed his right index finger against pursed lips. “No, seems you have caused the disturbance, Margaret. I’m only here for a massage.”

  “What’s your name?” she barked with a stony expression that hid fear more than it illustrated confidence.

  Ben relaxed his shoulders and set his hip to support this left hand. His right index finger swished back and forth between his mouth, temple and twirled circles in the air.

  “You don’t really want to be here do you, Margaret? You’re not the spa manager—you’re too old and frumpy.” Ben scanned her from tip to toe. “You’re the floor security manager. Probably the assistant manager at best. You’re divorced and detached from your ungrateful kids. You’re fucking one of these two ex-cops, so they both decided to play high school hero and defend you from this little old sissy boy. Am I right?”

  “Well, I never,” she huffed as she looked desperately for someplace safe to go. She glanced right.

  “Marco. I knew it.” Ben laughed at the man’s polyester red jacket. “She a good screw?”

  He never looked Marco in the face though—like avoiding confrontation with an animal—you never looked in their eyes. Marco’s hands remained glued together across his round gut while his thumbs twiddled without purpose, and his expression hardened like tinted glass.

  “Mister, what is your name?” Margaret asked.

  “Isn’t that curious? You’ve pouted all the way over here to help me with my problem but you don’t know my name. How can you help someone when you don’t know whom you’re dealing with? I know you’re name. I know your pathetic life story, Margaret.”

  Marco stepped forward. “I’ve had enough of your smart trap.”

  Ben ignored him, focused coldly on her. “Get the masseuse I requested and paid for. And take these clowns as you depart,” he sassed with a flip of his wrist.

  “You’re coming with me. I’m gonna teach you a lesson about how to talk to a lady.” Marco stepped forward.

  Margaret stepped between them. The slightest smirk rested upon her lips. A glimmer of life appeared in her long dull eyes.

  “Excuse me, baby. He’s gone too far. We don’t need his kind at this establishment,” Marco insisted.

  Ben felt his dick getting hard and knew in just a robe, it would make an appearance. He pressed his palm across his front. His ears pounded with the flood of adrenaline that pulsed through him—almost giddy.

  “Please, Margaret, allow Marco to flex his big muscles,” Ben taunted as he rolled back a sleeve to flex his own reed-thin arm. “Maybe Marco can give me a massage.” Ben winked.

  Marco jabbed out a long arm. His meaty paw clamped Ben by his left bicep. It surprised Ben—Marco was quick. Margaret patted Marco’s sleeve and looked up to the security camera with an expression of false despair.

  “Maybe you should leave,” she said to Ben.

  “I’m a registered guest and I will not be made to vacate my room.”

  Marco jerked up and Ben rose to his tiptoes. “How’s about you and me take a walk? We can discuss your guest status.”

  Margaret giggled. The other guard looked bored.

  Ben eased back onto two feet. He brushed his hair into the slicked-back style he’d sported since returning from gunshot rehabilitation in Argentina. He nibbled on his pinky and flicked his tongue along the finger to its knuckle.

  “Sure, big boy,” Ben said with a wink.

  “Oh no, that’s enough from you.” He yanked Ben off balance. “Lets go.”

  “Bye, bitch.” Margaret cursed him with a veiled middle finger.

  The two men hurried through the lobby until they reached the elevator. The classical music reminded Ben decompressing after a kill. He ignored that sound—he had other plans.

  “What the fuck is wrong with you?” Marco snapped.

  Ben glared across the car and saw his erect dick in the elevator’s mirror. He chuckled. “I always get frisky before a meal.”

  Marco grabbed the front of Ben’s robe in a fist and pulled him toward him. He shook Ben like a rag doll and lifted his other fist against Ben’s nose.

  “This is all you’re going to eat.”

  Another short jaunt down the hall and Marco forced Ben to unlock his door. His flat palm strike at Ben’s solar plexus sent him stumbling into the suite’s foyer. Ben reached to steady himself against the deep dresser drawer.

  Ben remained hunched over while he caught his breath. He’d toyed with Marco long enough. It was time for the idiot brute to leave. He had a date with the cab caller after all. He sucked in one, two and another deep breath that had been cracked out of him by Marco’s whack.

  “You expecting company?” Marco asked in a different tone of voice.

  Ben’s eyes jutted to the condom on the nightstand. “Yeah, why?”

  “I though it was for me.”

  Ben heard Marco grunt like a bull before he felt his powerful fist smash into his spine. The impact was vicious. Ben’s brain short-circuited. He blacked out.

  His wrists were numb. Ben tried to clear his vision, but the blow must’ve caused a concussion. Pain radiated deep in his spine and skull. He peeked to the right to see the sun had begun to set. He tried to push up but he couldn’t move.

  “Thought you’d never wake up.” Marco huffed.

  Ben rocked his shoulders. “Why are my hands tied?”

  He tried to push up from his knees, but Marco slapped a giant hand across his shoulder. He drilled both of Ben’s knees into the paisley patterned carpet. Ben struggled. He sucked in a huge gulp of air and craned his neck to cry out for help. The rough cotton bath towel was smothering and pried his lips apart. Marco swished Ben’s head back and forth until the material was tried tight behind his skull. It was all Ben could do to breath through his nose.

  “You ready?” Marco taunted with a hint of the devil in his question.

  Ben flattened his head against the rumpled
bed sheet. He glanced over. There it was—the torn and empty condom wrapper.

  * * *

  “Daddy.”

  “Why are you calling me?”

  “I need help.”

  “What have you done now?”

  “I made a mess.”

  “What fucked up country are you in now?”

  “Las Vegas.”

  Chapter 20

  She drew two sips from the oversized coffee mug. It was chilly even on the sun-lit patio outside Jane’s Coffee House. Her ungloved hands gripped the piping hot container as the steaming aroma seduced her into another sip. It was cozy once she tucked her fleece turtleneck beneath her angular chin. Her crocheted beanie tugged across the rim of her simple sunglasses.

  Northern Virginia, more particularly Langley, was alive with brisk activity on this November afternoon. Jane’s was bustling as usual and the on-the-go crowd seldom hesitated for pleasantries. Too much on too many minds for the simple things.

  Unfortunately for Robert Boyd, the pretty, light-eyed female who nodded with a flirtatious grin wasn’t so simple. And he, the break-every-rule-to-get-ahead employee, appeared too caught up in his crinkled copy of the Washington Post to care.

  Batya tucked a curly tuft of auburn hair beneath her ear and snugged the colorful scarf around her neck. The cold wind kicked up and reminded her this wasn’t south Louisiana. She sipped from the brightly painted ceramic mug three times as Boyd strutted past. Not that Batya was thirsty, but three sips was the confirmation signal that she’d positively identified him.

  Not an easy mark to make. Boyd was nothing special at his average five-feet-seven inches. His thinning mousey-brown hair hung too long over the back of his jacket collar. Expensive designer sunshades made him look like a cross between a Saturday fishing channel guest and a miniature Terminator. Basically, other than the high-level position he’d sucked ass to secure with the CIA, he was absolutely unremarkable in every way.

  A horn beeped twice from an idling motorcycle across the street. The brick path made for a quaint downtown vibe. If this had been the 1980s, the area would have been labeled a yuppie hangout. Instead, the occupying force of federal employees from down the street mainly frequented it. That fact didn’t concern Batya—the real CIA spooks were deployed across the globe, while administrative staffers and desk-jockey wannabes tried to impress each other at happy hour with low-level credentials and contrived adventures.