Sabotage: Beginnings

by LS Silverii

  “What the hell,” he whispered as his finger traced the white dinged-up metal banner with its red trim. He mused at the demonic emblems and the maroon diamond shape. Inside was the 1% symbol used to signify that out of the 99% of good people who enjoyed motorcycling, they were the 1% of hell raisers.

  Justice laughed quietly as he glared at the sign. He missed the freedom afforded those committed to living off the grid and along the fringe margins of society. His Special Operations Group was a unique sub-culture similar to the outlaw bikers. They were all military vets, heavily tattooed and enjoyed the violence of a renegade life.

  It was when the warriors rotated out of the service and attempted to live a white picket fence life that things got stale real quick. Of course that meant things went shitty for most who couldn’t re-enlist or grab work as mercenaries for the war contractors.

  Maybe this wouldn’t be so bad after all.

  He tapped the sign with his bare fist as he read the FS-SF and the fuck the world letters; FTW inscribed along the bottom of the battered sign. Justice had that tattooed on the inside of his right bicep while in the service.

  “Forever Savages – Savages Forever,” said War Child. “You willing to live by that—die by that if need be?”

  Justice wasn’t easily intimidated, but he’d met War Child the last trip into the OMC’s national headquarters and had a healthy respect for the man. It wasn’t that he was bigger than Justice, but the aura that surrounded the older man told everyone it was best not to fuck with him.

  “I’ve dedicated my life to every oath ever sworn. I was a committed-ass cub scout, and fought to my last day on duty for this country. Yeah, I’d say so.”

  “Good, you’ll need it.” War Child slapped Justice on the shoulder, “Don’t be late for church.” He blinked to clear a film from his glass eye.

  Justice worried about Batya. It was church night—women were strictly forbidden from the clubhouse. He slid a hand inside his greasy denim pocket to feel for a vibration just in case she called. He nibbled his top lip as baby Grace came to mind—Batya was scheduled to receive updated information about their daughter from his sister-in-law. Communication back home was limited to avoid interception from the CIA.

  “Yo, bitch.” The voice snuck up on Justice and so did the blindside four-ring punch that sunk into his temple.

  Stunned, Justice dropped to one knee. Instinct kicked in—do not fall to the ground.

  “When I call, you come. Comprende?”

  Justice blacked out for a flash, but his senses rebounded fast. Faster than Rhino would’ve imagined. It was just the two of them—the others had moved into the clubhouse.

  Justice zipped his KA-BAR knife from its concealed sheath inside his jacket. He cupped it in his palm, blade up and ripped a gapping slash across Rhino’s thick leather motorcycle boot. It tore mostly material, but the scream and river of crimson also showed he’d connected with tissue—deep tissue.

  A flat plop of fleshy fat splatted to the curb and sprawled onto the northbound lane of Division Street. He fit in with the piles of shit strewn across the street. Only difference was the broken bottles and busted condoms weren’t screaming like bitches. Justice remained close to the wall in case anyone else wanted to blindside him.

  After he swiped and sheathed his blade, Justice moved casually toward his bike. His weapons were handcuffed to it and if the club wanted to make an issue with the payback on Rhino, he’d be ready.

  Guano hovered over Rhino—his face blanched, movements jittery. Justice smirked once he realized the relationship between the two was more than brothers. A flood of leather and men exploded through the damned door as concerned old soldiers gawked at the distraction. The others jerked Rhino off his back and dragged him indoors—no need attracting cops. Justice buried his leer in his heavy leather jacket.

  “Some shit will get you booted, and some will get you beat. Shit like that might get you killed,” War Child whispered into Justice’s ear.

  Fuck. I never saw War Child sneak up from behind.

  Justice tightened his muscles in anticipation of a blade slipped from behind as pay back. Breath hitched in his chest as War Child remained silently behind him. Justice gripped his fingers around his own knife handle—he’d at least fight back.

  “And,” Justice gritted his teeth while he slowly torqued his frame to face War Child.

  “And this time you’re in the clear. He deserved it after that chicken shit swipe at you.” War Child imitated a swinging limp wrist. “But he’s still a patched brother, and you can’t do shit like that.”

  Justice fingered the lumps on his temple and cheekbone that had swollen in an instant. Rhino’s jeweled fingers still caused his skull to pulse like a fire bell alarm.

  “No disrespect, War Child, but I’m not some child to be fucked with. He and his mistress, Guano, want to play fuck with the new kid—they picked the wrong man for that game.”

  A stone expression showed no reaction. War Child was always difficult if not impossible to read. Even his involuntary micro-expressions were expressionless. Locks of gray hair curled against his wrinkled forehead, while tangled chunks whipped in the windy city’s gusts. He usually held his hands behind his back—that always worried Justice.

  “No shitting, son. I ain’t ever seen anybody do what you did. That knife is gonna get your big ass in a fix one of these days,” War Child slurred with a West Texas drawl once he dropped his menacing scowl. “Here.” He handed Justice a clump of wet napkins. “Clean that pig sticker off before the sergeant at arms comes out here to check you over.”

  Justice made quick work of it and shoved the red-stained cocktail napkins into an abandoned saddlebag strapped to his ride. They hung to the flank while the others pushed each other back through the funnel for church.

  “I appreciate it, boss man.”

  War Child began a slow crawl back toward the club’s front door. “No need for thanks, but when the time comes for civil war, I want to be on your side.” The older biker slipped behind the others. He had an old-school casual attitude about things, but he respected church.

  Justice pressed his presence through the same singular opening. His six-six frame challenged the low-slung ceiling inside the dingy single-story brownstone. His scuffed leather boots shuffled across the chipped linoleum floor as he moved with caution away from the heavy metal front door. He clutched War Child by the bicep.

  War Child pressed his finger to his mustached mouth and creased his glare for Justice to be silent. The OMC’s national president, Ronald “Banjo” Rawls had entered the club’s commons area. Justice inhaled. His eyes narrowed and he fought to remain silent. Then, he slowly exhaled. He’d had enough of the schoolyard pranks out in the parking lot, and the cowardly attack from a full-patched member.

  Justice stood at attention, but remained distracted by the bush league appearance of this loosely formed group of like-minded men. The problem was he couldn’t be sure what their minds actually liked.

  The sergeant at arms called out, “Stand at attention for our nation’s Pledge of Allegiance.”

  The men muddled in a quick reshuffle before everyone snapped to stiff stances. Justice sensed the pride that lay just below the atmosphere’s surface. He also sensed weakness—his opportunity. His edged right hand rested firm over his sore right eyebrow. His full lips curled at the edges as he realized what War Child had meant.

  Civil war.

  “Silence is mandatory,” barked the sergeant at arms. Justice thought he looked to have been a Marine. Even laden with long hair and heavy tattoos, the core of a person was what Justice saw most clear. Snickering ceased.

  Justice watched the biker’s grimace. It was Rhino’s wails that caught his ire. Justice smiled. Guano was on his knees tending to Rhino’s wound. They’d seemed to digress toward their hidden sexual relationship as he cared for his lover and probably master. The others looked on without pity or patience.

  “Get quiet, or get the fuck out,” the s
ergeant at arms ordered. His voice raked against the low murmurs in the dank room. It sounded as if he’d been breast-fed cement, but there was no mistaking his words or his intent.

  Justice nodded. Soon he’d examined and assessed almost every man in the room. He leaned against the warped pool table and finally felt at ease. To hell with at ease, he felt in control. This wouldn’t only become his new home—it would become his very own army.

  Banjo took the floor. Brothers began to speak amongst themselves. War Child turned to Justice and tugged at his un-patched leather cut. He winked at Justice—Justice nodded with a sneer.

  “You understand now?”

  Justice nodded.

  War Child waved his index finger back and forth as he pointed to the crowd of about sixty men. “Civil war, boss man. Watch the battle lines appear before your eyes. Notice where I stand. Razor will stand with us, too.”

  “Razor?” Justice’s nose and left eyebrow crunched tight.

  “Sergeant at Arms. Fucking badass Force Recon Marine—never left Fallujah.”

  “That’s how I know him.” Justice snapped his fingers.

  War Child’s thick, meaty fingers snarled their way into a small pocket inside his club colors. He snaked out a tight plastic baggie filled with chalky white powder. His eyes became moist and Justice noticed a drop of snot slid to the tip of the big man’s nostril. He nudged it toward Justice and bobbed his bearded face with a regretful grin.

  “Don’t fuck with the shit, but thanks.” Justice waved his hand across his torso.

  War Child curled the line that created his lips and shook his head. “Good call, boss man. Now, neither do I.” He tossed the methamphetamine onto the torn green felt. A pack of rabid animals tore across the pool table to claim it.

  “Thanks, man,” Justice whispered.

  “Brother Razor, I have new business to discuss.” War Child demanded instant acknowledgement when he spoke. Half fear and half respect—either way, they shut up and listened.

  “Yes sir, Brother War Child.” Razor spun toward the aged oak and snapped at attention. His chin projected and eyes fixed hot, were set directly on Justice.

  Justice noticed the dividing line War Child had shown him earlier was now empty down the middle of the smoke clouded room. The dimly lit area was jammed with big, unkempt bodies clad in leather and loaded with weapons and illegal narcotics. But he sensed the deeper divide. Though they all appeared similar, loyalties were as far apart as true good and abhorrent evil. Oddly enough, Razor, War Child, and he straddled that divide.

  “I nominate pledge Justice Boudreaux for full-patch membership,” War Child ordered more than suggested.

  The room erupted.

  “Fuck him,” screamed Rhino. Guano ran his soft hand up his lover’s thigh in support of the bravado.

  Banjo wobbled from his throne of an empty beer keg and waved his short, fat finger. The sausage-like appendix caught Justice’s attention, but he refocused on the crowd.

  “No fucking way. He’s only worn the pledge’s patch a few months. Our sacred bylaws say it takes at least a year of servitude before a member can even be considered for brotherhood.” Banjo plopped back onto his tin metal can with a look of regal satisfaction.

  War Child dug into his curly mane of uncombed hair and pulled down an eye patch. He slid it over the glass eye. He looked like the Oakland Raiders mascot. “Our constitution says nothing about timeframes. If you’d bother to read the bylaws it states that pledges must remain in good standing for a period of service to the brotherhood.” War Child’s rusted exterior quickly shook off his simplistic appearance. The man was sharp as well as tough.

  Shoulder punches and high-fives echoed through the cramped quarters. Banjo interrupted. He slapped his palm against the makeshift table with the club’s design burned into the top of its splintered wood surface. “I said no.”

  “Furthermore, the bylaws state that upon such a period of satisfactory service to the brotherhood, the pledge may be brought up for nomination by a full-patched brother and seconded by another full-patched brother. I nominate Justice Boudreaux for full-patch status.” War Child spoke more forcefully, just not more loudly.

  Guano jumped up and pranced into that awkward space between the Savage Souls’ past and future. His eyes filled with tears as he spit at War Child’s battered boots. Sound vacated the space.

  War Child never flinched. His giant, calloused paw met Guano’s fragile jaw and cracked a deafening resonance across the tension-filled area. Guano dropped before he could even scream. He lay limp upon the filthy carpet and saw dusted floor. No one moved—not even Rhino’s lard ass.

  Razor pointed a condemning finger down at the lifeless sub. “This is what our once proud Savage Nation has become.” He swung his hand over his head. “I second the nomination,” Razor barked. The two sides of the clubhouse imploded over the realization that change had just been forced upon them.

  Banjo beat against the wooden tabletop, but failed to gain anyone’s attention. Justice kept a close eye on him—weak men in panicked situations often resorted to over reaction. Blood redness rocketed up Banjo’s neck and bubbled beneath his face as his hands fumbled inside his cut. Justice stiffened his stance but was a step too late to close the gap.

  A single shot exploded. It reverberated through the smoke-choked yellow haze. No one moved but War Child. The old United States Army Calvary Scout stumbled to one knee—then the other, both hands pressed against his gut, his fingers coated by a heavy crimson flood. Veins ripped through his neck and temples as spit flew from his quivering lips. He huffed but looked like sucking in air caused agony.

  Justice grabbed him by the shoulders to ease him onto the floor. A swift, powerful swat of his square-toed boot sent Guano’s limp body rolling into the stunned audience. War Child waved him away. He threw one trembling, blood-soaked hand over his shoulder and gripped Justice’s hand.

  “Thanks for being a loyal brother, Razor. Take care of the new boss man.” War Child offered in hushed tones. His purplish lips quivered at death’s escort along the long and hard-fought life as he passed into the great beyond.

  Chapter 22

  The vineyards were bare in late November, but the hills were still more picturesque than anywhere Ben had traveled before. He rocked on his wide back porch and enjoyed the calm, still breeze that lullabied wine country into an easy afternoon.

  His eyelids drooped to the rhythm of the white, wicker rocker as it bumped over the wooden slats. Wind devils frolicked to kick up dust across the barren rows of scarecrows and wooden supports for organic irrigation.

  A deep crystal glass looped between lazy fingers. Red wine swayed side to side. The host bottle and another one like it sat on an ornate painted stool under which his hemp sandals sat parked beneath for the evening. It all seemed so peaceful.

  So normal, except for the body affixed to the crucifix in his climate-controlled cellar. Most people used them to store wine—he used it for both. He wasn’t sure if his guest was still alive, so the porch sitting was more about waiting for death than life. It was also a lookout. Ben wasn’t much of a drinker, but his father’s expected visit caused an anxiety he’d tried to suppress since childhood.

  Ben swished a sip and gurgled the vintage grape while he considered his plight. The Louisiana Sheriff’s deputy had had to be killed—Ben needed the patrol car to stop Batya. His tongue rolled through the warmed liquid as he thought about the consumption. Damn, he delighted in that. Law enforcement officers were delicious.

  His chin jerked up, stretching his reed-thin neck. The eloquent drink tumbled down his throat. He held his mouth closed for a bit to experience the aftertaste of the vintage cabernet sauvignon. But try as he might, the full-bodied flavors of red plums and cassis that pranced around the oak notes of cedar and vanilla were viciously soured by the images of the Las Vegas mishap.

  Ben shuffled uncomfortably in his seat. His buttocks seized in the agony of recall. Marco’s rape was unexpected and brutal
. Water collected in Ben’s eyes as the thoughts of the Tel Aviv sexual assault. No matter how bad things got, that incident always hid just below his surface. It had again resurfaced to taunt him.

  The difference between the two incidents was experience. He was ambushed on both accounts, but Marco allowed his abuse to turn toward sexual satisfaction instead of dominating power. It was then that Ben freed himself from the knotted bath towels and the plush robe.

  Marco’s massacre was swift and primal. Ben hadn’t planned it, so the carnage was beyond what even Ben’s tainted sensibilities could conceive. In that fitful moment of weakness, he’d called daddy.

  There was no way to even begin to sanitize the scene. The CIA had officially deactivated him, so there’d be no clean team to count on. He’d used cash and concealment along with bogus travel Visas. It would only be a matter of time until his identity was discovered.

  Ben’s right hand slumped lower, as did his depleted body. The expensive wine poured out over the floor. The crown of his head flopped against the back of the white wicker. He sucked cool air in through his nostrils and eased air out between his teeth like exhaling cigarette tar. Fuck, it was uncalled far—he’d lost his head. Even Marco didn’t deserve that. Getting caught would serve him right.

  What’d he have to look forward to, after all? He wasn’t going back to West Point. His mother was a liar—a real piece of shit. The fine wineglass bounced on its base then rolled onto its bulb. It didn’t crack from the five or so inch fall. Ben dabbed at his hot face and wet eyes. He wanted to be a hero—make his parents proud.

  “Hero?” he cried. His body hitched into a V-shape in the rocking chair.

  “I’m an outcast. The CIA won’t even return my calls. What the fuck have I done?”

  “What have you done? Are you fucking serious, you crazy maniac?” he said.

  Ben turned to the left and pouted. “All I wanted was to serve my country.” His wails were sincere, but though his ink black eyes itched with sadness, he watched the dirt-covered access road for daddy.