by LS Silverii
She bit down hard on her bottom lip. Her left arm folded across her chest, while her right picked at the cheap gold cross hanging around her neck.
“Got myself an emergency order from the judge, herself. Said she couldn’t imagine what kind of woman would hide a son away from its father. That judge told me to come and get my boy.”
She didn’t bother looking at the papers. Ricky had anyone who could be bought in his back pocket. It made no difference to her what the form might say.
He waved the papers in her face so the sharp corner sliced a thin line just beneath her cheek. Her head jerked back. Before he could do it again she snatched the papers from his hand and tore them in two.
“I don’t give a shit what it says. You got no right being here.”
His backhand caught her off guard, though she should’ve been expecting it. It wasn’t the first time she’d felt the bite of the gaudy diamond ring he wore on his pinky.
Her head snapped back and she went to her knees, her vision blurry. The coppery tang of blood filled the inside of her mouth. She spit it out at his feet. She shook her head once—twice—trying to clear her mind, and tried to get back to her feet.
She hated that she’d never been strong enough to face him down when the stakes were high. The bliss hadn’t lasted long with Ricky. But long enough for a few broken bones and the baby she would’ve suffered through a multitude of broken bones to protect.
His hand tangled in her hair and jerked her head back. “You were saying, bitch?”
Her eyes rolled side to side. It did no good to fight. He was too strong.
“It’s his birthday, Ricky,” she pleaded. “Don’t be this way. He doesn’t even know who you are.” Her words tumbled one on top of the other as her panic grew. “You—you don’t even have a home for him. No toys or his bed.”
A semi flew by. Dust and grit flew into her face. She blinked rapidly and felt sand between her teeth. The sounds of laughter and conversation were no more. The party had been abandoned. Just like her. Heat radiated down on her skin until she thought it would crack like the fissures in the dirt lot. Fear clawed at her belly.
“I done hit it rich, baby. A cool quarter-million-dollar deal. Had to pay a pilot twenty grand, but it was worth it. So, yeah, I got me and my boy a crib to crash.”
She bit back a whimper as he jerked at her hair again. He’d fucked someone over for that cash. Only Ricky was too ignorant to realize those same people would come looking for him.
Her eyes rolled again toward the partygoers gathered beneath the metal-framed community pavilion that looked as if one strong gust of wind would topple it to the ground. She desperately sought to make eye contact with someone—anyone—to beg for help. But no one glanced in her direction. She could only be grateful they hadn’t left Jack alone to watch her suffer. It was his party after all.
But in a fleeting community of illegals and most wanted, it was always the practice to mind your own damn business. Besides, she’d noticed the 9mm pistol shoved in his waistband—chances were, they had too.
She scratched at his wrist, but he slapped her unpainted fingernails away from the new Rolex.
“Ricky, please not today,” she begged, knowing her options were limited. He’d do whatever the hell he wanted and she was powerless to stop him. “Tomorrow, okay?”
“Bitch, go get my boy,” he demanded as he drew his fist back. She flinched, waiting for the pain and crunch of breaking bones. But he laughed instead.
Her hands came up and she grabbed at the front of his shirt. “Pl…please, Ricky. Let me come and help you take care of him. I’ll stay out of the way, I promise.”
He still had hold of her hair. He pulled it so tight she couldn’t close her eyes all the way. Tears streamed down her cheeks. She cursed her weakness. Any sign she showed would only make Ricky worse. He didn’t know the meaning of the word compassion. Especially not for the woman who’d carried his son. And not likely for the son himself.
“I never recall you being such a crying bitch,” he said with derision. “I find it irritating.”
A scream choked in her throat when the cold metal of his gun knocked against her teeth and the barrel was shoved in her mouth.
“Stop your sniveling or I’ll pull the trigger and let the boy watch your brains scatter in the wind. And that will irritate me even more because who else am I going to find to watch the brat when I’m not training him to take over daddy’s business?”
Abigail froze, too terrified to breathe.
He shoved the barrel a little harder in her mouth and then leaned in close, so his lips whispered against the corner of her mouth.
“Mmm, baby. I always did love that look of terror on your face.” His tongue darted out. He licked a long, wet path from chin to cheekbone. “Gets me hard every time. Want to go a round in the Camaro like old times?”
His laugh slithered up her spine and she sobbed in relief as he removed the gun from her mouth. He jerked hard at her hair, bringing her stumbling to her knees. Then he moved in close so she was eye to eye with his zipper and the bulge behind it.
“I remember now. This is how I like you best. Too bad I don’t have a few more minutes to spare. You’ve got a mouth like a vacuum.”
He slapped her lightly on the same cheek he’d backhanded her on earlier and then backed away, settling the gun at the small of his back.
“Fuck, where’s the white people? You must really be loving that red cock to stay out here so long.”
She didn’t answer. Shock was starting to replace fear, and she was paralyzed. Until he looked toward the children playing under the pavilion. Then rage like nothing she’d ever felt reared up inside of her.
“Lets get this shit over with. I got cash to count and pussy to bang. Which one is he?”
Adrenaline flooded her. She’d have one chance. Ricky didn’t know the first thing about being a dad, and there was no telling what her son would be exposed to in the time Ricky had him. Not to mention trouble followed him like stink on shit. Whoever he’d stolen that money from would want it back. And they wouldn’t care who got in their path. Both things scared the life out of her.
“You’re not taking him.”
He smiled again, slick as oil, and it made her skin crawl. How could she have ever have been so stupid as to give her body to him?
“Baby, why fight it? You know I’m walking away from here with that boy.” He took a step closer. She held her ground. “But let me tell you what. I’m in an accommodating mood. Why don’t you swing by the house tomorrow? Bring a bathing suit and visit the boy for a few. Will that make you feel better?”
He scribbled an address over a torn Happy Birthday napkin and handed it to her. She took it carefully, like he was handing her a live grenade.
“Why not now?” she begged.
“Take what I give you, bitch. Tomorrow. And bring a bathing suit. I’d love to see that body again. Having a kid doesn’t look like it caused too much damage. Your tits are a little bigger, thank goodness. Fuck, I might even take that pussy for a spin. Be sure to shave it. You know I like it shaved.” He gave an exaggerated wink and finger-gun wave.
She couldn’t think about tomorrow. Today was what mattered. And the fact that the next twenty-four hours of her life were going to be the most miserable of her already miserable life.
“Please, Ricky.”
He ignored her. “Come to daddy, boy,” he called out and then whistled into the general arena of children.
It was by process of racial elimination that he chose Jack. Confused, Jack’s willful reluctance broke Abigail’s heart.
Ricky zeroed in on Jack and said, “Come here, boy. If I tell you again you’re going to feel the sting of my belt.”
“Don’t you dare put a finger on him,” Abigail said, positioning herself between Ricky and the boy.
Jack ran up behind her, pudgy arms outstretched, and wrapped them around her knees. Whimpers of distress were interspersed with his cries for mama, and she
put a comforting hand on his head.
“It’s all right, baby,” she soothed. “It’s all right.”
“Fuck this shit,” Ricky said, reaching toward the kid. He jerked him away from his mother and lifted him so he dangled by one arm. Jack screamed in pain, his little legs kicking as he reached back for Abigail. The look of terror on his face was her undoing.
Abigail let out a momma bear roar and charged Ricky. Her body hit him square on. Her fists pounded his chest. “You’re hurting him,” she screamed. “I’ll fucking kill you if you put one mark on him.”
She hadn’t had the strength to fight for herself but fighting for her son, she was a demon possessed. A raging machine with no thought other than to protect what was hers.
Ricky flung the boy to the side and swung his elbow to get Abigail off of him. He spun and drove his fist solid against her left eye socket. She blacked out momentarily, rolling along the contour of the Z-28’s frame. He jerked the passenger door open and yanked his son up in a tight grip beneath his right shoulder. Jack screamed for her, each cry for mama piercing her soul. Ricky tossed Jack into the car seat and buckled him in while she crawled on hands and knees toward the car.
Blood clouded her eye and ran down her face. Bile rose in her throat, but she didn’t stop. Couldn’t stop. In Jack’s three years on this planet, she’d not gone one single day without seeing him. It was something she was proud of—and would not end this day if she could help it.
Her nails tore and her fingertips bled as she dug into the hard-packed ground to find a rock—anything—to use as a weapon to stop him. She clutched his leg as he rounded the hood heading for the driver’s side. He took two steps dragging her as Abigail punched his thigh.
“You wanna fight, bitch? Lets fight like the good old days,” he growled.
She let go of his leg, but too late. He wrapped his left hand in her mangled hair and swung her head back and forth until her scraped knees kicked up a dust cloud. Before she found her feet, he unleashed a flurry of vicious right punches to her ribs.
Her breath seized. She clawed her nails down his face. Found satisfaction in his scream of pain. Spots danced in front of her eyes, but she couldn’t faint. She was Jack’s only hope. Ricky tossed her to the side like a used napkin and got behind the wheel of his car.
The engine sputtered to life. Abigail froze in terror as her worst nightmare became real.
The Z-28 lunged forward. She rolled out of the way in the nick of time. She wasn’t sure where the burst of energy came from—maybe from a higher power she’d stopped believing in—but she managed to get to her feet and stumble after the car.
Ricky waited at the highway entrance for traffic to clear. Three big rigs heading east blasted their air horns in a makeshift Happy Birthday to You as they sent the party balloons dancing around their strings.
Abigail latched onto the whale tail of the old sports car and beat her bruised fist onto the trunk. “Give me back my baby!”
She tried to make eye contact with an old farmer who crept on his tractor along the highway. He had traffic backed up, but he either didn’t see her blood-soaked face or didn’t want to.
Abigail saw the reverse lights blink then felt the rear bumper slam into her thighs. The blow took her feet out from under her, but she held onto the trunk. She stumbled and grasped at the passenger side door as the car lurched into traffic.
“Fuck off, whore,” Ricky screamed like a man possessed.
He spun the wheel. The car swerved and Abigail lost her grip. She rolled into a ditch as ten matte-black and chrome motorcycles thundered over the horizon, following the same direction as Ricky. The roar of the engines caused a rattle in her chest. She sucked back tears as cars screeched and swerved to avoid them.
Four leather-clad riders steered by balance only. They looked like the four horsemen of the apocalypse—conquest, war, famine and death. Abigail tried to scream but no words escaped her lips. The riders held glass bottles with burning rags cascading from their narrow openings.
Intuition rocketed her to both feet. She knew instinctively who their target was. Fuck Ricky. She hoped he burned in hell. But Jack was innocent. He was her baby. She ran into traffic, dodging cars along the busy Nevada state highway. She waved her arms furiously for someone—anyone—to help. No one did.
Ricky’s car had only traveled a short distance thanks to the tractor that poked along. She pumped her elbows and knees but wasn’t getting any closer on jelly-like legs. Bottles smashed against the Z-28. Flames crawled at first but quickly exploded into an inferno across the windshield, hood and out the passenger’s side window.
Blood clouded her left eye, but she swiped it away in time to see the old muscle car lurch from right to left into the opposite lane of travel. Her lungs rasped as she sucked in the broiling Nevada air. Her chest burned with the exertion toward Ricky’s car and her baby.
Flames licked against her skin. The car’s faded brown paint and metal frame blistered and bubbled. She had to save Jack! Take me instead, she prayed, covering her face with her forearms. Flames poured from the car’s interior, licking at the sky—ash-black smoke mixed with brilliant oranges and reds. She reached, had to get him. Then right in front of her, the car erupted. The concussion caused her bowels to explode. She shit herself right there in the middle of Highway 578.
Abigail crawled through her tears and feces until her knees bled. When she could crawl no more, she somehow managed to stand on quivering legs. The rubber soles of her shoes melted into the speckled blacktop, but she trudged forward, her only thought for her son. Her mind knew what her heart couldn’t fathom.
Two tattoo-covered hell mongers skidded along each side of the still-rolling hot demolition and rattled off fully automatic gunfire.
Motorists ducked from the bullets but Abigail went on., Her tunnel vision zeroed in on two short arms that waved wildly from the child safety seat. Cars crashed around the mess, causing a snarled pile up. Horns blared, leaned on by drivers who had no idea what was happening. Abigail had a front seat to the most horrible show on earth.
The burning car lurched right with a sharp jut, and then a hard jerk to the left—into the opposite lane of traffic. Finally, everything came to rest. Breathe, Abigail reminded herself, as her mind fractured in horror at what had to have been reserved for only the most damned souls in the world to experience. At least it all came to a stop. Flames and smoke roiled in slo-mo. The world froze in an eerie three seconds of silence.
Then, bam! An eastbound eighteen-wheeler unable to stop, ploughed through the carnage to smash into Ricky’s car—now his and Jack’s coffin.
Abigail blacked out.
The pounding in her head and the bubbling hot highway beneath her brought her back to reality. Disoriented, she wasn’t sure how long she’d escaped. It hadn’t been long enough because less than twenty feet away was the corpse of Ricky’s car. Four bikers surrounded it and picked through the wreckage like buzzards on prey.
“Leave my son alone!” She tried to scream but the screams were only in her head. She rolled to her hands and knees and crawled toward the wreckage. Stalled motorists pleaded for her to stop, but their warnings fell on deaf ears.
“Back off, bitch.” One of the murdering bastards skidded his Harley Davidson between her and Jack. He looked like satan’s very own bodyguard. Their eyes locked.
Her feelings of fear were forever gone. “Jack,” she mouthed. Consciousness became uncertain.
He growled without remorse and pointed the sawed-off shotgun at her face.
“Fuck, Jack. He’s dead.”
Chapter 4
The Las Vegas Chapter of the Savage Souls Motorcycle Club was an active organization. Less than eight hundred miles away from the recently relocated national headquarters in Mystic, Colorado, they benefited from new pledges almost monthly. Red, the local club leader plastered a smile that showed his awe as the national president arrived with his entourage of nine other brother Savages.
Metal c
hains clanked and rattled as the wide corrugated garage door lurched and popped, sealing the vast opening off from the civilized world. Music was louder than the big boss preferred, but he accepted their hospitality. The motorcycle garage was well organized, and the Savage Souls emblem was displayed throughout the room. He grinned at their overt display of loyalty. He dropped the kickstand and detached his weary body from the frayed leather saddle.
“Welcome to Las Vegas, brothers,” Red greeted them, “Savages Forever, Forever Savages.”
“Red, we appreciate your hospitality. It’s been one fuck of a ride,” Justice Boudreaux said.
Red cut his bloodshot eyes away from Justice. “We heard about the rip job. Sorry about that, boss.”
Justice jerked his head in surprise. “You heard about it? Let’s you and me talk in private.”
Justice, like many of his brother Savages had served in the military. His career had begun with the United States Army Special Forces until the CIA recruited him away from Delta Force. Red had probably failed to finish high school, but he knew something Justice wanted to hear about—whether Red realized it or not.
Justice waited until they were alone in a narrow hall, lined with photographs of former club members, white power images and Nazi flags with Hitler’s swastikas. Justice clenched his jaw at the red and black banners. He might resent his government, but he’d still fight to the death for his country. He fucking hated the swastikas, and had ordered every club to remove them. The muscles in his jaw flexed as his mood went from agitated to pissed.
“Red, how is it that you’ve heard about something that happened so far away within such a short period of time?” He kept the question purposefully complex. Justice wanted more than a yes or no answer.
Interrogation was one of the many skill sets that helped Justice rise to the top of the Savage Souls Outlaw Motorcycle Club. The CIA’s intensified training had inadvertently created one of the badest outlaws in the world. Red withered as he, too, realized Justice’s influence.