Redemption (11 page)

“Abigail, go on
up to my room and wait there.” Justice appeared at the top of the stairs that led up the back porch.

St. John held his hand in front of her. “No, Justice. Things have changed.”

“Abigail, get up there. Now,” he bellowed.

Justice’s voice alerted about thirteen brothers in the area to rush to his side. They soon surrounded the two—even the new pledge. St. John looked at him—if this was going to turn into a jumping out of the club session, he’d be sure to knock that idiot out first. He let go of Abigail’s fingers.

“Go ahead, honey. I’ll be okay.”

Head hung low, she slumped up the stairs. St. John watched as she passed Justice without as much as a nod. He lost sight of her, but heard the rickety screen door creak open then slam shut.

“So what’s it going to be?” Justice asked him.

“What are you proposing?”

“The guns, the cash, your ink or your ass. Something’s going to stay here. Oh, or your old lady.” He smirked as his fingers traced his windblown beard and mustache.

St. John forced himself to stay calm. He felt like David in the lions’ den, except these weren’t lions. Worse, they were dishonorable jackals, hungry to fuel their physical and psychological thirst for power after the series of defeats they suffered. St. John would be their feast. Elbows tapped his pistols—both were there and both were still loaded. They held fifteen rounds in each magazine and one in the chamber. He relaxed—thirty-two rounds should be enough to end this party.

He squinted an eye as he met the sun that sat just above Justice’s head. He’d usually shield his eyes, but St. John needed to have his hands at his waist. He snarled as he thought about this negotiation.

“You know I ain’t got access to the first two. I earned this ink, so you’ll die before it’s removed. As for my ass, if you think these boys are enough to whip my ass in a jumping out fight, then I’d suggest you were wrong in your calculations.” He naturally spoke low, so he made an effort to look around the semi-circle to let each know how serious he was.

“Typical cocky ass Gator.” Justice’s reference threw him off.

“Either way, I don’t see you down in this mangy group. Care to take your chances, or afraid it’s still not enough?”

“How about you and me take this down the mountain. Lets see how big shit you’re willing to talk when you ain’t trying to show off in front of the boys,” Justice said as he rolled up the sleeves of his flannel button up shirt. He stalked down the steps until the two men met eye to eye.

“This fight’s long overdue, Justice.”

“After you.”

S
t. John watched
his steps as he passed beyond the Box and the compost heap. His ears prickled knowing Justice was behind him. Rigid as an oak tree, St. John kept alert for any sudden sound or advance against him. Fists balled and hard—eager to smash bone into bone.

He reached a plateau, and quickly spun to face Justice. The brother had lagged back. St. John was confused by his behavior—especially since he was called Gator. He mentally thumbed through Justice’s physiological profile. How would he behave under extreme duress? He’d lost three brothers, a key leader in Dragon Mike, and the Vegas and old headquarters in Chicago were rallying support to pressure him to step down if he didn’t reclaim the cash or guns.

St. John stared as Justice approached—his jaw clenched in anticipation of an attack. He was ready. He was still shocked by Justice’s attitude. After everything they’d been through—they’d both suffered loss—why turn on him now?

“This is as good a place as any, Justice. Lets settle it.”

He stood with both hands down—fist unclenched. Almost relaxed. What was Justice Boudreaux trying to prove? His profile said violent and erratic mood swings, but nothing about self-destructive behavior—he was a survivor.

“Seals, we ain’t got a beef, but you about to haul ass out of here and I’m left holding a bag full of shit. You know the water’s full of sharks and today was more chum in the waves.”

St. John nodded. He almost felt guilty wanting to leave—like abandoning family in a crisis. The man had served his country, but his country didn’t give a shit about him once he’d done the horrible things they’d asked him to do. He actually felt closer to Justice than he did Jeff Graham or any of his college or NFL teammates. They’d connected. Kindred spirits seeking the bond of brotherhood, freedom was their burden and their passion.

“What can I do, Justice?”

“Got an extra quarter million bucks?”

Abigail claims she does, but he’d kill us both if he knew.

He shook his head no instead.

“Why don’t we go get those guns? Blow that whole fucking compound to smithereens, and Gray Man with it.” St. John’s cheeks filled with air as he imitated an explosion while his fingers separated like the blast effect.

“We’ll handle it from here. Don’t know what I’m going to do about Gray Man. I did my job a little too well in the beginning and not good enough at the end, I suppose. That bitch, Dr. Worthington, is also going to realize that death is a pleasant plea after I get done with her.”

“I can’t say she surprised me. Ford was never smart enough to set up something that big. She was always quiet—lurking.”

Justice asked, “What do you think is in it for her?”

“Power. The smugness to know she out manipulated the manipulators. I think she’s as dangerous as Gray Man,” St. John said.

“Power can be an amazing rush or deadly addiction. It’s people like us that keep it in check, Seals, because we’re not afraid of it. We’ll seize it or fight against it, but we’re never afraid of it.”

St. John grinned at the philosophical tenor Justice had taken. “Sure you don’t want to charge that hill? It’s freaking Sonoma Valley wine country after all—it ain’t Iran.”

“I wish, but we’ve gotta regroup. Lick our wounds. I’ve got a Nation on the verge of civil war.”

“Justice, we’ve talked before about the way you coddle your blood brothers. I respect you wanting to bring them in and that they were all you could trust in the beginning. But shit’s changed. The troops resent that. You’ve got good soldiers out there who are willing to die for these colors. Hell, I was one of them,” St. John said, stroking the leather vest.

“I know that, but my kin’s all I got. Our folks weren’t worth a shit, and getting by meant clinging together. They were all I had.”

St. John saw the frailty that hid just below Justice’s surface. The CIA profile listed him high on the spectrum of sociopath, but St. John had seen Justice show emotion and concern—even where Abigail was concerned.

“Then you’ll always do right by them. I’m also sorry for their deaths.”

“Thank you, Bro.” Justice said with an extended hand that meant the ultimate sincerity. “Man, I still hate like hell that Abigail’s son got caught up in that bad deal in Vegas.”

“Thank you, Justice. I don’t know that she’ll ever get over it, but I’m going to help her try.” St. John chewed the inside of his cheek as he debated the next topic. “You know I’m going to catch hell when I go back to the agency without an arrest or seizure. I thought about turning in my shield, but with the changes at the top after Ford’s departure, I might try to fade the heat. Maybe tell them I got burned as the undercover. Get a nice desk assignment and settle down with Abigail.” He laughed with Justice.

They both knew the white picket fence dream wasn’t in the cards for a guy like him—like them.

“Do what you have to do, son, but do know if they come against us, I’m going to defend our Nation.”

“I’d expect nothing less, Justice.” He circled the leveled area and hesitated before the next subject surfaced.

“What’s on your mind?”

“We’re leaving tonight. I trust there’ll be no resistance from the brothers.”

“Just tell them y’all are going into town.”

“Do I take my colors?” His fingers squeezed the tattered leather cut. He’d worn it because it was part of the undercover mission at first. Then he wore it because he’d damn well earned it—he was proud and had fought to defend his colors.

“You’ve earned them, SFFS.”

“Savages Forever, Forever Savages,” St. John said somberly.

A
bigail wept as
she sat on the edge of Justice’s bed. Her heart dropped as foot falls came closer. Wretched shakes overtook her at the thought of having to suck or fuck another brother. It sickened her. She jumped as fingers trailed across her pale skin that had begun to blotch red in patches. Her head jerked up. Her gaze darted around the room to find a hiding place. But the waiting in silence, with only her shallow breaths to keep her company, would be worse than the forced fucking she’d have to take for trying to avoid a brother.

“Abi?” St. John asked.

At the sound of his voice, tears flooded her eyes. They trickled down her cheeks and she scrubbed brusquely at her face to clear them. By the time she’d cleared her vision, St. John held her close. His face looked contorted but relieved.

“You okay? Did anyone try to hurt you?”

His arms encircled her, protecting her, and even after everything she’d been through it was the one place she felt safe. She felt his solid arms harden to an adrenaline-fueled phase of alpha male protector. She loved the feeling of his raw, overwhelming power.

“No, baby. I think everyone waited downstairs to see what would happen between the two of you.”

“Nothing happened. We talked—it’s cool. We’re leaving tonight.”

“I’m ready. I think.” She dug beneath the bed for a small bag.

St. John’s neck stiffened, “You think?”

Hurt washed over his face and a mask of rigid male pride dominated his features. She’d never expect him to understand.

“This is the closet thing I’ve ever had to a family. No matter how dysfunctional it is, I finally belonged to something, to somebody.” Her feet landed flat on the floor. “I love you, and that’s all that matters.”

He pulled her back into his arms. Kissed her gently. Her fingers traced along his jaw, the masculine outline of his stone-like features. He leaned back and took each palm in his hands, then kissed the jagged stitching that closed the razorblade scars across each wrist, and smiled.

“I love you too, Abigail. You’ll never hurt again.”

“I hope not.” She stepped away and ran a shaky hand through her tangled hair.

“What’s the matter now?” He reached for her.

“I don’t know if we’ll ever be safe. I got this email not long ago.” She handed St. John her cell phone. His eyes scanned the email quickly and then reread it again for detail.

Dear Abigail,

I so apologize for not spending time with you in the pub. I anticipated your nervousness would drive you into the ladies room at least once. I usually don’t enjoy the taste of females, but Chief Perez recognized me as the man they saw leaving the clubhouse after a delightful evening with officer Bart Crane and that wonderfully chubby biker, Toad.

I just had to taste her.

I see you haven’t wired the money like we negotiated. Do know that I’ll be expecting a cash payment. Forgetting you is something I won’t do. I never forget my debtors.

By the way, please inform Agent Louis Seals and Justice Boudreaux that they shouldn’t have to bother with that horrid woman, Doctor Eleanor Worthington. I had her too. Like I said, I don’t prefer the taste of a woman, but she was my mommy after all.

Cheers and happy hiding,

Benjamin “Ben” Franklin Ford

She jumped away as St. John slammed his boot into the king sized bed. His in-control demeanor failed to mask his emotions—he looked fucking pissed. And worried. Mostly worried.

“Abigail, please don’t worry. I’ll never let anything happen to you. Let’s get out of here before something changes.” He pulled at her hand but she hesitated.

“I can’t leave.” She wept, crumpling to the floor.

“What?”

“Not without telling Justice goodbye.” She knew it’d hurt him, but Justice had taken her in even though he distrusted her. He even protected her and made it possible to find peace on a rare occasion or two. She owed him a goodbye.