Shattered
Savage Souls Series
Book 4
LS Silverii
This fourth book in the series is dedicated to those living the life and causing no harm.
This series allowed the opportunity to incorporate my experiences as an undercover agent as well as what I’ve learned through my studies of human fringe behavior. I appreciate all of my brother and sister law enforcement officers who walk the jagged line daily. Those who keep the faith despite the frayed conditions have my eternal gratitude.
The writing community is amazing for surrounding each other with genuine support. These wonderful people generously support and mentor me without hesitation. I thank you for your time, talent and truth. Liliana Hart, Jean Jenkins and Danielle Dauphinet.
Thanks for being a Savage Souls reader. To show appreciation for joining me on this outlaw adventure, I’m giving away Sterling Silver Biker Pendants. Each episode in the series has a unique piece of biker jewelry that symbolizes that book. Enter by clicking the link below and you might become one of the Savage Nations Most Wanted Prize Winners.
forms.aweber.com/form/32/368041932.htm
ABOUT THIS SERIES:
**Please note this book is dark romance and deals with adult themes. Recommended for mature readers only**
This story unfolds over five volumes.
Copyright © 2015 by L. Scott Silverii
Kindle Edition
SilverHart Publishing
Vicious: Savage Souls Series
All rights reserved. No part of this book may be reproduced or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic or mechanical, including emailing, photocopying, recording, or by any information storage and retrieval system, without permission in writing from the author.
This is a work of fiction. Any resemblance it bears to reality is entirely coincidental.
Produced by LS Silverii at SilverHart Publishing.
S
t. John was
jolted from the rarity of sleep. Justice roared through the Savage Souls’ clubhouse like a monster. His uncontained wrath ensured no one’s safety, especially the club pledges without standing in the Nation. Until the pledges earned their patch, full members were free to use them as they wished. Pledges—or probes as they were also called—were considered less than human. Even the club’s old ladies outranked them.
Stumbling from his bunk, St. John tugged on blood-splattered jeans and crept barefoot along the hall. He looked down into the smoke-filled commons area. Through the dim lighting and cloudy marijuana haze, Justice pointed a cannon of a handgun at two newbies. Both bikers had joined the national headquarters chapter in Mystic after transferring from the beleaguered Las Vegas chapter.
“Who killed him?” Justice screamed. Tony and Chomps writhed with pain, but mostly terror. They’d taken an ass whipping that wasn’t done yet. Both looked as if they wished they were back in Vegas.
“I don’t know,” cried Chomps. Sweat covered his face and dripped off a matted, gnarled beard along his round jawline.
“One of you might survive this—the other won’t. Which will it be?”
Tony’s chest rattled. He, too, was soaking wet in a sweat and blood concoction. “We don’t know, boss,” Tony chimed in for survival’s sake.
“You fucking rats just came here from Vegas—home of the traitors. My blood brother was murdered, and his club colors were draped over your ape hanger handlebars. You know something, and you’re damn well going to spill it.” Justice swept the 50 caliber Desert Eagle pistol back and forth between them. Each ducked away from the barrel but weren’t able to maneuver much with their hands above their heads in surrender.
St. John’s gut twisted into a knot. He turned his head as a rush of bile slammed its way through unbrushed teeth. He blinked through watery eyes to see long, rusted spikes had pinned both bikers’ hands into the wall. Fresh red still trailed over what looked like pints of dried blood. They’d been tacked there for a while.
What the fuck was going on? Where was Abigail?
St. John spun back toward Justice’s room. Breaths hitched deep in his chest as creaks of the old hardwood floor broadcast his every step. The door was ajar, but he hesitated at the threshold, afraid of the sight that might await him. If Justice was torturing two innocent brothers, then who knew what he’d done to her. He steadied himself for the shock and peeked around the corner. There she was.
Abigail lay sound asleep.
“Thank God,” he said softly.
She stirred.
“Abigail,” he whispered.
Her eyes, swollen from a lack of sleep but otherwise unscathed, opened. “James?”
“Are you okay? Shit’s turned rotten here. You might be in danger.”
“Meet me in the bathroom,” she said, motioning down the hall.
St. John waited until he heard a light rap against the thick wooden door. Abigail slipped through the slight crack. She lunged for him, clung to his neck with both arms. He felt her rigid torso turn to tremors of sobbing quakes. He stroked her hair and tried to hush her cries. The violent tension downstairs rose thick as volatile vapors in a mineshaft—one spark and everyone was a potential victim.
“Do you realize what’s going on in the commons area?”
Resolve replaced tears. He felt her straighten and her muscles ease up a bit. A quick swipe at her light blue eyes and she sat on the vanity with an air of confidence St. John hadn’t seen in her before.
“Yeah, I know what’s going down. Those two are getting what they deserve. They killed Rage last night. The Vegas chapter sent them as hit men.” She delivered the string of lies as easily as she spoke the alphabet.
St. John sucked his bottom lip into his mouth and clamped teeth down onto it. He hadn’t seen that one coming. Now, more than ever he knew Abigail was up to something. This was no poor girl needing a dysfunctional family’s protection. Who was she working for? Only the CIA or a private group would send an assassin to infiltrate an operation like the Savage Souls.
“So they killed Rage, huh? How’d they pull that off? Drive him to an abandoned warehouse out in the desert and shoot him in the face? Maybe run over his skull on their way out of the parking lot?”
Abigail’s confident expression waxed cold—almost deadpan. She mumbled something but then her mouth dropped open to suck in air. “How?”
“You want to tell me the truth about those two?”
“You gonna rat me out after all we been through?” She never blinked.
“You’re up to something, I just don’t know what it is yet. Some shit ain’t kosher—you’re either a spy or a regular citizen hell bent on revenge.”
She splashed water from the sink onto her face. “I just can’t say, that’s all there is to it. Maybe in another life, but not in this cursed one.”
“Your call, Abigail, but once Vengeance gets involved and Justice realizes you were handed off to Rage, then Tony and Chomps won’t look so guilty. Have you seen what they’re doing to them? Can you even hear their screams?” St. John couldn’t believe her calloused disposition toward the two innocent men.
She patted wash water from her face with a cotton towel then used it to dab away a fresh floods of tears. “My blood is on your hands if anything leaves this room.” She opened each of his hands and touched the tip of her middle finger into each palm.
She uncrossed her legs and let out a sigh, “Those two tried raping me last night once I got back. Viper was shooting pool with them and warned them to back off. He told them about my being attacked but he didn’t have the balls to say who did it.” Her shoulders defiantly straightened. A thousand-yard stare dulled her eyes. “Instead they thought it’d be more considerate just to shove their nasty dicks down my throat. Justice hasn’t declared me his old lady, so officially I’m club property.”
St. John shook his head in disgust. He made a face hearing her words and the calm acceptance with which she delivered them. Outwardly, she was a naturally beautiful young woman, but inside he saw a torn, tortured soul. His spirit ached for her, the depths of pain she obviously felt that remained unknown to him.
“But where did Rage’s cut come from?” He wanted her to confess. He’d push her until she cracked.
“You have your secrets too, St. John. Funny thing about where I grew up—sports were king. Even if you didn’t play or watch them, the sport of betting money was king.” She stared hard into his face.
“What’s that mean?” He felt his face redden.
“I watched a lot of football. SEC football.”
J
ustice stood beneath
an outdoor shower. The former bed and breakfast had an empty swimming pool that now held garbage and motorcycle parts, and a series of outdoor showers for sunbathers and trail hikers. The old war veteran who’d donated the estate to the Savage Nation would flip in his coffin had he known the state of disrepair. Although Justice’s military center demanded an orderly interior, he knew when to pick his battles.
Another brilliant Colorado sun shone against his closed eyes. Warm water, heated within the rubber hose, drizzled across his forehead and ran down the length of his colossal frame. Sun kissed his tattooed skin, but he soon felt tears rise, mixed into a confluence of cleansing and grief. The wrath he’d exacted against two brothers wouldn’t fill the void of losing his blood brother, Rage.
Justice spit liquid from his nose and mouth. The weight of the world seemed to press against the back of his skull as he dropped his head. Long hair draped forward and clung to his cheeks. He watched the tide of red run from his skin and across the hard dirt. A recent drought left the soil impermeable—the blood pooled red at his feet.
What had he done to this club, to his family, to himself? Thoughts fell back to his career as a CIA spook. He’d been blessed as a natural leader. The feds sharpened that skill to give him the ability to manipulate other countries, tribes or soldiers. Still, with all that training he’d failed to conquer a rag-tag band of misfit rebel bikers looking for meaning in an uncivilized, civilian world.
“Justice. It’s time we had a talk,” Sue announced.
Justice nodded but didn’t move from beneath the flow of water.
“There’s too much for one man to handle,” Sue said. At Justice’s growl, his hand came down on his brother’s shoulder. “Even an exceptional man like you.” The muscles beneath the inked tribal bands, Mexican sugar skulls, Latin phrases and the club’s sacred passion cross all twitched to life.
