Shattered (4 page)

Her features tightened. “How long do you think she’ll be able to survive in there?”

“It’s already been a few months since her son was murdered. I suspect she’d do most anything to get her revenge on them, and why would we bother to stop her?”

Voodoo lay a gentle hand upon Lawless’ thigh as they hid from the sun in the breezeway between the federal building and a sandwich shop, “She’s the only one making progress it seems. I just can’t imagine the horror of losing a child, and then putting yourself in that situation with those monsters.” She sighed.

He brought his hand down to hold hers. “I’m sorry you had to experience the loss of a loved one too, but I know how strong you are. You’d do everything in your power to bring closure.”

“Thank you.” She reached to trace his stone-carved jaw. “So how do we play this?”

His smile faded, “Not exactly sure. I think it’ll be a challenge to get to the guns, but Abigail could throw a monkey wrench into it all if she reaches out to Gray Man before the Savages get to Sonoma.”

“Who do we trust?”

“No one.” He beat his fist against his thigh. “I’m starting to think St. John was right about Graham. How come no one knows anything about his status? Hell, I went to the area hospitals, and no one knows crap.”

“You think his gunshots were faked?”

“No, I carried his big ass out of the desert. The blood and the bullet holes were real. Only way was if he was part of the set up and they tried to take him out along with us. I need to get back with St. John to find out what he knows.”

Her nose crinkled. “Think he’ll talk to you?”

“Not sure, but shit’s going down and we’re just two bayou blasters who got caught up in their mess.”

Voodoo leaned back so she had a direct line of eye contact. “It wouldn’t hurt to apologize to him either.”

“I thought about it.” He hung his head.

Voodoo hugged his neck and gently kissed his cheek. “I know how hard this is. They’re your own brothers. If you’d rather head back to Louisiana, then I’d understand. I’m surprised you haven’t even mentioned Rage. Maybe you’re not ready to talk about it yet, but I’m here to listen.”

“What about Rage?”

“Didn’t Dr. Worthington tell you? He’s dead.” Her hands held his in a clamshell grip.

“I knew that. St. John made sure to throw it in my face, but how and who killed him?”

S
t. John looked
out over the foothills. The view that led into the Rocky Mountains was surreal. Tranquility’s moment was contrasted by the violent reality of the day—of his life for that matter. He looked back at the screen door that led onto the porch, but his eyes always cut out into the wilderness. So did his thoughts.

He’d been totally committed to the agency when he began. His friendship with partner Jeff Graham long filled a void for a true brother. Once his disillusionment with federal law enforcement crept into his consciousness, it was the friendship with Graham that kept St. John grounded. After all, they depended upon each other in their war against the dark side. The battle lines were so clear back then—good guys versus bad guys.

Shit changed quickly once promotions overrode family obligations. Graham’s upward agency movement and St. John’s commitment to his ailing parents was the first fissure in the brothers of the badge. But what finally turned him away from the hypocrisy of the bureaucracy was the accidental overdose and death of his college sweetheart, later his wife. It was one thing to be a widower, but another to be a federal cop with a junkie for a wife.

It was why he’d volunteered for the mission. The agency had a snitch capable of introducing a pledge to the Tallahassee Chapter of the Savage Souls. St. John had jumped at the chance to do something special and bold, while most of his co-workers had prematurely set their sights on pensions.

St. John hated the outlaws at first and swore to destroy every last one of them. Over the course of months, he’d grown to know them and feel a connection deeper than anything he’d experienced with sports or federal service. There was no GS grade promotional ladder to climb, or draft picks to outplay. The outlaw’s fringe existence was an ideal—sometimes a romantic notion of a last ditch effort to find true freedom in an otherwise over-regulated, totally partial existence.

His thoughts were broken by the slap of the screen door slats slamming against the threshold. Three brothers acknowledged him with a “SFFS” before they hurried off toward the mechanic shop.

St. John tried to relax but the last two days had been tense since he sent Vengeance to the hospital with a broken wrist, and then the confrontation with Justice. Despite that, he still felt more connected to the brothers than he ever had to his law enforcement co-workers. He yanked his cell out of his vest pocket and deleted his message to Graham. It was his concern over his former partner that had caused the fight with the blood brothers anyway.

Fuck him if he doesn’t even bother to message back to say how’s he doing.

His heart ached as the last thread of hope snapped for reconnecting with his partner. Decisions would have to be made soon as the Savage nation meant to head out west to reclaim their weapons from the deranged nomad, Gray Man.

If he intervened and allowed the government to seize the stash, it would mean the arrest of his brothers and the end of his own part in the operation. Ultimately, that too would mean his return to a desk job, following up on leads about dime bags of dope and unregistered hunting rifles.

“Hey, Opie.” A voice startled him.

He spun. “What’s up, Justice?”

“I still ain’t happy about what you said to me the other day.”

“I’m not going to apologize for it. I spoke my mind, and as far as your brother, he got what he deserved.”

Justice stood in no one’s shadow—not even St. John’s. His body was big and thick, with muscles developed from steroids and jailhouse-style weightlifting that focused on pumping up his arms and chest. He extended his hand.

“I respect you for standing up for what you believe in. As for Vengeance, you’re right, he got what he deserved.”

With those words, St. John became even more conflicted about loyalties to agency versus brotherhood. Justice had become a mentor, but also someone with whom he held respected footing with as far as speaking openly. He’d even been free to give the national president and former military hero recommendations on the way he handled club business. In an odd sense, St. John truly wanted Justice to succeed.

“I never know where I stand with you, and it’s unnerving. I’ve been nothing but loyal, yet I feel like you lose trust in me,” St. John said.

Justice stepped past him and fell into the rocking chair. “Son, I never know who I can trust. It shifts from moment to moment, but honestly, I get a might suspicious of people who always ask if I trust them. Just do what you’re supposed to do and trust will follow.”

“I understand. But its still unnerving.”

Justice shoved a wad of chewing tobacco inside his mouth. “When we going to be ready to head out? I feel like a ship without a rudder since Rage’s murder. Without his intel, we’re shooting in the dark, and I still don’t know who’s communicating with Gray Man.”

“You think we should hold off on the grab job?” St. John asked.

“Why?”

“Dude, your very own brother was just killed. Take time out to grieve. You might be bad ass Justice Boudreaux, but you’re still human.”

Justice rocked forward in the white-painted rocking chair, so well used the layers had worn through to the wood in places. The muscles in his jaw rippled and his eyes narrowed. He puckered his lips and rocketed a blast of tobacco spit juice onto the crotch of St. John’s jeans.

St. John stumbled back. “What the fuck is wrong with you?”

“You sound like a whiny bitch, so I wet your pussy for you.” Justice sucked back a snot oyster through his nostrils and looked to be preparing to spit more than tobacco next.

“Fuck you then. And fuck Rage. I’m sure he deserved it.” St. John stormed away and into the yard. He looked for something to wipe the shit off his pants.

“Here.”

St. John turned to face Justice, who held a towel in his hands. “That shit was uncalled for. Opie, you’ve been nothing but a good dude with me. I take advantage of that. I ain’t going to go all pussified and say I was wrong, but you’re a good brother.”

St. John wanted to stay pissed but his desire for acceptance made that impossible.

“Can I hug you instead?” St. John laughed as he reached toward Justice.

“Uhmm, no,” Justice said quickly, leaning onto the scrapped wooden flatbed trailer.

“So back to the road trip. Think we should postpone?”

Justice crossed his legs and shook his hole-riddled boot sole. “I thought about it, but it might be best if we go up to watch for a few days. No communication with the outside.”

“You mean just us?”

“Who else would you recommend?”

“I’d say Mercy, but he probably needs to stay back to keep an honest eye on the club. Sue is too busy wishing he were you, so that’s of no use out there. I’d say Fury.”

Justice slapped the rusted metal fender as he snorted a gasp of clean high country air. “You fucking serious? I agree on the other two, but Fury?”

“Yep. I don’t believe he was ratting out to that cop. If he was, don’t you think the feds would have swarmed by now? Especially after Vegas got so fucked up with the Geneti job. I believe they were just lovers.”

Justice turned away and flipped his hands to dismiss the thought. “I don’t want to think about it.”

“Maybe not, but the guy isn’t your rat. He’s been too broken up about the murder and he never said a word while he was on lockdown.” St. John imitated locking a cell door. “He’s our third on this mission.”

Justice ran fingers through his knotted beard. “I’ll let him know we ride out in the morning.”

“Deal. I’ll get everything together,” St. John said, starting away.

“St. John,” Justice called.

“Yeah?”

“Take that pig tonight. You’ve earned it.” He winked before slamming out another stream of tobacco spit.

S
t. John reeled
over the way Justice referred to Abigail, but he wasn’t going to allow that to stand in the way of spending more time with her before he headed to California. His quarters were always kept tidy, but it felt like he was sneaking a girl into his room back at the University of Florida.

“Justice told me to take care of you tonight.” Her head was down and voice barely audible when she appeared at his door.

“What’s wrong?” He gently lifted her chin.

His knees went weak when he saw the purple that surrounded her left eye. It was fresh but had already begun to speckle with dark blues and hints of black. The white of her eye was full of blood and created a purplish hue when mixed with the blue of her iris.

St. John brushed past her toward the door. Wrath overrode his common sense. Justice would soon pay the price of his ire. She dove for him. Her body crashed to the hardwood floor and she cried out in agony. Again, St. John found himself conflicted. He badly wanted to teach Justice a lesson but his heart demanded that he care for her.

“Please don’t do this. It’ll only make it worse on me when I’m alone with him.”

She looked a mess, but never so tragically beautiful. It was her strength beyond a fractured frame that drew St. John to her. He wanted to save her. He’d failed to see his wife’s demons, and had vowed he’d never allow that to happen again—to anyone.

“I can’t allow this to keep going on. You deserve better.”

“No, I don’t Louis. To them I’m a pig. I don’t deserve better.”

His eyes popped big as he glanced around to make sure they were still alone. “Don’t call me that again. You’ll get us both killed.”

“I’m sorry, it’s hard to keep this lie straight. You’re the only truth in my life, yet I have to lie about who you are. It’s getting harder to pull off.” She clung to his shirt and tried to lift herself off the floor. “I’ll go downstairs and get an ice pack.”

St. John pulled her to him, “No, let’s go somewhere else for tonight.”