Shattered (7 page)

He’d learned to move silently while assigned to special ops, so neither Justice nor Fury heard him approach. Both big silhouettes hunched over the kitchen bar. The old woman, Patrice, saw him. A holdover old lady after her man, Tommy Cloud died from trying to quit the club, she busied herself at the stove.

“Something to eat, Opie?” she offered. The men turned to greet him.

He waved her off. “That’s not my name.”

Justice rubbed swollen eyes as he guzzled another cup of coffee. “You get any sleep, or did my pig keep you busy?”

Too tired to do anything physical, St. John let it go. “Let’s not start today out with that shit. You know she’s a better person than these whores slumming around the club for dick or drugs,” he said.

Patrice threw a slice of bacon over her shoulder toward him. “Hey, who the fuck you talking about, sonny boy? You better respect your elders,” she said with half a laugh in case St. John took exception to her show of disrespect.

St. John leaned in to whisper to Justice so Patrice wouldn’t blab her mouth to the other old ladies and blood brothers. “I’ve asked you before to put out the order for hands off her. This shit is serious, and I ain’t driving to hell and back worried about the brothers making a porcupine out of her.”

A string of scrambled eggs hung from Justice’s mouth into his beard. “You realize she’s my property, don’t you? That means you’re making a play for my old lady.” His tongue whipped out until it corralled the eggs into his mouth. “And that shit ain’t cool with the club’s bylaws. Sniffing around another brother’s old lady is grounds for punishment or termination.” He straightened up in an effort to appear judicial.

St. John pressed his palm down against Justice’s leather covered shoulder. “Place the order, or I swear, when y’all head west, I’ll turn east and you’ll never see me again.”

Justice spun on the bar stool to face St. John. The paper plate dumped onto the floor. He grabbed St. John’s leather cut until his meaty fists were white-knuckled. Fury lunged off his seat while Justice struggled to stand.

“You telling me you’re quitting the Savage Souls Nation?”

Fury remained silent, but displayed a long stainless steel knife from his leather sheath.

St. John’s mind raced to understand how him asking for a favor had spun out of control and into a confrontation within seconds. His cool head and specialized training allowed him to assess the scenario and offer alternatives to resolve the tense situation even in the heat of the moment. In other words, it was time to shit or get off the pot.

“No, but I’m not putting up with this bullshit any more. I’ve told you that before.”

“Want me to crack him over the skull, Justice?” Patrice’s gravel-filled voice rose. She stood behind and to the side of St. John, waving a cast iron skillet.

Enough of this crap. St. John zipped the Sig Sauer 9mm from his waistband and pointed it less than two inches from Patrice’s face. “Put that down and get the fuck out of this room.” She seemed to shrink at the threat. Her oddly-shaped form scurried away into the darkness. He heard a door pull closed.

“Put that gun away, you asshole,” Justice ordered as he released one hand from St. John’s vest.

“You looking for this?” St. John asked.

He held up Justice’s Glock 9mm that he’d swiped while his fists were full of St. John’s vest. St. John pressed the barrel of his weapon against Justice’s gut. There was no indentation—his damn abs was tight as a drum. Wouldn’t stop a bullet though.

“Now, we can start over. Or I can drop you with your gun or my gun, and the entire Savage Nation will once again be flipped on its head.” St. John emphasized the points. “And, Fury, if you don’t put that knife on the bar, I’ll make sure the bullets that burn through his ass, hit you too.”

“All right. I’ll give the order.” Justice opened his palm for his Glock. “What’s so special about this pig that you’d risk your life and the club for her? You know her in another life or something?” Justice shoved the pistol back in his holster.

St. John holstered his own weapon without taking his eyes away from Justice. “I really don’t know, but she came here looking for something that this club can’t give her.”

“What’s that?” Fury smirked over his blood brother’s shoulder.

“Dignity,” St. John said.

*     *     *

Neither had much
to say as their big boss bikes rambled along I-69 with over thirteen hundred miles to go. It was a twenty-one hour haul but Justice figured they’d take the first break around the Russian River. St. John, bringing up the rear, tried to relax for the tormenting trek but the tension between the three was unpalatable.

Justice ran the operation like a need-to-know military mission. Only he knew the possible warehouse where the weapons had been hidden. The ride was too long to worry about an address that might or might not exist. St. John’s only relief came in the order given by Justice that all members would leave Abigail alone.

His gut tightened at the tingle of his cell phone beneath his buttoned vest. He backed off the formation and slipped his hand beneath the cut. His gaze bounced between freeway and cell screen. The Super Glide was squeezed between his thighs as he used both hands to click and scroll through messages.

[dude, I’m ok. Chat ltr].

Finally his former partner, Jeff Graham, had replied to his text from days earlier.

Relieved, St. John shoved the cell back into an inside vest pocket while he sucked in gulps of the hot air that blasted around and over his fairing’s windshield. He chewed on the inside of his cheek as he thought through Graham’s message—something wasn’t right.

But what?

S
t. John glanced
into a painted morning sky—before, he’d always marveled as the pink glow streaked through the soft blue canvas like fingers raked through clouds. A Florida native, he only knew sand and water—never anything more hilly than a dune. The Rocky Mountains’ majesty was never lost on St. John. But this trip he couldn’t regale in the dawning glory. The knot in his gut reminded him that shit wasn’t right.

Riding point now, St. John noticed Justice’s glare through his rearview mirror. They’d been on the road for several hours so far—no sign of Lawless or Voodoo. He had to check in with his cover units soon. He scanned arid flatlands, as still and vacant as it was dry. Either the others had mastered the art of surveillance, or he was on his own. Again.

“What’s the problem?” Justice yelled into the wind.

Startled, St. John jerked alert. His bike wobbled toward the sharp shoulder drop off. He strangled the handlebar grips, eyes stretched as wide as his mouth. Wiping out at this speed could kill him or make him wish he were dead. Justice swung his ride far left to avoid the overcorrection. Sure enough, St. John jerked in the opposite direction and leaned his body weight to the left. The giant cruiser reacted as it was designed to do—crisp in its execution. As the bike righted, he was completely across the centerline and traveling in the wrong lane as traffic sped toward him.

His right hand burned as he flexed to crank down on the accelerator. Soon, he was back in the westbound lane. Fury’s mouth flapped wide in laughter. St. John shivered with the cold created by the coat of sweat that exploded through his pores. He had to get his shit together.

Fucking idiot. I almost died and he thinks its funny?

He slammed his left hand between his legs. He’d taken his cell phone back out of his vest to recheck Graham’s text message and had it balanced between is thighs. Whew, his phone hadn’t fallen. He shoved it deeper beneath his crotch. He tried to distance himself again from the other two but sensed their suspicions. Shit, he’d selected Fury for the mission when no one else trusted him. He wasn’t sure why the blood brother was so jacked up about going. It almost seemed like he knew Gray Man—or was scared shitless of him.

“That’s it,” St. John whispered into the wind. “That wasn’t Graham.” He clamped his mouth shut because Justice looked like he was staring a hole through him—maybe the ex-CIA badass read lips.

Graham had once explained how he used three exclamation points behind every text and e-mail as a security measure. St. John used to tell him the idea was ridiculous. Until now. That one simple thing might save his life—or it might have cost Graham his.

The Savage Souls grey and black metal-looking passion cross tattoos that adorned each forearm rippled under the unrelenting rays. Sweat that formed to cool the body was immediately swept away by hot air that blasted by at over eighty miles per hour. It left the perception that you were cool while, in fact, you dehydrated before you could prevent it. Many bikers crashed on the open roads and never knew why—but they’d blacked out from heat stroke.

St. John hadn’t noticed the change in temperature or scenery. They’d been full throttle for hours. The sun sat directly overhead and his body felt shriveled and burned from the combination of hot wind and highway heat. Salt in his sweat had crystallized around his eyes and mouth. He was exhausted—the night with Abigail wasn’t what he’d expected, but the decent time spent alone with her was all he could’ve hoped for.

“We’ll stop short of Utah. Pull off in Grand Junction to refuel,” Fury hollered. His teeth bucked the air while his lips flapped like a cartoon. He’d gone without installing the windshield, so he was paying the price with the wind whipping his ass like baseball bats to the sternum for over five hours. They had sixteen more to go.

“Okay,” St. John said. “What’s so funny?”

“The way your stupid ass looked back there.” His face mangled in hysterics.

“Back where?”

“When your dumb ass almost became road kill. That shit would’ve been funny to see.” Fury howled as his stench from days in the Box, and then the city jail assailed St. John’s nostrils.

“Fuck off,” St. John yelled back, but his words went unheard as Fury’s high-powered Harley Davidson screamed away at an incredible speed.

“What a dick.” St. John smirked and backed off the throttle to watch Fury show his ass along the highway. He zoomed between cars, flipped off motorists and even stood up on his saddle. It was a good show, but St. John had more important business to handle—somehow he had to let Lawless and Voodoo know they’d stop in Grand Junction, and that Graham’s cell was being monitored by an unknown side.

The last time St. John ran through Grand Junction en route to Las Vegas he’d ditched his escorts to meet the cover team of special agents on Arrowest Court. Lawless would know the location, but Supervisor Ted Ford or Dr. Worthington had better not be there. Now to just send him a text message—St. John made sure Justice and Fury were far away before he slid his hand beneath his balls to retrieve the cell phone.

He bit at his salty upper lip as he glanced back and forth between the phone and highway. He’d missed several messages from Lawless and two more from whoever was pretending to be Special Agent Jeff Graham. The rushing winds buffeted his hand and made handling the cell phone a challenge. He peeked up, but only to watch Justice seem to grow more agitated at Fury’s risky behavior. Justice’s background was in the shadow ops—he preferred flying under the radar. No attention drawn equaled successful missions.

St. John looked down and stamped out a few words to Lawless before the blare of an eighteen-wheeler’s horn and gush of air jerked his attention back to the road. He felt the cell buzz in his palm and knew his cover team was more than anxious to know when and where to meet with him. They called it proof of life.

He glanced down to type more letters, but then steadied his HOG to look up. Fury had to be high on something. He’d never seen the guy act so asinine—especially in front of Justice. St. John kept his distance from them and tried to complete the text message.

He looked up one last time before he hit the send button. Fury was there, and then he wasn’t. An eighteen-wheeler heading in the opposite direction smashed head on with Fury and his bike. St. John’s heart lurched into his throat as he watched the truck flash past with Fury impaled against the Peterbilt’s chrome grill.

St. John watched Justice’s brake light pop on and off as he maneuvered his way onto the narrow shoulder. Fury’s bike had been smashed to smithereens beneath the speeding big rig, and then mangled by other rigs in the convoy.