Shattered (8 page)

St. John hadn’t hated Fury, but he couldn’t say he was sorry he was gone—neutral was probably the best way to describe his attitude toward the biker’s death.

Vehicles braked and skidded in the eastbound chaos, while westbound traffic slowed to a halt with rubberneckers looking to snap one last video in hopes of a viral YouTube opportunity. St. John weaved his way onto the shoulder about thirty yards behind Justice. The big man was hunched over his handlebars. St. John did feel connected to him, and therefore was sorrowful for his loss.

[Fender bender. Gonna be late]
St. John snickered at the text he sent to Lawless. Yep, neutral, that really was the best way to describe his feelings.

S
t. John dropped
the peg on his bike and eased it to rest. Swipes across his forehead drenched his arm with sweat and peeled skin. The sun had tortured the hell out of him and he was thankful for the awning over the gas pumps. He nodded to Justice on the opposite side. The big man’s eyes were red from the road and grief.

“I’m not going to argue about your decision to ride into Grand Junction, but I still think we should’ve called the cops back there,” St. John said.

Justice shoved the fuel nozzle into the top of his gas tank. “The pigs will figure it out. The last shit we need is to have to sit in a station all day while they investigate his dumb ass. I can’t reclaim the dead but I sure can find my weapons and cash,” he said with less swagger than most of his statements.

“It’s your call, boss, but the guns and cash have been gone a long time. Your brother deserves your attention now.” St. John made any excuse to engage Justice until he received confirmation from Lawless or Voodoo that they’d arrived in Grand Junction.

“How about you drop it,” Justice snapped. “I’ll deal with it after I’m done.”

St. John watched Justice’s hands shake as spidery streaks of gasoline threaded down his painted war horse. His eyes reddened even more. St. John reached over to switch off his pump when he spotted someone familiar, but out of place. He filled his water canteen then tossed Justice a damp brown paper towel for his tank spill and headed into the service station.

The recognition put pep in his step, but he wasn’t sure if it was real or wishful thinking. Hurrying into the store’s cold oasis, he saw the men’s room door easing shut and assumed the man had gone in to meet. First, St. John smacked a twenty down on the counter and grinned at the gorgeous girl ringing the register. She winked. He glanced at the State Trooper smacking gum right over his shoulder. Hard, judging eyes. Neither were amused.

St. John dropped the coin change in the plastic tip bucket and scooted toward the restroom.

“Outlaw,” called the cop, “I’m gonna need to talk to you.” He waggled his forefinger like a disciplining parent.

St. John held the door halfway open. “You’ll have to wait unless you want to hold my dick while I piss. I got a bad back, and this thing is heavy.” St. John glanced at the checkout girl, appreciating her broad toothy grin and youthful giggle. He shoved the door shut then kept his voice low.

“Agent Chu, what the hell you doing here?”

“Hey, St. John. Lawless knew neither he nor Voodoo could be seen anywhere around here without getting busted. I flew up last night to help out. This shit is big, big, big. Wouldn’t miss it for the world.” His eyes widened as he spoke. His Asian accent grew more pronounced with varying degrees of excitement.

“Fury is dead. Head on with a big rig about twenty miles back.”

“Sorry to hear.” Chu snorted.

St. John clasped Chu’s shoulders. “Yeah, I’m real broken up about it, too.”

A loud bang interrupted their reunion. Both agents jumped. “Outlaw, what you doing in there? Ain’t no place to escape.” The trooper’s tone bore resentment laced with anger.

Chu’s eyes rolled. “What’s he want?”

“Probably about the crash. Jammed the interstate up pretty good,” St. John said. “I only know we’re heading to Sonoma County. No plans to stop until we get there. Whoever Gray Man is, he has the weapons stashed out there.”

“Thanks. Anything else?” Chu asked.

“Yeah, don’t trust messages from Jeff Graham’s cell phone. It’s in someone else’s hands.” St. John punched him in the arm and kicked the wedge from beneath the door. The skinny state trooper almost flopped through the threshold.

“What y’all been doing in there?”

Agent Chu wiped his lips and smiled. “Wouldn’t you like to know?”

The lawman stumbled back into the candy display. “What?”

“You know what they say about once you go Asian, don’t you?” Chu stood almost on top of the trooper until St. John had cleared out.

St. John burst into the sunlight. Squinting, he circled his finger to signal Justice they should mount up and head out—quick. Both bikes kicked gravel and dust before the trooper managed to goosestep to the gas pumps.

They blasted along without words until they were deep on I-70. With still over a thousand miles to go, very different thoughts burdened each warrior. St. John kept a renewed eye out for his surveillance cover-team though he saw nothing except Justice emerge in his side view mirror.

“What the hell happened back there?”

“That trooper tried to corner me in the bathroom. I shoved him into the display and hauled ass.” St. John pounded his chest.

Justice laughed finally. “Maybe he wanted a blowjob.”

St. John didn’t think that shit was funny, but feigned a smile for Justice—he’d just lost another blood brother to a violent death in less than a week after all. He lay back in his saddle and allowed the curl of hot highway grit to bathe him while his mind again drifted.

St. John didn’t understand the depth of conflict he felt about loyalties to the federal agency and the Savage Souls. Had he, himself, become a victim of the Stockholm syndrome? His hammer-sized fist slammed against his thigh. No fucking way that was true—he wasn’t a hostage. But in a way, he was captive. Enslaved by a bureaucratic system no longer representing the ideals he’d raised his right hand to serve and protect.

His experiences with The Savage Nation weren’t that much different, except they weren’t wrapped up in an over-inflated scope of authority. Their mission was pure and simple—live free or die. He associated more with that ethos than the agency’s bullshit about pay grade promotions, preferential transfers, policy reviews and performance standards.

Fuck it—he still didn’t know what had happened to Graham, and whether or not Ford and Worthington were on the take. What he did know was a man who’d served his nation with more dignity than most, rode less than ten yards away from him, but was forced to sneak around highway checkpoints and police raids because the government he helped to overthrow foreign governments had turned their backs on him in his time of need. The same government who paid St. John every two weeks, with a promise of a pension and pride for serving, had made Justice public enemy number one.

St. John tried to rationalize his connection to Justice, yet his void for feeling over Fury’s horrific death. He swigged from the cool canteen of water he’d filled before leaving the station. Poured a stream over his eyes to wash the crusted sweat away.

He was able to pinpoint the time when he’d developed the hard shell over his heart toward humanity. It had been just a few months out of the training academy. He came across an elderly man not breathing. St. John worked his ass off blowing breaths and doing chest compressions. He even thought the man groaned on occasion and he’d saved him, but it was only his own air being forced back out by the cracking ribs during compressions. That night, he’d cried as the late news announced the stranger’s death.

Only a few months later, and hundreds of hours of indoctrination into the culture of cops, he came across another similar tragedy, but this time his responses were very different. He worked like the devil to save the man with CPR, but couldn’t. This time, he laughed amongst his brother officers, and even dubbed himself the angel of death. Somewhere in between, he’d lost—or given up—a vital part of who he was for the sake of fitting in. He’d lost his humanity.

“Hey, Opie.” Justice was back.

St. John bobbed his chin.

Justice gave him a thumbs up. “Thanks for back there. What you said about taking care of my brother. I ain’t a fucking droid, so yeah, I’ll miss him. It’s just that we got too much riding on this mission to get distracted,” he said through tight lips. “So, thanks. I appreciate you giving a shit about him.”

And just like that, St. John knew where his loyalties were deeply entrenched.

A
fter more hours
on I-80 than he ever imagined he’d travel, St. John was ass-worn out. The trek through Utah and Nevada offered glimpses of nothing like he’d seen in Florida, but most of those hours were spent rolling after sunset. The trip’s toll was greater than the anticipated twenty-one hours of saddle time. He and Justice had both suffered great loss—a blood brother, and St. John’s desire to serve the agency.

Camped across the California state line, St. John tossed Justice a piece of beef jerky. “You going to tell me where we’re heading or is it still a secret?”

Justice’s head lay atop his bedroll, his boots propped up on his saddle. “Why you want to know? Just tag along until we get there. Once we do, I’m gonna want that phone of yours.” He held his hand out. “Operational security—you understand?”

St. John felt the bite of insult tear through his flesh. Should he confront him about the way his lack of trust created new barriers between them each time? Would Justice even give a shit? Instead, St. John grabbed as much rest as he could—it’d been almost two days since he slept. Yet, his mind toiled again over why Justice didn’t trust him.

I wonder if Abigail is okay. They’d better not touch her.

He woke feeling as if he’d just closed his eyes. Sun up, Justice up, so he was up. St. John wanted five more minutes. He listened to the roar of the rushing water, but only saw a stream of piss as Justice relieved himself feet from where St. John lay.

“I said it was time to get up.” Justice had a wicked sneer to his tone that morning.

St. John turned in the other direction while he grabbed his bedroll and boots before Justice would notice. The miniature tracking device Chu had slipped him in the bathroom back in Grand Junction had rubbed against the inside of his leg the last fourteen hours. He needed a break from it and to change the batteries.

“We’ll take back roads the rest of the way. It’ll take most of the day to navigate this terrain on these mules and on foot, so don’t expect to get there before dusk.”

The tension in his neck and shoulders ceased as water rained down over St. John’s head from a small pool from a backed up stream. Long hair swung across and in-between his lips. He hesitated, his head hung low, and groaned that the ache in his stretched neck and spine was back so quick.

“We’re supposed to sneak along back country roads, and then up to a secret stash location on Harley Davidson motorcycles?” St. John’s voice hinged on mutinous. “Do I really have to tell you how fucked up that plan is?”

“No.”

“Then what?”

“You’ll know when the time comes.”

St. John threw the canteen against a pile of rocks. Water shot from the open spout. “I’ve had enough of this secret squirrel bullshit. I get that Gray Man is fucking badass. If he wasn’t, we’d just drive up to his door and kick the damn thing in. I’m willing to put my life on the line for you, Justice, but not if you don’t trust me.”

Justice craned over slowly and retrieved the empty canteen. “There you go asking about trust again.” He handed the water container to St. John. “If something happens to me, it’s better you not know everything. There’s more at stake than guns and money. This psycho is beyond anything we’ve dealt with—even considering the wacked out fuckers we dealt with at the CIA. Trust me, I trust you. I also want to spare you a brutal hell if anything happens.”

St. John’s t-shirt and cut were draped across his saddle while he tried to wash away the last twenty-something hours of road grime. The cool stream refreshed him, but his chest tightened at Justice’s words.