Shattered (9 page)

“Dude, you’re starting to freak me out with what you’re not telling me. It sounds like you’re walking us into more than a crate of stolen guns.” He reached for his shirt, but Justice moved in front of his bike.

The big boss dropped his broad, well-defined jawline into his palms. His hard masculine look of authority faded as weary eyes moistened and distanced to a thousand yard stare.

St. John didn’t dare touch him, but called his name and snapped his fingers until Justice blinked back to look at him. He noticed Justice’s thumb and middle finger sandpapering each other.

“I think I know who Gray Man is.”

“Fuck, boss, you’ve been holding out on me all this time?”

“No, only said I think I know who he is. The way Chief Perez described the autopsy to Sue—there’s one man I know who killed that quick, that evil.”

St. John reached around Justice’s frozen stance to grab his clothing. He hurriedly shoved his foot into the boot with the concealed transponder. He wasn’t sure how well the federal biker task force would be able to trace him off road, but he had to try.

“Tell me what to expect.”

Justice pressed his forefinger against his right nostril, and forced air and snot out onto the ground near St. John’s bike. “Ahhh, damn sinuses driving me crazy out in this dry region. Always fucked me up in the Middle East too,” he complained. “What to expect? Pray it’s not him, but expect that it is—but pray it’s not.”

“Then why the fuck are the two of us walking into a trap? We got hundreds of brothers within a day or so’s ride. We can smash one man’s ass, can’t we?”

“Yeah, sure.” Justice kicked at dirt to cover the patch of ground he’d slept on. His shoulders slumped and hunched forward. He looked defeated and unsure. “Let’s get going.”

St. John drug his leather cut across his back and over his left shoulder. He felt the thud of his cell phone wallop against his ribs. He knew Justice would demand it soon, but he debated on how to contact Lawless.

“Gotta hit the head real quick.”

Justice pointed to the stream. “Do it there so I can see you.”

“Fuck if I will. You can wait for me.”

He heard Justice snort as he walked off. He balled his fist and released then repeatedly—was Justice using him as bait? His intuition was ablaze with danger signals. Signals that his macho attitude ignored.

[hey man, where are you?]
read the message from Agent Graham’s cell phone number.

St. John swallowed hard—there still weren’t the exclamation points behind his text.

He decided to draw out whoever the imposter was.
[no where. Meet me?]

[where]

[idk – where are you]
St. John stamped out.

[no where. Catch you later]

St. John stuffed the cell back in his vest. That shit went nowhere fast. If he could call Lawless and tell them to triangulate Graham’s cell phone messages, then they might pin him down to a localized region.

He looked up, and there was Justice standing above him. “You shit yet?”

“No.”

“Then pinch it. We’re moving.”

St. John’s heart pounded at having almost getting busted texting his task force surveillance team. He knew texting Abigail would be too risky. He glanced up—Justice had disappeared. Fuck, that dude was dangerous.

“H
ere, you’ll need
these soon.” Justice handed St. John a pair of night vision goggles, or NVG, with a scope for seeing long range and navigating the terrain in the dark. Their hike from where the bikes were hidden to the target compound was a treacherous journey. More importantly, they’d have to navigate the entire time without being detected.

Sun fell quickly—and so had Justice’s energy. They’d been on a dusty trail of hills and vines that roughly intersected the Russian River on more than a few occasions. California’s Sonoma County might’ve made for beautiful scenery and wine, but there was something ominous about it.

“Can we take a knee? We’ve walked the last thirteen hours straight. Fuck, I’m from Florida, we ain’t got these climbs.” St. John hunched over with hands against his knees gasping for air. The hot afternoon temps had finally dropped but the reprieve came too late to be of any relief. His lips folded over his teeth as he fought for air. Bugs gathered around his face—he spit out mosquitoes like hairs in restaurant food.

Justice felt no compassion. “I thought you were a warrior. Said you were in training for the time when the battle would be fought. Son, this here isn’t the battle—it’s the apocalypse.”

“I’ll be ready, don’t worry about me.” St. John panted out broken words.

“Opie, I hope so, because from what I’m seeing this ain’t gonna be nice.” Justice stuck his index finger between St. John’s bicep and chest. He lifted the biker upright. “Standing opens your lungs—more air.”

Justice suddenly turned away and rubbed the back of his aching neck. He froze at an unknown noise. Felt an increasingly hot sensation like his limbs were tingling. He couldn’t seem to relax all of a sudden and moved from one foot to the next.

“You okay, boss?”

He heard St. John’s question but couldn’t form the words to reply—he nodded. Justice smoothed his hair back out of his face and closed his eyes. His senses took over. He was back inside of his CIA Special Ops Group mentality. He felt it, and was glad for the shift—like flipping on a light switch. Over the years it had been difficult to turn it off once it got switched on—that’s what the CIA counted on—his mechanical approach to killing.

Life’s problems came once Justice was no longer able to turn it off. It’d been a long time since he felt the surge of evil embedded in his spirit by the federal government’s training program. His intuition told him he’d need that evil if he wanted to survive an encounter with Gray Man.

Justice turned toward St. John as he fumbled for words. He apologized, not out of accountability but to express the unfairness of the situation he’d drug St. John into.

St. John’s expression blanked, but Justice saw through the eerie green glow of his NVG that St. John wasn’t buying it.

“Son, turn around and head back to the club. This is more than I expected. We won’t both get out alive. This is my mess—I’ll clean it up.” He leaned close to whisper, his eyes jetting wildly beneath the lenses.

St. John listened with arms folded over his chest. “Fuck this, dude. Let’s just do what we came here to do, and get the hell back to set up a plan.”

Justice’s fists pounded the air for emphasis. “We can’t. Things have changed.” He grabbed St. John’s left arm and pulled him into a crouched position. “I only suspected who Gray Man might be before, but now I know it’s him.

“So what?”

“I tracked this motherfucker for years.”

“Why?”

“Because I created him, and he’s been turned loose against this country. I’ve got to stop him,” he said coldly.

St. John leaned too far forward and steadied himself on Justice’s shoulder. “A rogue agent?”

“Worse. He was programmed to kill, and to kill in the most inhumane ways imaginable. The experiment was to turn his kind loose in foreign nations. The indigenous people thought they were devils—
chupacabras
in the Latin countries. The death counts created such terror in those countries that people, even soldiers, feared leaving their homes or villages.” Sweat glistened on Justice’s forehead and cheeks. “The project got out of control, so I was contracted. I eliminated most, but I heard he made it back from Iraq. It was part of why I gave the CIA the old up yours. Suddenly, they acquired a conscience about killing on domestic soil.”

“You hunted them down?”

“Sure did. Living off the grid brings a dangerous reality. All I did was hunt them.”

“So who do we call now?” St. John’s mouth remained open at the harsh reality.

Justice’s matted hair swung back and forth. “I don’t know.” Chill bumps exploded across him from head to toe—it actually burned. Justice knew he had a mission to accomplish. He sat with the knowledge for a moment, then, against his better judgement, he waved for St. John to follow him into the thick brush.

Justice led the way through thickets and potential booby traps. St John seemed to catch onto the rhythm for moving more silently, but was not nearly as skilled as Justice—the damn guy was a ghost. Justice slowed as the foliage thinned. A stench assaulted his sense of smell. He ducked his nose but it was worse than anything he’d ever experienced.

The overpowering reek of death blanketed him immediately. Justice knew he’d be ill but he’d have to be sick later. He had a mission to accomplish. He heard a distant roar of what sounded like a weed-eater. Specks darted across his field of view—swarms of mosquitoes and blowflies. He crept closer, staying low, to allow the NVG to adjust for maximum sight. There were multiple bodies here. A damn killing field.

And he was responsible for the horror his eyes beheld. He knew his mind would never erase what it registered.

He waved for St. John to turn back. Tremors in his hands and feet caused Justice to shiver. Clutching his throat, Justice knew his failure as a CIA op—his failure to get Gray Man—had cost many Americans their lives. He thrust his hand back to stop St. John’s advance, but he plowed past—wanting nothing to do with a retreat.

St. John gagged, vomited, collapsed into the bile. Justice pressed on the back of St. John’s neck to keep him still and quiet. He felt the brother regain consciousness. St. John gagged into his vitriol again. Tried to lift his head to cast eyes upon the inhumane sight.

Justice continued to tremble. Gray Man’s obsession had digressed in unexpected ways. Much worse than he thought it could.

The manicured grass opening was lined with tiki torches and string lighting—backyard BBQ style. Lawn chairs casually dotted the lush green area. Frank Sinatra played softly over a speaker system concealed in faux boulders. It would’ve been a welcoming setting except for the seven crucifixes that littered the outskirts.

The unfinished-wood structures were fashioned in an X-shape. Most had a body attached. All nude. Some completely skinned. Others just started. All were men. It looked like maybe two were still alive, but they’d never recover, their stages of being peeled were so advanced. Even if Justice charged the collection, they’d perish. As he probably would, too.

St. John fought in and out of consciousness. Justice understood St. John was tough, but also knew this scenario was more than most could psychologically digest. It had purposefully been designed by the CIA’s behavioral group to be that way.

Justice whispered to St. John to stay quiet and still. The biker only choked up more bile and blood. If St. John couldn’t keep his shit together they’d have to flee, and running from a natural predator was useless. Gray Man would intercept each of them at various intervals along the route. Their best bet for survival was to lay still and be quiet.

Justice wrapped his fingers behind St. John’s neck and jerked his skull against his lips. “Shut the fuck up. It’s him.”

“I’m trying.”

“Son, pull your shit together, or I’ll kill you right now. You’re jeopardizing both our lives.”

“Oh, my lord, I’ve never seen anything like—not even in the movies.” St. John’s mind had fractured—he was fucked.

Justice switched his NVGs off and on depending on the lighting Gray Man had used. He narrowed his sight to see Gray Man checking his collection near an open fire pit with metal slats across it. Justice’s gut revolted. The lump in his throat was huge. So swollen he couldn’t force air in or out.

Justice kept his eyelids lowered except for quick glances—didn’t want the man to sense him watching. He knew what the fire was for. In training, this setting was called a buffet—Gray Man would sample each of his bodies while the other victims watched. Eventually it would be their turn. One would always be set free to tell what they’d seen.

He would sample each until he’d consumed enough vital organs to bring on a horrifically slow death. Gray Man also liked to fuck the victims, but preferred that be post mortem.

Justice’s voice alerted St. John. “Look, one of our weapons. He’s got our stash.”

“What’s he doing?”

“Target practice. That dude looks like he’ll be lucky enough to die quick.”

Gray Man pressed an index finger beneath the chin of the intended target. The man’s head flopped up and then fell back down against his chest.

“Now, let’s see. What can I shoot out of his mouth?” Gray Man marched among his captives like a toy soldier with a rifle propped against his shoulder. “Oh yes, I’ve got a dandy idea.”

The captive he chose, had hands and feet nailed to each post in the X-shaped crucifix. Gray Man grabbed a fistful of the man’s dick. “Oh you like that, do you?” he said as the man moaned in agony.

Gray Man set the rifle aside, unsheathed a saber and sliced off the man’s penis.

“Let’s see if I’m skilled enough to shoot a bird out of your mouth.”

He counted off ten steps, spun on a dime, and fired one bullet into the man’s mouth.

“Jolly good shot, my man. You deserve a piece of ass for that grand display.”