Redemption (10 page)

I
t seemed like
a safe place to meet. Healdsburg, California was often selected as one of America’s top ten small towns. This union of outlaws and evil would change that. Saturday afternoons drew tourists and locals from the Russian River, Dry Creek and Alexander Valleys. The nineteenth-century plaza served as the meeting’s backdrop.

There was no way the Savage Souls wouldn’t stick out like sore thumbs. The boutique city featured shops and artisan stores serving cyclists and tree huggers. Even Abigail, with her slight build and sleeveless summer dress looked out of place among couples who strolled hand-in-hand between restaurants and craft shops.

Sitting on a bench near the street, feeling exposed, she twisted her fingers around one another. Her skin glistened with sweat although the temperature was mild with no humidity. Abigail fought the urge to flee—instead she gnawed on her fingernails as a distraction. The inelegant gesture caused her to look even more out of place.

She squinted against the late afternoon sun. The cheap, unpolarized sunshades didn’t help much. She caught a shadow. Head jerked left—was that him? Her body ached like the flu, but Abigail knew it was fear. She checked her cell for further instructions from Gray Man. He had been silent over the last three hours since he sent her instructions to wait for him in the three hundred block of Healdsburg Avenue.

She drew the loose curls over the right side of her cheek and pressed the small receiver deeper into her ear. St. John’s gentle voice soothed her. Encouragement from the man she truly trusted warmed her heart, though the thought that Gray Man could devour it paralyzed her.

She bit at her fingernail again, disguising any mouth movement as she communicated with St. John. “I don’t think I can take it anymore. This waiting has my stomach in a tizzy.” She leaned forward with her wrist pressed against her tummy.

“Do not leave that spot,” he said.

Her palm pressed against her mouth. “I’m going to throw up. I need the restroom.”

“Out of the question. You have to stay where we can see you.” St. John’s voice dropped the
I’m in command
tone. “Abigail, you’re surrounded by the best trained military and law enforcement badasses in the country. Baby, you’re okay.”

She crossed and uncrossed her legs. She knew something unladylike was about to happen and told him so.

“Wait. We’ll send Jennifer into the ladies’ room at the pub behind you first.”

“Jennifer?”

“Chief Perez. Sue included her. She needed to know the truth about the sheriff’s corruption, and he figured you could use a friend.”

Abigail’s shoulders slumped in relief as she saw the short, but capable Mystic Police Chief hurry across North Street’s pedestrian walkway. Abigail chuckled. Perez might have been dressed like a tourist in khaki shorts, an orange tank top and matching flip-flops, but there was no mistaking she was cop.

“Okay, she should be in there by now. Make it quick,” St. John said. “And Abi?”

She grunted at that name. “What!”

“Remember to wash your hands.” He laughed. She smiled at his attempt at humor.

Poppy Kat’s Pub was dimly lit and full of patrons for a late afternoon. There were no ball games on the televisions, so she assumed they’d come for the company and the beers. Booths ran along one side and a long mahogany bar top along the other. The center aisle was cluttered with friendly staff and clusters of people. Abigail slipped through them to the rear of the place.

Thank goodness. I was about to shit myself.

Abigail’s eyes rolled in agitation as she pushed on the women’s room door—it didn’t open but wasn’t locked. She thought young girls were probably in there playing with make up. Of course they wouldn’t want mom to walk in. Abigail pushed again but nothing. She knocked—nothing. Abigail shoved the door a third time and saw orange flip-flops.

Her lips trembled but spoke no words, made no sound. Abigail clutched her throat and stumbled backward against the men’s room door. She gasped as the men’s room door popped ajar. She flailed, bloodying her feet and shins with the harried kicking as she tried to escape the narrow hallway between both rooms.

With an odd groan, she backed away quick. Her plea for help came out as an inhumane noise. Customer chatter drowned out her commotion. No one looked up. Abigail stumbled over the leg of a barstool, and the patron yelled out for her to watch it. She remained mute and incoherent. The room spun. Time seemed to stop and trap her in those few feet to the exit door.

The hostess, the same young girl who’d showed her where the bathroom was, finally reached down to help her.

“Oh, thank God! Call the police!” The room spun. Abigail’s quivering knees buckled.

“Ma’am, are you drunk?” The girl’s initial concern quickly turned to youthful arrogance. “I’m going to have to ask you to get out.”

“There’s a lady in the bathroom. Call the police.” Her words didn’t match the movement of her mouth. She was slurring and could hear it. Her finger came up to her right ear as she yelled, “St. John, where are you?” There was nothing there. The earpiece had fallen out in the commotion.

“Listen, ma’am, leave or the cops are coming. Now.” The young employee’s insolence pissed Abigail off just enough to smack her back to reality.

“You don’t understand—”

“No, you don’t. Here,” she said with bratty emphasis. “Some creepy guy asked me to give this to you.”

Abigail’s shaking fingers barely supported the paper napkin’s weight. Unfolded, it revealed drops of blood. Her eyes slammed shut but she had to… Lips trembling, her her teeth clattered as she read the note.

Hi Abi –

These droplets should have been yours.

Your delivery is at Plaza and Filtch. Please wire money as instructed later. Enjoy your package.

“Abigail?” St. John shouted from the door. “Oh my lord, are you okay?” He powered through the small aisle that led from the outdoors. One look at his face, and no one confronted him because no one wanted to get the shit kicked out of them.

“He was here. Jennifer—she’s in the bathroom—he killed her.” She clung to his neck. He supported her until they cleared the crowd. He looked to the bartender, “There’s been a murder. Clear this place. Everyone into the courtyard—no one goes into the bathrooms.”

St. John stood just inside the pub with her. Although she tried to step out onto the sidewalk, he yanked her back inside.

“Whoa, baby. He might be waiting to take us out. Stay here while the others are scouring the area.”

“How? How the fuck could he know I’d go to the bathroom? He’s going to kill us isn’t he? Right here in plain fucking sight.” Her hands waved nervously as she began to hyperventilate.

“Abi!” He barked to get her attention. “Calm the fuck down. If you want to survive, then stop acting like a victim.” He squeezed her shoulders to shield her from the people who rushed from the pub.

“I want to go home,” she begged.

“To Mystic?”

It hadn’t occurred to her that the Savage Souls’ clubhouse was the only home she had. The transient housing outside of Las Vegas was torched to leave not a trace behind but it had been a shithole anyway. The rush of blood in her ears and her pounding heartbeat slowed. She clung to St. John as desolation crushed her fighting spirit.

“After everything I did to not be like my parents, here I am. Homeless. I’m a failure. It should’ve been me inside the lady’s room,” she wailed, life’s anguish smeared over her face.

She grabbed a napkin and began to wipe her tears. But her fingers shook as if she held a live electric wire and she dropped it.

St. John grabbed the paper as it fluttered to the floor. Incredulous, he stared at it, then at Abigail. “What the fuck? Why didn’t you tell me?”

He mashed Justice’s number into his cell, and pressed his eyelids closed while he waited. “Come on, answer. The cops will be here soon and this shit will explode. Pick up the call, Justice.”

When St. John heard Justice’s growl, he held the cell on speaker between them. “Abigail got a note from him.”

“I know. We found the package,” his voice told more than his words.

“Guns?”

“Dragon Mike.”

M
ystic, Colorado was
never really in favor of the Savage Souls settling in their scenic, forgotten town. They’d been peace loving, God-fearing folks for hundreds of years. Now, in the span of a few days, their beloved sheriff, Roger Reed, and the ambitious police chief, Jennifer Perez had suffered horrible deaths.

The Savage Souls lumbered back into town in a loose row of puttering bikes, Reminiscent of warriors, bloodied from the battlefield, burning their last bit of humanity to slip into camp and figure out how to survive their wounds.

Rotten, Viper and Red Rock stood at the edge of the property’s gravel and dirt drive way. They saluted Justice, Sue, Mercy, and even St. John with Abigail riding bitch. Nature’s wildlife fled at the low murmur of the big engines and the crunch of fat rubber tires that smashed rocks deeper into the dirt.

They dropped pegs outside the barn. Four pledges waited to take their Hogs to be cleaned and serviced. St. John looked into the face of the young Savage wannabe. He yearned to warn him—scat him away from this lifestyle. This fringe societal path that would only lead him to death or hopes of death, but he’d never see it until it was too late.

Unfortunately, St. John couldn’t do that. Despite his college glory days and a short stint as a highly touted first round pick in the NFL, not to mention his years as a federal undercover agent, this was the one brotherhood that lasted.

“Savages Forever, Forever Savages.” The glint in his eyes should’ve hinted that the young man look away out of deference.

Instead, he locked glares with St. John. “SFFS.” He was sold on the Savage Nation. Abigail slipped off the bike and St. John tossed him the keys.

“I’d sure like to take that for a ride.”

St. John’s bone-tired body had only wanted sleep. Now, adrenaline hurtled through him until he felt every muscle in his body twitch with pure fucking wrath. “You better be talking about the bike, boy.”

He saw the cocky stallion shutter. “Yes sir.”

These bikers can be such assholes.

“Let’s go, Abi.”

The slick soles of his old leather boots spun in the lush grass that seemed to flourish in the backyard. “I’ve allowed you to get away with calling me that that last few days. It’s time to stop, Louis.” she said pointedly as her arms wrapped around his waist.

“Deal.”

“Don’t make me drop the Louis Seals bomb in the clubhouse—by accident of course.”

“Speaking of that, I want you to gather what you got or just leave it. I got a strong feeling we’re going to have to haul ass quick.”

Her brow furrowed as worry crept back. “Why? Do you think Gray Man will retaliate?”

“No telling.” St. John looked around. It wasn’t paranoia—it was just his cop sense alerting him that something would go down soon. The Savage Nation was downtrodden, and these alpha dogs weren’t used to taking a beating. They’d look for something or someone to sharpen their chops on soon.

“I don’t have much, but just give me the signal.”

“Can you clarify something for me?” he asked.

“Anything, my All-American.”

He shielded his eyes, mostly from the embarrassment he felt asking this question. “Well?” She goaded him. “Go ahead, ask anything.”

“The day I saw you giving Sue head…”

“You mean the same day Mercy’s old lady jacked you off?” she retorted with flare.

He tried to ignore her comment. “Yeah, that day. I saw you take something from his pants pocket and hide in your undies. Can I ask, what was worth putting yourself through that?”

She huffed, and hesitated. Her right index finger dipped into her pants pocket. She fished deep down until she hooked something.

“This was my son’s.” Her words floated softly. “I saw one of the bikers pick it up off the highway that day.” She held her palm open, “Then I saw Sue playing with it after I got here, and knew I had to get it back—no matter what. This is the only thing of Jack’s that I own.”

It was a tiny blue plastic figure shaped like a policeman directing traffic. “He loved policemen. Said he wanted to be one when he grew up so he could be a fixer.”

“A fixer?”

“He wanted to fix the world’s problems and take away the hurt.” Those were the last words she could get out before her hand covered her trembling lips.

“I’m so sorry for the loss of your son,” he whispered to calm her. “Let me be your fixer, Abi.”

“It’s Abigail,” she said sweetly.

*     *     *