Redemption (12 page)
“It’s complicated.”
“I understand.” St. John’s voice was brittle and the hurt was impossible to ignore. But he agreed although he deserved better. “Meet me at the bike.”
She dried her tears with a tissue and blew her nose. She hated the way Justice made her feel—unsure and powerless, but with an indescribable need for his approval. It wasn’t love or attraction but almost fear. Fear was a powerful emotion.
But fear belonged in the past. She’d never been fearful growing up, and had only known it once she’d arrived at the Savage Souls’ clubhouse looking for revenge. There was a saying she’d once heard that had always stuck with her.
Before you embark on a journey of revenge, dig two graves.
Jack’s grave was already one too many, and she wasn’t looking to add a second next to his any time soon. But she’d found something else on her journey—something much more powerful than death. She’d found love, and through that, redemption.
Abigail’s body had begun to feel a sense of peace after the quick goodbye with Justice. There was no hug or emotion, just the acknowledgement of thank you. She put that behind her and clutched onto St. John instead as the heavy bike rumbled between her thighs.
As they idled past the house, Justice stood at the front porch—in almost the exact same spot she’d first met Chief Jenifer Perez. Abigail closed her eyes as images of the Chief’s hacked up body on the bathroom floor assaulted her memory. Would she be next?
St. John nodded to Justice but Abigail buried her face into St. John’s cut instead of chancing one last look. They eased down the long driveway.
Two
—
three
—
four
cars zoomed by before they were able to hit the state highway that would lead them out of Colorado. She wouldn’t turn around, but she felt the cold chill of death claw at her spine. She scooted closer to St. John.
He accelerated for a short distance and then killed the engine to allow the Hog to coast onto the shoulder. Panic clawed its way from her belly to the goose bumps on her skin. He wasn’t going back, was he?
“What are you doing?” she begged, gripping him tighter. “Lets get out of here.”
“We’ve come too far on this bike. I stashed the truck on this service road. Thought you’d appreciate the break from a saddle.” He winked at her and pulled her close for another quick kiss.
He guided her through the darkness and the thick brush until they arrived at the hidden pickup truck. Once St. John had hefted the bike into the back of the truck, he held the driver’s side door open for her.
“Thank you for thinking of me, but I’m sure you were thinking about my head in your lap while I napped. Right?” she began to feel more relaxed and playful as they pulled out onto the highway and headed east.
“Well, maybe. You do need your rest, Abi.”
“I’ll feel fine after we get onto the interstate, though I’m already feeling better. I’m glad we were able to leave on good terms with the Savages—don’t need those crazy bastards hunting us too.” Her words, once spoken, sunk in. Although intended for St. John, their weight bombarded her.
“Hunted,” she whispered.
“It’ll be okay, baby,” St. John assured her, his arm around her shoulders. “We survived this far, it’ll be okay as long as we stay together.”
“Always my love. Always,” she nestled into his torso and settled for the drive.
Suddenly, a violent explosion rocked the truck. St. John yelled as he jerked his tattooed forearm away from the sizzling rear window. Heat and debris shot through the cab. St. John slammed his boot down on the brake. Abigail was thrown forward. Her head bounced off the dashboard. Their heads knocked into each other in the chaos. They both spun to look back toward the brilliant flames erupting from his Harley Davidson.
“What happened?” she screamed.
“Fucking brothers put a timed detonator on the bike. They thought we’d get on the highway before it blew.”
Abigail slumped. Numbness set in. Tears streamed down her cheeks. They dried quickly against her skin in the heat. St. John reached for her hand as a second explosion rocked the truck.
“Hunted,” she whispered once more.
THE END
LS Silverii is a highly decorated law enforcement officer from Cajun country with over 25 years of heart-racing experience.
Redemption is the fifth in the Savage Souls Series. The dark romantic suspense series takes you behind the badge and into an often-unknown world of outlaws to experience the raw rush and ruggedness of true alpha heroes.
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Savage Souls Series
The Shadow Ops Series
The Cajun Murder Mystery Series
Bayou Roux: The Complete First Season
Bayou Backslide: A Cajun Murder Mystery Series Special Edition
Cop Culture: Why Good Cops Go Bad
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I’ve long been fascinated with the psychology that creates actual people like the characters in the Savage Souls Series. Reviews and readers have been astonished at the brutality and barbarianism of the cast. Unfortunately, they do exist among us.
Be on the lookout for more in the Savage Souls Series. Here’s a taste to keep you savage. There’s a reason they say “Savages Forever – Forever Savages”
J
ustice Boudreaux was
in a foreign land to kill. Why—because that’s what his government trained him to do. He was good at it. He knew it and the CIA knew it. The trouble with this whole fucked up scenario was his target also knew it.
His rubbery sole slipped in the sandy coating that painted everything. Justice paused to scan the hard, jagged region just beyond the border of Pakistan. Mountainous and arid, he eyed his partner without confidence in her ability to maintain the track.
Sweat flowed from his gnarled beard. Water was scarce, so he didn’t bother wasting it on dousing for comfort—it was survival. His partner, chosen because their target didn’t like women, had a different purpose for her canteen’s contents. Her glint showed determination, but Justice still doubted Batya Cohen’s abilities. He wagged his head as she sucked from the Camelback water bladder strapped to her backpack.
“You’d think breaching Pakistan without their government’s knowledge would be a bigger problem than you having to work with a woman,” Batya said. She drew from the rubber water tube until liquid spilled from between thin lips. She spit the fine sand granules carried in the wind from her mouth, “L’Chayim,” she offered.
“Cheers,” Justice replied.
“Oh, you speak Hebrew?” her lips parted to show bright white teeth.
“My government says I gotta talk the talk, so I do as I’m ordered,” Justice squatted against a clump of boulders. Making himself as small a target for the enemy was hard to do at six feet and six inches tall, but he managed to shove his 258-pound frame into a gulch of rock and shade.
She retied the shemagh over her head and neck. Afghans traditionally wore the square cloth, but many soldiers and special operations warriors adopted use of the versatile garment.
“Justice, please answer this,” Batya snugged the water hose’s tip beneath her desert colored, tactical dress uniform or TDU. “Is it because I’m a woman or a Jew?”
“Neither,” he snapped at the implication. “This isn’t Israel’s problem. Why would the Mossad bother dispatching a female to eliminate a rogue American asset? There’s more to it than you’re allowed to let on.”
The olive and black checkered scarf was tugged just beneath her razor-slits that barely allowed him to see her cold hazel eyes, “Your country may have created this
shaytan
, but he has killed many in my country. There’s no tolerance for his return.”
Justice leveled his monocular scope to eye-level. He wafted bats of steaming air through his nostrils while he zeroed upward, toward the ridge of a steep terrain.
“
Shaytan
—devil. That’s what the Muslims call him. Is that what the Jews call him too?”
“We don’t bother giving him a name. There is nothing other than the one true God. To offer this man a name such as devil,
iblis
, or
shaytan
would conflict with our monotheistic view of only one God.” She knelt about five feet away from him, “Why, is that another problem you have with me and my people?”
He pocketed the scope into the tactical vest strapped around his torso. Beneath it were light Kevlar panels. Probably not any good for stopping many bullets, but maybe it’d hold his insides together until he scrambled a medi-vac. His gloved finger twirled to signal it was time to move.
“I ain’t got a problem with you being a woman or a Jew. I just thought it’d be ironic for you and the Muslims to agree on something—even if it was a name for the devil.”
Batya leaned her lean frame close to the rock-strewn loam and began the long upward trek toward the unguarded military outpost. “What both of our people do agree on is that your country trained and dispatched this animal to prey on both of our countrymen.”
He glared at her ass as it moved inches from his dusty face. Justice averted his gaze, but the smile was glued. Guys never really grew up—they just learned to not be so gross in public.
Maybe she can take care of herself after all.
Both operatives sat at the spear’s tip as far as specialized training was concerned. Justice’s acceptance into Delta Force afforded more training than most of the Army’s soldiers would see in a lifetime. Along with the United States Navy SEAL Team Six, both units were by far the most elite of the Joint Special Operations Command units.
The former LSU football standout left college athletics to graduate early. His heart was one of service to his country. He’d grown up in a dysfunctional, backwater bayou brawl-a-thon with his father, but he’d always known hard work would make up for a fucked up childhood of fishing and alligator hunting.
North Carolina’s Fort Bragg was another world away from Turtle Bayou, Louisiana, but it wasn’t long until he got the call that would take him even further away from his beloved United States Army—the Central Intelligence Agency.
“Hold on sister,” Justice gasped.
His left hand swung out to grab her. He pressed her into the rugged mountainside. Grimacing, he held tight until Batya was able to regain her footing. Justice watched the small rocks tumble into big stones as an avalanche stormed their way back down the last three thousand feet of elevation they’d just covered.
“I had it,” bruised, she snapped at him in a breathless tone. Her face contorted by exhaustion and the early stages of dehydration.
He tried to wink with an eye that had become swollen with crystalline salt and tears. They burned red hot against the reflective rock surface. He’d just deal with it. The canteen water was for drinking—not rinsing. Batya either didn’t respond to his wink or didn’t recognize his effort. Her expression remained hollow.
“Sure you did. I just didn’t want to have to go down to get you. It’s a long way straight up to start all over.”
“Zebach Sh’lamim,” quietly she offered.
“You’re welcome,” he beamed. “We got about another two hundred feet to the ridge. There’s a guard’s watchtower up there. Supposed to be unmanned.”
“Correct me if I’m wrong, though I’m not, but won’t we be in Pakistan?” Fingertips full of blood from the long crawl, she pressed the wounds against her shemagh until the bleeding clotted.
“How do I reply without lying to you?” He whisked out his canteen and slammed down two slugs of warm water. “Officially, I don’t exist. I’m a ghost in Afghanistan or Pakistan. Hell. I’m a ghost back home. So whether it’s the friendly alley for terrorist cells, or the newly liberated country of Afghanis, my government says I don’t exist.”
“So what exactly does that mean?” she asked.
He saw her breathing had settled down, and color returned to her face.
“It means I don’t much care where I am.”
“Americans, and your John Wayne swagger,” she shook her head no, but Justice thought he detected an attempt at humor.
“I wish we were riding in on horses. Since we’re more like inchworms than cowboys, lets get to the ridge and have a look. You gotta problem with Pakistan?”
Her dust-covered nose scrunched up, “Inchworm?”
“It’s American—like The Duke.” He bobbed his chin to signal they should move.
Justice wormed his way up the remainder of the sheer cliff wall. She trailed close behind. Purposefully shaved by the military, the rock’s smoothed effect would prevent enemies from climbing the mountain walls. They were no typical enemy.