Redemption (4 page)

“St. John.”

“Yeah?”

“When did you finish the police academy?”

“You serious?”

“Just checking.”

St. John stormed off. He accepted that Justice knew better, but possibly didn’t want to accede that he was an undercover agent. Even if Justice wasn’t sure that he was a narc, how would he pull off concealing his identity—from him and his supervisor, Ted Ford?

*     *     *

The night air
blew stale across the desert. St. John and Justice avoided the main drag of the Vegas strip and old town’s Freemont Street. Neither sported their Savage Souls leather cuts. St. John hated to admit it, but he felt naked without the club’s colors he’d fought to protect. He knew the less attention they drew the better. In and out was the mission objective.

“No chapter visit?” St. John yelled over the rumble of their motors while the light held on red.

“Can’t trust anyone on this. There’s also a mandatory Hells Angels run in town tonight. Don’t need to mix it up with them either. We’re sticking to the shadows.”

St. John’s hand tapped the pistols strapped to each side out of habit. Weapon retention had been drilled into his core from the day he first entered the academy—it was as much officer safety habit as it was comfort assurance.

“We’re going to trek about a half mile out before we reach Ford’s place. He lives alone, but is known to entertain various orientations.” Justice held his right hand out and wagged his open palm side to side.

St. John assumed Ford had a hidden darkness, but had never cared enough to pry. “How many orientations are there?” He feigned a laugh.

“Boy, girl and trannies. My scouts say they’re his late night preferences.”

St. John’s intuition tingled at the word ‘scouts’. Who else was involved in this operation? He suspected Justice had ulterior motives, and feared that testing St. John’s authenticity was one of them. He bit his bottom lip in concentration. His boots felt welded to the endless asphalt ribbon.

I work for Ford, and I don’t even know where he lives. How does he?

T
hey managed to
avoid heavy traffic, brother Savage Souls and mostly the hundreds of Angels that stormed into Las Vegas. St. John’s ass was dragging after the twelve-hour haul from Mystic. His senses waned with fatigue, but he forced himself to focus. Worried that he wasn’t as sharp as he’d need to be, he debated whether he should try to delay Justice’s confrontation of Ford.

Once they made contact with the federal agency supervisor, St. John knew his cover would be blown. His fingers jabbed into pockets and pouches trying to find the skeleton facemask.

“Fuck!” he spit. Had he forgotten to stow it?

Justice hesitated as he push walked his Hog into a orchard of trees and manicured shrubs. “Problem?”

“No. Hot engine. Guess I’m getting tired.”

Justice situated his bike and made room for St. John to slide his close by. “Son, there’s no such thing as tired right now. This is bigger than a few hours of missed sleep. Understand?” He patted St. John’s shoulder and winked.

St. John nodded, but it was more of a gesture to shake the cobwebs from an exhausted consciousness. He reached across his gas tank to snatch the cell phone from the leather pouch strung up between ape hanger handlebars. He felt it—the black facemask. Finally, something had gone right.

St. John hung about ten yards behind Justice. It was obvious he had been along the shadowy path before. Justice’s steps were certain and quick, while St. John struggled in the darkness along the rocky path. He eyed the backpack Justice wore. He could guess what was inside. His heart weighed heavier as they drew closer. St. John began to fall further behind. Was this a trap? Or were they actually marching straight toward federal agent Ted Ford’s private home?

“You got a problem?” Justice asked without looking back.

“No. Why?”

“I don’t hear your footsteps. Wonder if you’re thinking about hauling ass on me.”

How the fuck can he know these things?

“I’m not going to abandon my brother. Just not crazy about home invasions. Especially on federal agents.” He tried to quicken his steps despite the heavy burden of doubts.

“You better get crazy about them, because his house is right up there. And it looks like he got company.”

St. John squinted, but didn’t see anything to signal anyone was home. He pressed his arms against his sides to again feel the pistols. He unzipped his black leather jacket so the guns were readily available—even if it meant using them against Justice.

Justice took a knee behind a patch of heavy greenery and a four-foot stone and mortar wall. He opened the backpack and handed St. John a pair of older generation night vision goggles. St. John breathed easier thinking that the total blacked-out operation might keep Ford from seeing his face.

“It’s going to get real dark inside in ten minutes. We move straight to the west side door. It’s all glass but no breakage alarm, only open entry probes attached. Makes no sense to me why you’d expect a burglar to slide a glass door open when he can bust right through it. That’s a fed for ya. Right?” His tone was different—almost challenging.

St. John couldn’t be sure he was reading Justice correctly—maybe he was just paranoid. After all, he was about to break into his boss’ home. He slipped the black neoprene mask over his nose and mouth. The NVG lens now concealed his eyes. Maybe if he didn’t talk, Ford wouldn’t know it was him. Of course the fact that he was six-six and built like a brick shithouse didn’t help conceal his identity, but there wasn’t shit he could do about that.

“Since you seem to have all the cards, what am I supposed to do?”

Justice sneered then St. John noticed his expression turn wooden and flat. A devilish glare replaced the usually relaxed façade Justice used to frustrate others into thinking nothing rattled him.

St. John knew Justice’s psychological profile back and forth. The CIA and the Army’s Delta Force kept detailed records on everything they thought Justice was or did. The man was a mixed bag of genius and deviousness. His emotional swings were rapid, often with violent results, but the government had trained him to mask those swing outcomes. St. John knew that what Justice said didn’t always match with what he did or intended.

“We go in strong. Eliminate anyone other than the target. I’ll subdue him, and begin the process of extracting intelligence. You stand by to assist me as ordered. There are medical supplies and nutrition in my pack that you may be called upon to administer.”

“You mean I have to feed your ass?”

“No. The trick is to not kill the target. There’s no information flow at that point.” He laughed, then ducked his head after scanning the area. “I have to keep him alive—barely alive while I encourage him to spill. This shit has been known to go on for days before I do them the favor of putting them out of their misery.”

St. John’s eyes ripped open, interrupting his half yawn. “You’re going to kill him?”

“Trust me. After I’m done, Ford will want to die. Those I left alive were to show others what would happen. It had to have been a miserable fucking way for them to live—I’m sure they killed themselves. Hell, I would.” Justice simulated shooting himself in the temple.

St. John cringed at the words—mostly the way he delivered them. He knew Justice had once had the capacity for good, but too much time behind enemy lines under the harshest conditions left him with an empty soul, and a penchant for destruction.

St. John still battled to reconcile how far he was willing to go. His heart no longer belonged to the agency. His only significant relationship had been with his partner, Jeff Graham, and even that had been strained thanks to the bureaucratic bullshit of an over-zealous agency ethos hell bent on serving themselves before the public.

But to participate in the torture and murder of a federal agent was something he didn’t think he could stomach. Even if Ted Ford was crooked and had caused Graham’s death, St. John had to honor his moral code.

His loyalty was now to Abigail, and getting her the hell away from the Savage Nation. Justice was the only one who could make that possible. If St. John turned on him now, or his identity was compromised by Ford, a quick call back to Mystic and the brothers would hunt her down in that hotel and kill her.

It was as simple as choosing Ford or Abigail. Fuck Ford—let the torture begin.

“L
ights out. Lets
move,” Justice ordered.

Knees creaking and thighs burning, St. John popped up from his kneeling position. The switch flipped. The darkness was bathed in an eerie green glow. Shapes became noticeable but the distortion of older generation NVGs still made everything look mystical and sinister.

“I’ll breach,” St. John said. He sucked in a quick gulp of hot air. Held it to allow his lungs the pressure of expansion, and exhaled with his full force until his chest flattened. They crossed the yard at a low run. St. John’s leather boot rammed through the glass door. His powerful backward mule kick exploded the door. Thousands of glass shards flew.

It felt good. Kicking in doors spiked the adrenaline. Justice sped past him. Time was critical. St. John realized Ford would hear the crash and arm himself. He zipped one of the Glock model 19s out from its holster. Held it like he was born with it in his hand. Decades of SWAT training had provided the skills to protect himself.

Moving through the home felt comfortable. Justice, also highly trained in tactical maneuvers, flowed from room to room better than any of St. John’s tactical team members.

There was no alarm, no sound, no Ted Ford. St. John’s chest clinched as breaths hung up in his throat. He pointed his pistol at Justice—this was a set up. No, he couldn’t think that way.

He fought to avoid tunnel vision as his sights narrowed only onto Justice. There might be others waiting to ambush him, so he had to scan to spot them. Besides, Justice hadn’t turned around yet. His focus was fixed on one last door—it was closed.

Justice turned slightly to face the door. St. John noticed a wide grin beneath the NVG scope.

Justice knew what was behind that door
.

He pointed at St. John and then simulated kicking to signal that St. John should move up and breach the door.

Fuck this. It’s a booby trap. Justice is setting me up.

St. John kept his eyes on Justice but forcefully wailed on the wood with a front kick. The locked door blasted open. His forward momentum carried him through the threshold. He immediately moved left of the fatal funnel. Justice followed quickly, avoiding the opening that created a silhouette effect. Fatal funnel was a cop term that described the risk to officers highlighted by the framing effect of an open threshold.

St. John steadied his weapon and aimed it at four figures in the middle of the large bed. He knew Ford’s short pudgy physique but who were the other three? Justice’s orders came to mind—eliminate anyone other than Ford. He shook his head—no way he’d kill three people for no reason.

“Lights on,” Justice said.

St. John watched him set up a tripod with a lamp attached. It had already been inside the house, so St. John knew they’d had help setting up this scenario. He switched off the NVG and blinked until the soft glow of the self-powered lamp bathed the bedroom in light.