Redemption (8 page)

“How?” Lawless asked.

“Vegas is a gaming town. There’s nothing else to do when you’re homeless and hiding in the alleys. You watch what’s on the big screens through the glass.”

Voodoo patted her hand. “I’m so sorry. God, I can’t imagine what you’ve been through. I’m most sorry about Jack.”

Abigail’s heart hurt—it actually fucking hurt like hell. No one had ever bothered to say they were sorry about her loss. Stunned, she didn’t know what to say, so she merely nodded with a sorrowful smile and held back her tears.

“I want to put this all behind me. I realize now that my life with St. John will bring the closure that revenge can’t.” She stumbled over the words of conviction and true revelation.

“Smart. You deserve it,” Lawless said.

“So, I need you two to help put the last piece of the puzzles together. I’ve figured out almost everyone involved, except for who seems like the mastermind. Ricky only had the balls, but not the brains to set this up—he was told what to do.”

“By who?” Voodoo leaned in.

“Don’t know. The guy’s locked tight I guess. I’ve got his number from the calls and messages to Ricky. I tried texting but it always bounces back. I’m at a dead end.”

“We can run a trace to see who it’s subscribed to,” he offered.

“It’s a 712 Vegas area code. Eight-two-eight,” she recalled from memory. Eyes jutted up and to the right as her lips pinched tight.

Voodoo scribbled on her palm.

“Three-two-zero-three.”

The federal agents shot looks at each other. Their gaze distanced as they concentrated. Lawless pulled his lips into a pucker with his thumb and forefinger. “Are you sure?”

“I’ve lived this damn nightmare every waking second. Hell yeah, I’m sure.”

Voodoo pressed her fingers into his shoulder. They both avoided looking at each other. Voodoo’s expression sagged as if the weight of knowing had crushed her.

“That’s the agency psychiatrist’s number. Doctor Eleanor Worthington.”

S
t. John snuck
another text message to Abigail but still got no reply. Anger seethed through him toward Justice. Had he put out the order to kill her because he suspected St. John was a cop? Eyes ablaze, he scowled at Justice as they pushed their Harley Davidsons from behind the cover of brush.

“We gotta head over to get rid of this gun and these tools,” Justice said without emotion.

He’d just planted two rounds into a federal agent. The man was a machine—never a show of emotion. But no wonder he feared Gray Man—he’d trained him.

“Justice, you got something you want to ask me?”

“Not now. I got my answer.”

“And I got mine,” St. John snapped back.

Morning was still far enough off to clean up the mess, but too close to become comfortable about escaping what they’d done. St. John let his head slump back against the massive muscles in his neck. Over the years, he’d busted his ass to build his body, but now he felt the throbbing pain in each and every fiber.

His bike balanced closer to the solid yellow centerline than the lane. The rush of hot air blasted his chest with each passing vehicle as they headed toward the city. Maybe it was the fatigue, or his moral fabric, but he was overwhelmed with what he’d become. It hadn’t happened overnight.

What had become of the good guy who loved his mom and always fought for the underdog? The one that always cheered for the good guys—it had all seemed so simple back then. Clear-cut lines between black and white, right and wrong, were no longer clear.

He battled heavy eyelids. Each blink lasted longer than the previous. His fingertips rested lightly over the high handlebars. His usually rigid torso slumped in the saddle, and he felt his breathing become shallow—relaxed.

Rumble strips embedded into the highway’s centerline shuddered his bike. His head jerked up. The memory of Fury impaled on the eighteen-wheeler’s grill rocketed through him. St. John let out a gasp and yanked his ride back into the northbound lane.

“Something eating at ya?” Justice yelled over the loud pipes that echoed off canyon walls.

“Just tired.”

This entire scenario had spiraled out of control. It was shredding him apart. All he’d wanted to do from the beginning was bust bad guys. He shook his head at how naïve that simplistic notion was. Eyes now ripped wide open, there’d be no going back to the safety of ignorant bliss, with lines more blurred than imagined. He knew where he stood along the lines of ethical, but his indoctrination into the outlaw’s world and seeing the corrupt subsurface of his agency had fractured his ability to reconcile either.

He dropped peg just short of where Justice had parked his Hog. There’d been no conversation over the last forty minutes, so St. John assumed there’d be no need now.

Justice stood ahead of him on a bridge that overlooked a rushing river. The moon still shone bright. St. John saw him bouncing a handkerchief in his hand—he assumed it was the gun.

“You know, this gun killed one cop tonight. No reason why it couldn’t kill two.” Low and grizzled, Justice’s voice barely resonated over the fast moving waters below.

There’d be no reason to try and out draw him—Justice had the pistol concealed beneath the rag, but pointed right at him.

“You got someone else you need to settle a score with?”

“I don’t know, you tell me.”

St. John strode closer with the decision to come clean. He wanted the clarity, and mostly needed to know if Abigail was safe. Every time he imagined the Savages hunting for her it made his heart ache, and also fucking pissed him off. He knew Voodoo and Lawless had promised to meet her, but he hadn’t heard from them either. Had the brothers gotten to her first?

St. John sucked in a big gulp of misty, early morning air. “Justice. My name’s not James St. John.” There, he’d said it. He braced himself for combat.

“I know that’s not your real name, Louis Seals.”

His flight reaction nudged him to flee. “How’d you know?”

“South Eastern Conference football. You don’t think LSU would let a beast like me leave Louisiana? I recognized you the day your sorry ass showed up.”

“We played against each other?” The adrenaline dump that came with relief exhausted him.

“I’m a few years ahead of you. Finished early and went to the Army’s Officer Candidate School. Wanted to serve my country more than make Gators suffer.”

“Why didn’t you say something sooner?”

“Why? You’re looking for a second start in life after that crash—free to change your name to anything you want. Who am I to bust your balls about it,” Justice said, unwrapping the pistol. “I know you’re one fuck of a ball player. What I don’t know is if you’re an undercover cop.”

“Yeah. Yes I am.”

It felt like all the air sucked out into the ozone.

Justice’s mouth gaped open. His shoulders slumped. “What?”

St. John stepped closer, his body relaxed but tensed for an attack.

“I don’t want to keep deceiving you Justice. This assignment has changed my life.”

“I don’t know what the fuck to say.” Justice’s expression was somewhat blank, but slanted on the side of pissed.

St. John extended his hand. “SFFS?”

Justice’s eyes drew almost closed.

The narrowed slits made deciphering his attitude impossible. From the records he’d studied, St. John knew Justice’s psych evaluations front to back—knew he was susceptible to extreme mood swings. That made him as dangerous as TNT.

Justice stepped back onto the bridge and shoved his pistol in St. John’s face. St. John threw his hands up in a sign of unarmed surrender. Justice’s eyes scanned the wooded area.

St. John knew he was looking for arrests team. But this was no bust. This was one man facing the truth about a lie he’d been living.

“You think I’m stupid? Confess to me you’ve been a rat this whole time and think I’ll take your handshake oath? Fuck you, Louis Seals. Like I said, this gun can kill two cops tonight.”

St. John held his breath but stuck to staying light on his feet. An opportunity to escape would present itself, and he’d be ready to react. He worried about Abigail if he didn’t make it back, though he wondered if she was even still alive.

“Do what you want, but I had to unload my burden. I’ve lost so much in my life, but this fucked up crew of outlaws has stuck by me no matter what. You’ve been family to me, when family didn’t exist.”

The barrel of the 9mm pistol shook in Justice’s fist. “What about your thin blue line and brothers of the badge bullshit?”

“Most are okay, the rest are like anybody else. Difference is, they talk a good game until it’s knock off time. The Savage Nation lives the code twenty-four and seven.” He put his hand back out. “SFFS?”

Justice lowered the gun. “I got to think this through. Why now?” His eyes kept the hard glint of distrust.

“It’s about to erupt. I’ve been telling you this. Now, that maniac Gray Man is in the mix. I mean, fuck, Justice. I just helped you torture and murder my boss.”

“No shit, huh?” He eked out a hard laugh at the irony.

“Look, I don’t want to live the life, but I do want you to know I understand why you do what you do. We’re the same. We need that bond, but without the bullshit of rules. I thought the agency shared that, but it was all a pack of crap. How the hell does a legitimate federal agency allow a deviant like Ted Ford to climb to the top?”

Justice stood frozen, but his limbs looked loose, not adversarial. “I’m still stunned you confessed the truth.”

“This is who I am. I owed you an apology but I assure you I’ve no plans to document anything I’ve seen. The agency can’t move forward without my testimony.”

“No shit. They can’t move forward without their boss either.”

“Justice, I have to know, did you do anything to Abigail?”

A headshake to signal no. His eyes shifted between St. John and the pistol in his hand. He began to disassemble the weapon to dispose of it.

“Gave you my word. Even if I did think you were a narc.”

“I can’t get in touch with her,” St. John said, redialing her number.

“You plan on taking her with you?”

“Yes.”

“That might be a problem then. You don’t get to walk off with club property,” Justice said firmly.

“We can dispute that later. We got a whole world of shit to resolve before we find our ass on someone’s BBQ pit.”

Justice’s face forged another layer of intensity. “You feel like lending a hand to a solid man? Dragon Mike has been a trooper at holding down the fort with camp traitors, but I feel like it’s time to take out the trash.” Justice smashed his fists together.

“If it’s all the same to you, I want to get back to Abigail.”

Justice didn’t answer, busied himself making the pistol impossible to locate. When it was gone, his tool kit was also lost forever. His expression, in the hazy licks of early sunrise, showed a warrior who’d placed himself in the trenches on purpose. Whether it was for himself or a greater purpose, Justice Boudreaux lived to do one thing—fight for a cause.

“I think he’s safe for the time being. Texted me a day ago to say he’d be spending a few days away. Met a woman.” St. John laughed.

Justice reached over to high-five him. “Well, so much for old ladies.”

S
t. John wasn’t
sure how things would play out back at the clubhouse. His reunion with Abigail was tempered by the fact that the brothers could never know about the conversation he and Justice had had over that river.

Both men crashed the entire day after. St. John’s body was engulfed with not only fatigue, but also the stress over his decision to come straight with Justice. He had no plans to join the outlaw nation, but he sure as hell wouldn’t turn against them.

Pre-dawn came early. St. John’s cell phone buzzed all night. The first time it was Lawless saying they were heading back to Vegas. The rest of the calls—about forty or so—were from Jeff Graham’s number. It was Gray Man. He’d been stirred and was hungry, as he said in several posts. What roused St. John from his slumber were the final text message streams.

[hey bro. come over. I miss you – jeff graham]
from Gray Man.