“He made himself dead. Red ratted us out to a mobster, and helped him set up the rip off. Confessed it was for the money.”
The old biker scoffed, “How we know it’s true?”
Justice’s blood ran cold, sinister fury bubbled beneath the surface. “Because I said so. You don’t trust your president, then drop your colors at the door,” he snarled. “It’s fuckers like you who took a shit on the black and blue decades ago. Instead of handling your business like men, you pretended to be bikers and ran from the conflict. It’s posers like you and Red who keep trying to sabotage the Savage Nation because you’re afraid of what it’s become—the real fucking deal.”
A chair scratched across the linoleum floor. It toppled and bounced. An older man groaned to stand straight. The former cafeteria hall echoed with the chair’s noise and his aching moans. Everyone else was silent—this shit was set to erupt sooner or later. The old guards weren’t happy with the power grab—they just didn’t know how to stop it.
Tommy Cloud stomped down the aisle. Shadows disappeared from his round face as he entered the lit area of the arena. Justice had to readjust his thinking, as he’d bet the old timer would’ve never walked out. Cloud’s eyes showed it was pride that drove him. Justice slid his right boot back to balance himself. His hammer-sized fist readied at his side. No need telegraphing it, but in case Cloud was unable to keep his shit in check, Justice would drop him.
“With all due disrespect, fuck you.” Cloud kept his distance but ripped the leather vest from his shoulders. It smacked to the ground.
“Thank you. I want everything belonging to the Nation,” Justice said.
Fury, the club’s treasurer, opened the door for Cloud. He also nodded to six other Savages who followed close behind the Cloud. Unfortunately, you didn’t just get to quit the club—it’d take a jumping out. Some didn’t survive the beating, but that was the risk of quitting.
Justice handed one of the six men his KA-BAR knife. “Take anything with our emblem on it.” The biker’s eyes were glazed with adrenaline. He nodded.
“Lets go, Jorge,” Fury yelled.
“Even tattoos,” Justice said.
Jorge nodded.
Justice raised his naturally low voice to speak above Cloud’s screams. Justice ground his teeth at the image of Jorge carving the tattoos out of Cloud’s skin. He’d been assigned to do it twice while a prospect in Chicago. One guy was a newbie who’d thrown himself into the outlaw life before realizing it wasn’t for him. Quitting wasn’t that easy. The other guy was an asshole, and that skinning wasn’t bad—he’d deserved it.
“Anyone else want to turn in their colors?” Justice glared across the sea of men.
Each menacing man was clad in black leather cuts adorned with patches that traced their time with the OMC like a wicked roadmap of deviance. The back of every full-patch member displayed a top rocker patch that read Savage Souls MC. The bottom rocker patch read Colorado, and the iconic passion cross, representing the cross of suffering centered in back of each cut. Everyone also wore the diamond shaped patch with the 1%’er displayed to show they were outlaws. They’d fought for these colors. Brothers had died defending them—the Savage Souls would never surrender their rights to roam.
“Can I ask a question?”
Justice spun to his left at the surprise of a question dared. The fingers on his right hand waved the biker on to continue. Tendons rippled in his flexed jaw as memories of removing the last biker’s tattooed skin swamped his mind.
“Go ahead.”
“I just came up from the South, so I don’t know shit, but why the rift between blood brothers and old guard?” The newbie was built like a Mr. Olympia, but he dropped his eyes and sat down.
Surprised by the legitimacy of his inquiry, Justice grinned. “Good question. When I pledged, the club sold me a false bill of goods. I wanted the same freedoms I had as a covert operative,” he recounted. “By the time I’d earned my patch, I’d become close enough to the leaders to understand they were bullshit artists that talked a great game but had no constitution about them. They’d become outcasts, not outlaws.”
“Then what, sir?” The brother was relentless, but respectful.
“I’d had enough, but I wasn’t quitting. Gave them a chance to retire—they said fuck me. I retired them.” Justice explained in an unconcerned monotone voice. “What’s your name?”
“James St. John, sir.” He had an unwrinkled face with longish hair brushed to the side, he looked like he could take care of himself. Justice recognized him as the chapter transplant from Tallahassee, Florida.
“You turning in your colors?”
“Never,” St. John said.
The air in the room made a sucking pop sound as the doors were jerked open. Jorge stood there, covered in blood. Slabs of inked skin flopped limp in his grasp. Blood dripped from the recovered tats.
“What the fuck, Jorge?” Vengeance had a look that was all eyes and teeth.
Justice, still pissed over the way Vengeance fucked up the Geneti kidnapping, heard the vehemence engrossed in his blood brother’s tone. The erratic behavior caused Justice to further distrust his own kin. He wondered whether Vengeance had run a line of dope before church began. He had the look. Elongated features stressed behind redden skin signaled he was back on the junk.
Jorge froze. An odd expression blanketed his swarthy complexion. His chapped lips dropped open, but he looked as though the experience of skinning Tommy Cloud had freaked him the fuck out.
“Jorge, pull it together,” Justice spoke in an unthreatening tone. His CIA training had taught him how to identify personalities and problems with them. Jorge was on the verge of a blood lust. If not controlled, he’d possibly seek the taste of it again—soon.
“We caught her.” Jorge gasped.
Rage stepped between Jorge and Justice. “Caught who?”
“This bitch.” Jorge snarled as he heaved a tall, thin woman across the threshold. Short black hair dangled over her battered but angular features. Moist blue eyes pierced through dark bangs.
“Who the fuck is she?” Rage tramped toward the girl. His fist rent against the empty air. “This is fucking church, bitch, are you insane?”
“Yes, I am insane.”
Chapter 8
His chamber was dark. The murmur of Black Sabbath’s music rumbled low in the background. Justice liked his room cold—cold enough to hang meat. He heard her struggling. The sound of flesh tapping against the icy, bare wall told him she’d been secured. A light was dialed to cast a glow over her stretched frame. Justice watched her strain to tiptoe over the sawhorse that sat split between her thighs. She fought to keep the tension off her wrists in suspended metal cuffs. They twisted against the stainless steel chain links attached to the ceiling.
“What are you going to do with me?”
Justice ignored her question. He remained in the shadows and watched—but his pulse quickened. His thumb and middle finger sandpapered each other. It was a tick or a habit or an involuntary technique he’d developed to keep his mind in the present. He had the habit of drifting back into combat or other traumatic events that provoked a violent reaction inside his body and mind. A simple act like rubbing his fingers together stopped the psychological drift.
“Answer me, damn it. I came here for you. Is this how you treat your treats?” She curled her full ass forward as her exposed pussy touched the sawhorse
Anger streaked through him. Who the fuck was she to order him? Justice was highly trained, but also highly volatile. One step closer to the breach of shadows and his breath turned to smoke as it mixed with the cold air and yellowish track of light.
“You motherfucker, say something,” she taunted.