asked.
He held up Justice’s Glock 9mm that he’d swiped while his fists were full of St. John’s vest. St. John pressed the barrel of his weapon against Justice’s gut. There was no indentation—his damn abs was tight as a drum. Wouldn’t stop a bullet though.
“Now, we can start over. Or I can drop you with your gun or my gun, and the entire Savage Nation will once again be flipped on its head.” St. John emphasized the points. “And, Fury, if you don’t put that knife on the bar, I’ll make sure the bullets that burn through his ass, hit you too.”
“All right. I’ll give the order.” Justice opened his palm for his Glock. “What’s so special about this pig that you’d risk your life and the club for her? You know her in another life or something?” Justice shoved the pistol back in his holster.
St. John holstered his own weapon without taking his eyes away from Justice. “I really don’t know, but she came here looking for something that this club can’t give her.”
“What’s that?” Fury smirked over his blood brother’s shoulder.
“Dignity,” St. John said.
* * *
Neither had much to say as their big boss bikes rambled along I-69 with over thirteen hundred miles to go. It was a twenty-one hour haul but Justice figured they’d take the first break around the Russian River. St. John, bringing up the rear, tried to relax for the tormenting trek but the tension between the three was unpalatable.
Justice ran the operation like a need-to-know military mission. Only he knew the possible warehouse where the weapons had been hidden. The ride was too long to worry about an address that might or might not exist. St. John’s only relief came in the order given by Justice that all members would leave Abigail alone.
His gut tightened at the tingle of his cell phone beneath his buttoned vest. He backed off the formation and slipped his hand beneath the cut. His gaze bounced between freeway and cell screen. The Super Glide was squeezed between his thighs as he used both hands to click and scroll through messages.
[dude, I’m ok. Chat ltr].
Finally his former partner, Jeff Graham, had replied to his text from days earlier.
Relieved, St. John shoved the cell back into an inside vest pocket while he sucked in gulps of the hot air that blasted around and over his fairing’s windshield. He chewed on the inside of his cheek as he thought through Graham’s message—something wasn’t right.
But what?
Chapter 11
S t. John glanced into a painted morning sky—before, he’d always marveled as the pink glow streaked through the soft blue canvas like fingers raked through clouds. A Florida native, he only knew sand and water—never anything more hilly than a dune. The Rocky Mountains’ majesty was never lost on St. John. But this trip he couldn’t regale in the dawning glory. The knot in his gut reminded him that shit wasn’t right.
Riding point now, St. John noticed Justice’s glare through his rearview mirror. They’d been on the road for several hours so far—no sign of Lawless or Voodoo. He had to check in with his cover units soon. He scanned arid flatlands, as still and vacant as it was dry. Either the others had mastered the art of surveillance, or he was on his own. Again.
“What’s the problem?” Justice yelled into the wind.
Startled, St. John jerked alert. His bike wobbled toward the sharp shoulder drop off. He strangled the handlebar grips, eyes stretched as wide as his mouth. Wiping out at this speed could kill him or make him wish he were dead. Justice swung his ride far left to avoid the overcorrection. Sure enough, St. John jerked in the opposite direction and leaned his body weight to the left. The giant cruiser reacted as it was designed to do—crisp in its execution. As the bike righted, he was completely across the centerline and traveling in the wrong lane as traffic sped toward him.
His right hand burned as he flexed to crank down on the
He held up Justice’s Glock 9mm that he’d swiped while his fists were full of St. John’s vest. St. John pressed the barrel of his weapon against Justice’s gut. There was no indentation—his damn abs was tight as a drum. Wouldn’t stop a bullet though.
“Now, we can start over. Or I can drop you with your gun or my gun, and the entire Savage Nation will once again be flipped on its head.” St. John emphasized the points. “And, Fury, if you don’t put that knife on the bar, I’ll make sure the bullets that burn through his ass, hit you too.”
“All right. I’ll give the order.” Justice opened his palm for his Glock. “What’s so special about this pig that you’d risk your life and the club for her? You know her in another life or something?” Justice shoved the pistol back in his holster.
St. John holstered his own weapon without taking his eyes away from Justice. “I really don’t know, but she came here looking for something that this club can’t give her.”
“What’s that?” Fury smirked over his blood brother’s shoulder.
“Dignity,” St. John said.
* * *
Neither had much to say as their big boss bikes rambled along I-69 with over thirteen hundred miles to go. It was a twenty-one hour haul but Justice figured they’d take the first break around the Russian River. St. John, bringing up the rear, tried to relax for the tormenting trek but the tension between the three was unpalatable.
Justice ran the operation like a need-to-know military mission. Only he knew the possible warehouse where the weapons had been hidden. The ride was too long to worry about an address that might or might not exist. St. John’s only relief came in the order given by Justice that all members would leave Abigail alone.
His gut tightened at the tingle of his cell phone beneath his buttoned vest. He backed off the formation and slipped his hand beneath the cut. His gaze bounced between freeway and cell screen. The Super Glide was squeezed between his thighs as he used both hands to click and scroll through messages.
[dude, I’m ok. Chat ltr].
Finally his former partner, Jeff Graham, had replied to his text from days earlier.
Relieved, St. John shoved the cell back into an inside vest pocket while he sucked in gulps of the hot air that blasted around and over his fairing’s windshield. He chewed on the inside of his cheek as he thought through Graham’s message—something wasn’t right.
But what?
Chapter 11
S t. John glanced into a painted morning sky—before, he’d always marveled as the pink glow streaked through the soft blue canvas like fingers raked through clouds. A Florida native, he only knew sand and water—never anything more hilly than a dune. The Rocky Mountains’ majesty was never lost on St. John. But this trip he couldn’t regale in the dawning glory. The knot in his gut reminded him that shit wasn’t right.
Riding point now, St. John noticed Justice’s glare through his rearview mirror. They’d been on the road for several hours so far—no sign of Lawless or Voodoo. He had to check in with his cover units soon. He scanned arid flatlands, as still and vacant as it was dry. Either the others had mastered the art of surveillance, or he was on his own. Again.
“What’s the problem?” Justice yelled into the wind.
Startled, St. John jerked alert. His bike wobbled toward the sharp shoulder drop off. He strangled the handlebar grips, eyes stretched as wide as his mouth. Wiping out at this speed could kill him or make him wish he were dead. Justice swung his ride far left to avoid the overcorrection. Sure enough, St. John jerked in the opposite direction and leaned his body weight to the left. The giant cruiser reacted as it was designed to do—crisp in its execution. As the bike righted, he was completely across the centerline and traveling in the wrong lane as traffic sped toward him.
His right hand burned as he flexed to crank down on the
Similar Books
