Shattered by LS Silverii Page A

accelerator. Soon, he was back in the westbound lane. Fury’s mouth flapped wide in laughter. St. John shivered with the cold created by the coat of sweat that exploded through his pores. He had to get his shit together.
    Fucking idiot. I almost died and he thinks its funny?
    He slammed his left hand between his legs. He’d taken his cell phone back out of his vest to recheck Graham’s text message and had it balanced between is thighs. Whew, his phone hadn’t fallen. He shoved it deeper beneath his crotch. He tried to distance himself again from the other two but sensed their suspicions. Shit, he’d selected Fury for the mission when no one else trusted him. He wasn’t sure why the blood brother was so jacked up about going. It almost seemed like he knew Gray Man—or was scared shitless of him.
    “That’s it,” St. John whispered into the wind. “That wasn’t Graham.” He clamped his mouth shut because Justice looked like he was staring a hole through him—maybe the ex-CIA badass read lips.
    Graham had once explained how he used three exclamation points behind every text and e-mail as a security measure. St. John used to tell him the idea was ridiculous. Until now. That one simple thing might save his life—or it might have cost Graham his.
    The Savage Souls grey and black metal-looking passion cross tattoos that adorned each forearm rippled under the unrelenting rays. Sweat that formed to cool the body was immediately swept away by hot air that blasted by at over eighty miles per hour. It left the perception that you were cool while, in fact, you dehydrated before you could prevent it. Many bikers crashed on the open roads and never knew why—but they’d blacked out from heat stroke.
    St. John hadn’t noticed the change in temperature or scenery. They’d been full throttle for hours. The sun sat directly overhead and his body felt shriveled and burned from the combination of hot wind and highway heat. Salt in his sweat had crystallized around his eyes and mouth. He was exhausted—the night with Abigail wasn’t what he’d expected, but the decent time spent alone with her was all he could’ve hoped for.
    “We’ll stop short of Utah. Pull off in Grand Junction to refuel,” Fury hollered. His teeth bucked the air while his lips flapped like a cartoon. He’d gone without installing the windshield, so he was paying the price with the wind whipping his ass like baseball bats to the sternum for over five hours. They had sixteen more to go.
    “Okay,” St. John said. “What’s so funny?”
    “The way your stupid ass looked back there.” His face mangled in hysterics.
    “Back where?”
    “When your dumb ass almost became road kill. That shit would’ve been funny to see.” Fury howled as his stench from days in the Box, and then the city jail assailed St. John’s nostrils.
    “Fuck off,” St. John yelled back, but his words went unheard as Fury’s high-powered Harley Davidson screamed away at an incredible speed.
    “What a dick.” St. John smirked and backed off the throttle to watch Fury show his ass along the highway. He zoomed between cars, flipped off motorists and even stood up on his saddle. It was a good show, but St. John had more important business to handle—somehow he had to let Lawless and Voodoo know they’d stop in Grand Junction, and that Graham’s cell was being monitored by an unknown side.
    The last time St. John ran through Grand Junction en route to Las Vegas he’d ditched his escorts to meet the cover team of special agents on Arrowest Court. Lawless would know the location, but Supervisor Ted Ford or Dr. Worthington had better not be there. Now to just send him a text message—St. John made sure Justice and Fury were far away before he slid his hand beneath his balls to retrieve the cell phone.
    He bit at his salty upper lip as he glanced back and forth between the phone and highway. He’d missed several messages from Lawless and two more from whoever was pretending