Shattered by LS Silverii Page B

to be Special Agent Jeff Graham. The rushing winds buffeted his hand and made handling the cell phone a challenge. He peeked up, but only to watch Justice seem to grow more agitated at Fury’s risky behavior. Justice’s background was in the shadow ops—he preferred flying under the radar. No attention drawn equaled successful missions.
    St. John looked down and stamped out a few words to Lawless before the blare of an eighteen-wheeler’s horn and gush of air jerked his attention back to the road. He felt the cell buzz in his palm and knew his cover team was more than anxious to know when and where to meet with him. They called it proof of life.
    He glanced down to type more letters, but then steadied his HOG to look up. Fury had to be high on something. He’d never seen the guy act so asinine—especially in front of Justice. St. John kept his distance from them and tried to complete the text message.
    He looked up one last time before he hit the send button. Fury was there, and then he wasn’t. An eighteen-wheeler heading in the opposite direction smashed head on with Fury and his bike. St. John’s heart lurched into his throat as he watched the truck flash past with Fury impaled against the Peterbilt’s chrome grill.
    St. John watched Justice’s brake light pop on and off as he maneuvered his way onto the narrow shoulder. Fury’s bike had been smashed to smithereens beneath the speeding big rig, and then mangled by other rigs in the convoy.
    St. John hadn’t hated Fury, but he couldn’t say he was sorry he was gone—neutral was probably the best way to describe his attitude toward the biker’s death.
    Vehicles braked and skidded in the eastbound chaos, while westbound traffic slowed to a halt with rubberneckers looking to snap one last video in hopes of a viral YouTube opportunity. St. John weaved his way onto the shoulder about thirty yards behind Justice. The big man was hunched over his handlebars. St. John did feel connected to him, and therefore was sorrowful for his loss.
    [Fender bender. Gonna be late] St. John snickered at the text he sent to Lawless. Yep, neutral, that really was the best way to describe his feelings.

Chapter 12

    S t. John dropped the peg on his bike and eased it to rest. Swipes across his forehead drenched his arm with sweat and peeled skin. The sun had tortured the hell out of him and he was thankful for the awning over the gas pumps. He nodded to Justice on the opposite side. The big man’s eyes were red from the road and grief.
    “I’m not going to argue about your decision to ride into Grand Junction, but I still think we should’ve called the cops back there,” St. John said.
    Justice shoved the fuel nozzle into the top of his gas tank. “The pigs will figure it out. The last shit we need is to have to sit in a station all day while they investigate his dumb ass. I can’t reclaim the dead but I sure can find my weapons and cash,” he said with less swagger than most of his statements.
    “It’s your call, boss, but the guns and cash have been gone a long time. Your brother deserves your attention now.” St. John made any excuse to engage Justice until he received confirmation from Lawless or Voodoo that they’d arrived in Grand Junction.
    “How about you drop it,” Justice snapped. “I’ll deal with it after I’m done.”
    St. John watched Justice’s hands shake as spidery streaks of gasoline threaded down his painted war horse. His eyes reddened even more. St. John reached over to switch off his pump when he spotted someone familiar, but out of place. He filled his water canteen then tossed Justice a damp brown paper towel for his tank spill and headed into the service station.
    The recognition put pep in his step, but he wasn’t sure if it was real or wishful thinking. Hurrying into the store’s cold oasis, he saw the men’s room door easing shut and assumed the man had gone in to meet. First, St. John smacked a twenty down on the counter and grinned at