Chapter 1
S t. John was jolted from the rarity of sleep. Justice roared through the Savage Souls’ clubhouse like a monster. His uncontained wrath ensured no one’s safety, especially the club pledges without standing in the Nation. Until the pledges earned their patch, full members were free to use them as they wished. Pledges—or probes as they were also called—were considered less than human. Even the club’s old ladies outranked them.
Stumbling from his bunk, St. John tugged on blood-splattered jeans and crept barefoot along the hall. He looked down into the smoke-filled commons area. Through the dim lighting and cloudy marijuana haze, Justice pointed a cannon of a handgun at two newbies. Both bikers had joined the national headquarters chapter in Mystic after transferring from the beleaguered Las Vegas chapter.
“Who killed him?” Justice screamed. Tony and Chomps writhed with pain, but mostly terror. They’d taken an ass whipping that wasn’t done yet. Both looked as if they wished they were back in Vegas.
“I don’t know,” cried Chomps. Sweat covered his face and dripped off a matted, gnarled beard along his round jawline.
“One of you might survive this—the other won’t. Which will it be?”
Tony’s chest rattled. He, too, was soaking wet in a sweat and blood concoction. “We don’t know, boss,” Tony chimed in for survival’s sake.
“You fucking rats just came here from Vegas—home of the traitors. My blood brother was murdered, and his club colors were draped over your ape hanger handlebars. You know something, and you’re damn well going to spill it.” Justice swept the 50 caliber Desert Eagle pistol back and forth between them. Each ducked away from the barrel but weren’t able to maneuver much with their hands above their heads in surrender.
St. John’s gut twisted into a knot. He turned his head as a rush of bile slammed its way through unbrushed teeth. He blinked through watery eyes to see long, rusted spikes had pinned both bikers’ hands into the wall. Fresh red still trailed over what looked like pints of dried blood. They’d been tacked there for a while.
What the fuck was going on? Where was Abigail?
St. John spun back toward Justice’s room. Breaths hitched deep in his chest as creaks of the old hardwood floor broadcast his every step. The door was ajar, but he hesitated at the threshold, afraid of the sight that might await him. If Justice was torturing two innocent brothers, then who knew what he’d done to her. He steadied himself for the shock and peeked around the corner. There she was.
Abigail lay sound asleep.
“Thank God,” he said softly.
She stirred.
“Abigail,” he whispered.
Her eyes, swollen from a lack of sleep but otherwise unscathed, opened. “James?”
“Are you okay? Shit’s turned rotten here. You might be in danger.”
“Meet me in the bathroom,” she said, motioning down the hall.
St. John waited until he heard a light rap against the thick wooden door. Abigail slipped through the slight crack. She lunged for him, clung to his neck with both arms. He felt her rigid torso turn to tremors of sobbing quakes. He stroked her hair and tried to hush her cries. The violent tension downstairs rose thick as volatile vapors in a mineshaft—one spark and everyone was a potential victim.
“Do you realize what’s going on in the commons area?”
Resolve replaced tears. He felt her straighten and her muscles ease up a bit. A quick swipe at her light blue eyes and she sat on the vanity with an air of confidence St. John hadn’t seen in her before.
“Yeah, I know what’s going down. Those two are getting what they deserve. They killed Rage last night. The Vegas chapter sent them as hit men.” She delivered the string of lies as easily as she spoke the alphabet.
St. John sucked his bottom lip into his mouth and clamped teeth down onto it. He hadn’t seen that one coming. Now, more than ever he knew Abigail was up to something. This
S t. John was jolted from the rarity of sleep. Justice roared through the Savage Souls’ clubhouse like a monster. His uncontained wrath ensured no one’s safety, especially the club pledges without standing in the Nation. Until the pledges earned their patch, full members were free to use them as they wished. Pledges—or probes as they were also called—were considered less than human. Even the club’s old ladies outranked them.
Stumbling from his bunk, St. John tugged on blood-splattered jeans and crept barefoot along the hall. He looked down into the smoke-filled commons area. Through the dim lighting and cloudy marijuana haze, Justice pointed a cannon of a handgun at two newbies. Both bikers had joined the national headquarters chapter in Mystic after transferring from the beleaguered Las Vegas chapter.
“Who killed him?” Justice screamed. Tony and Chomps writhed with pain, but mostly terror. They’d taken an ass whipping that wasn’t done yet. Both looked as if they wished they were back in Vegas.
“I don’t know,” cried Chomps. Sweat covered his face and dripped off a matted, gnarled beard along his round jawline.
“One of you might survive this—the other won’t. Which will it be?”
Tony’s chest rattled. He, too, was soaking wet in a sweat and blood concoction. “We don’t know, boss,” Tony chimed in for survival’s sake.
“You fucking rats just came here from Vegas—home of the traitors. My blood brother was murdered, and his club colors were draped over your ape hanger handlebars. You know something, and you’re damn well going to spill it.” Justice swept the 50 caliber Desert Eagle pistol back and forth between them. Each ducked away from the barrel but weren’t able to maneuver much with their hands above their heads in surrender.
St. John’s gut twisted into a knot. He turned his head as a rush of bile slammed its way through unbrushed teeth. He blinked through watery eyes to see long, rusted spikes had pinned both bikers’ hands into the wall. Fresh red still trailed over what looked like pints of dried blood. They’d been tacked there for a while.
What the fuck was going on? Where was Abigail?
St. John spun back toward Justice’s room. Breaths hitched deep in his chest as creaks of the old hardwood floor broadcast his every step. The door was ajar, but he hesitated at the threshold, afraid of the sight that might await him. If Justice was torturing two innocent brothers, then who knew what he’d done to her. He steadied himself for the shock and peeked around the corner. There she was.
Abigail lay sound asleep.
“Thank God,” he said softly.
She stirred.
“Abigail,” he whispered.
Her eyes, swollen from a lack of sleep but otherwise unscathed, opened. “James?”
“Are you okay? Shit’s turned rotten here. You might be in danger.”
“Meet me in the bathroom,” she said, motioning down the hall.
St. John waited until he heard a light rap against the thick wooden door. Abigail slipped through the slight crack. She lunged for him, clung to his neck with both arms. He felt her rigid torso turn to tremors of sobbing quakes. He stroked her hair and tried to hush her cries. The violent tension downstairs rose thick as volatile vapors in a mineshaft—one spark and everyone was a potential victim.
“Do you realize what’s going on in the commons area?”
Resolve replaced tears. He felt her straighten and her muscles ease up a bit. A quick swipe at her light blue eyes and she sat on the vanity with an air of confidence St. John hadn’t seen in her before.
“Yeah, I know what’s going down. Those two are getting what they deserve. They killed Rage last night. The Vegas chapter sent them as hit men.” She delivered the string of lies as easily as she spoke the alphabet.
St. John sucked his bottom lip into his mouth and clamped teeth down onto it. He hadn’t seen that one coming. Now, more than ever he knew Abigail was up to something. This
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