She screamed as the sharp sting of a tattoo needle tore into her unblemished flesh.

“Stop. What are you doing?”

Her crying eyes sought Justice, but only his crossed boot wagging in the shadows, “Baby girl. I always mark my property.”

Chapter 11

Thursday morning came early. Justice grabbed his plate of breakfast from the club’s resident old lady. He pushed through the screen door and filled his lungs with the crisp freshness of pristine air, bacon and eggs. The Rocky Mountain foothills made for perfect company while finishing breakfast on the back porch.

Perched at almost eight thousand feet in elevation, Custer County was steeped in a history of agriculture and mining. The land remained unscathed thanks to the many national parks and forests. It was a long way from Chicago, and even further away from Turtle Bayou, Louisiana.

The rocking chair’s rhythm was never interrupted as the same screen door creaked open before slamming shut.

“Mind if I sit with you?” asked James St. John.

Justice nodded toward the empty chair. “Free country.”

“Thank you, but didn’t you say that nothing’s free in this country?” St. John laughed uncomfortably.

“Hell, glad someone’s paying attention.” Justice cracked a grin while shoveling food into his mouth. “You the brother from last night, right?”

“Yes, sir. I was in church. I asked about the rift between the old and the new brothers. Why don’t you just kick out the disloyal ones?”

“Too many of them, and it’d be too easy. They were once loyal to someone before me and even before the last big boss. They can change—with the right motivation. Also, the fact that they’re so loyal to the old prez shows me they have the capacity to be loyal. I’m going to use that to my advantage.”

The younger biker lapped up his food and stopped short of licking the plate clean. A sense of connection sparked with Justice. He liked St. John, but just couldn’t put his finger on why he didn’t feel he could completely trust him. Justice also understood it was within his nature not to trust most people.

Justice tossed his empty paper plate into St. John’s lap, “How bout you clean this mess up?”

“Yes, sir.”

Justice looked twice at him. “I’ll call you Opie. You look like the kid on Andy Griffith.”

St. John grimaced, “How about you don’t. Unless I get to call you Sheriff Andy Taylor.” He tried to laugh through an awkward situation.

“Maybe not. Shit you look more like the Hulk then some dopey kid anyway. What the hell you juicing with?” Justice imitated injecting steroids into his biceps.

St. John flipped him a thumbs up sign, “Weren’t you Special Forces or something like that?”

“You writing a story on my life, or a police report?”

St. John’s expression flattened. The chair bolted backward as he shoved it across the wooden surface. The younger man jammed both paper plates into the trash and moved toward the door. His light-complexioned cheeks flushed red. He said nothing. Justice leaned forward in the rocking chair to call him back. He watched as St. John stopped to hold the door open for Abigail. They exchanged bashful glances.

“Hey boy,” he barked.

He saw the agitation in St. John’s eyes, and knew enough about leading soldiers to mold the spirit of a loyal man.

“Son, we don’t extend courtesies to pigs or properties. You’re a Savage—act like it,” he commanded—St. John and Abigail dropped their heads.

“Get over here.”

Abigail shuffled in bare feet to stand next to Justice’s chair. “What happened to calling me your baby girl?” Her aimless eyes dark, and empty.

“This is what baby girls do for daddy.” His tone became harsh, as his long, tatted arm flailed beside his chair to latch onto her. Justice also noticed St. John hadn’t left yet. It pissed him off to think he was spying on him.

“Get over here, Opie.”

St. John’s movement was stiff and reluctant. “What?”

“You want to watch me, then stand there and watch me.”

Justice snatched her by the throat and drove her onto her knees. Abigail whimpered with quivering lips that fell open. He shoved her mouth over his cock—his glare never broke from St. John.

“You want some of this pig?” His finger clawed into Abigail’s jawline and cheeks. Dull blue eyes blasted wide open as he twisted her fire-red face toward St. John. Grunts escaped her mouth—he shook her skull. “Shut up, bitch.”

St. John looked away. “No, I don’t.”

Justice felt a flash of rage burn across his chest. Abigail was thrown down onto the oak slats of treated wood. She curled into a fetal position.

“Maybe you ought to go see Fury. He’ll suck your dick,” he spat with disdain over the escaped words.

St. John shook his head and walked away.

*     *     *

The paved section of trail had ended about a mile back and to the east. Not made for off road biking, the blood brothers needed the privacy more than the bike maintenance. Surrounded by blankets of pine, spruce and fir trees, the evergreen forest loomed across giant swatches of shrub covered fields.

They’d cut their massive V-Twin engines before the narrowest section of path, but wildlife scattered in every direction as their seven hundred pound Harleys coasted down a slight decline.

Justice pushed his dusty riding goggles atop his forehead. “Boys, we got to solve this shit. The Savage Nation’s still divided over leadership and word about losing a quarter million bucks has spread. If they start to organize back East, we might lose key networks for our distribution operations.” Justice’s wrinkled brow revealed a rare state of distress as his words eked between strapped lips.

“I’m working with the information from Geneti’s computer. The pilot scratched himself out with that .45 caliber through his own mouth,” Rage said. “The download and e-mail sent from Geneti’s account right before we got there is still in the hopper. My buds from old Army Intel days are trying to put a name to the e-mail account.”

“Thanks, Rage. How about you, Sue? Anything on where our cash travelled?”

“Well, our best lead was back in Las Vegas, but you killed Red without questioning him about it.”

Justice sat rigid. He didn’t take well to the insinuation that he’d fucked up. Sue had always been a calculating son of a bitch, and one of the rare people who knew how to push his buttons. He was an older brother after all—but Justice was still the president and demanded respect.

“Save your bullshit for later. We need facts, and that damn cash back in our hands. I’ll ask you again, what do you know about our money?” Justice’s Adam’s apple bobbed as he swallowed harder than usual. The Colorado sun baked his scowl—it’d been almost eight weeks since the heist and Justice felt his cash slipping away.

Sue, the former USMC Force Recon, wasn’t easily intimidated. “Lil’ Bro, it’s going to lead back to more than dead ass Red in Vegas. He had a big crew loyal to him. Matter of fact, I’d be surprised if Dragon Mike survived till the end of this week.”

Rage swung a heavy black motorcycle boot over his saddle, and stretched his back. “Yeah, I’ve been swiping their communications and looks like your young buck chapter president is making waves. He’s busting skulls and the old guard has had enough of his shit. The boy’s loyal to you, but that might be what gets him killed.” He kicked the square-toe boot against a red-clay rock formation before leaning against a mound.

“I’m going to send Vengeance back out there, but not alone.”

“Justice, send Mercy, too. He’s calm and knows how to sift through bullshit. And send somebody as a toss away. If shit gets too hot, that prick can be left there to try and back up Mike. At least the Dragon won’t die alone,” Sue said.

“Opie,” Justice added as he pulled the shades back over his eyes—the sun bounced into Rage’s face and he sneered.