Closed eyes, he forced his memory to serve him. He’d been on that highway, and he saw the woman. He’d also seen a woman jump from Geneti’s second story condo and scamper away. They were the same woman. He smashed his right fist into his left palm—how’d he miss that. Who was she? He’d not seen her directly on either occasion, but he’d soon recall everything else about her.

The replaced screen door flung open. Justice looked up at the sound of heavy footfalls hurrying across the wooden floor.

“Justice, come quick. It’s that blue-eyed bitch,” yelled Rocket John.

Justice’s heart raced. He sprinted to the bottom of the steps. “What about her?”

“She slit her wrists in your bathtub.”

*     *     *

The three Savages rolled their hogs at a steady clip along State Highway 50. Traffic was light, and they stuck close to the posted speed limit. Heavily armed with guns and explosives, they couldn’t afford even the simplest traffic stop.

St. John enjoyed the open road time. Although he hated Vengeance, he didn’t have to interact with him while they trekked along the highways. His face into the sun, the thick leather vest snapped over his torso kept the beating wind at bay as they cranked back on the accelerators while trapped in a cluster of cars.

Vengeance backed off and coasted alongside St. John. “We get stopped by the fuzz, you’ll put a bullet in him. Understand?”

“Why?”

“Because there’s one up ahead. He’s your responsibility.” Vengeance scoffed as though he looked forward to killing a cop.

St. John debated his options as the Harley Davidsons quickly approached the marked state highway patrol cruiser. Bottom lip throbbed as he bit into it over anxiety that ate away at him. He hoped the officer would just let this one pass. He backed off to intercept the officer if he tried to initiate a traffic stop. His stone-cold gaze met the trooper’s mirrored sunglasses and smirk. The lawman never moved.

“Lucky motherfucker. Would’ve been his last day.” Vengeance howled.

“Maybe lucky for all. We got a long way to go still,” yelled Mercy.

“We hit I-70 up here at Grand Junction,” Vengeance hollered back.

About thirty miles later they slowed for a right turn onto 24 Road in Grand Junction. Mercy made the light, while Vengeance waited to turn right on red after traffic cleared. He did, and disappeared from St. John’s sight.

St. John ripped through the red light but kept straight. Cars blasted their horns as brakes screeched to barely miss his bike. He sped up until he got to G Road. He lightly tapped his brakes while he laid the bike close to the curve in a right-hand rotation. He gunned it until he reached Arrowest Court. His wrist stroked back on the leather-coated accelerator handle. He hit an abandoned dead end.

Abandoned except for the three dark navy vehicles—typical federal Government issues. Six cops in identifiable khaki pants and four with mustaches leapt from behind air-conditioned interiors. Weapons drawn, eyes concealed behind reflective sunglasses. Strain across each face, their heads swiveled as though scouting for more outlaws. They looked as surprised by St. John’s sudden appearance, as he was of theirs.

St. John sighed. There was nowhere else to go and no one else for miles around. His worries turned to Mercy and Vengeance—they’d soon come looking for him after they refilled their tanks—maybe before. Leave no Savage behind wasn’t just for military and police—it was the way of life for the Savage Nation.

His Fat Boy model HD crept over the cracked cement cul-de-sac, cautious about approaching the four men and two women agents. He killed his V-Twin about ten feet from them—their weapons were still drawn but at a lowered ready-gun position.

The female agent approached first. She ripped the large lens frame from her fatigued-face and planted herself about three feet from his front tire.

“Well if it ain’t Special Agent Louis Seals.” Her lips stretched into a wide smile.

“Hi Voodoo. Good to see you and Lawless are on the case,” he called out to Task Force Agent Krystal “Voodoo” Laveau.

Lawless Boudreaux, the seventh of the other six Savage Souls’ blood brothers, worked as a captain in a south Louisiana investigations task force. He and Voodoo had both been reassigned to the Department of Justice’s outlaw biker task force because of their inside knowledge of the other six Boudreaux brothers.

“I’m James St. John,” he said. “Until this undercover operation is done, I’m always James St. John.”

CONTINUED IN DAMAGED – BOOK 2

About the Author

LS Silverii is a highly decorated law enforcement officer from Cajun country with over 25 years of heart-racing experience.

Broken is the first in the Savage Souls Series. The dark romantic suspense series takes you behind the badge and into an often-unknown world of outlaws to experience the raw rush and ruggedness of true alpha heroes.

Connect with me online:

www.silverhartwriters.com

facebook.com/CopsWritingCrime

twitter.com/silverhartllc

If you enjoyed reading Broken: Savage Souls, I would appreciate it if you’d help others enjoy this book, too.

Recommend it. Please help other readers find this book by recommending it to friends, readers’ groups and discussion boards.

Review it. Please tell other readers why you liked this book by reviewing it. If you do write a review, please send me an email at scottsilverii@gmail.com so I can thank you with a personal email. Or visit me at www.silverhartwriters.com

Links to my Other Books

Savage Souls Series

Broken – (Book 1)

Damaged – (Book 2)

Vicious – (Book 3)

Shattered – (Book 4)

Redemption – (Book 5)

The Shadow Ops Series

Danger’s Desire – (Book 1)

Danger’s Heat – (Book 2)

Danger’s Passion – (Book 3)

The Cajun Murder Mystery Series

Bayou Roux: The Complete First Season

Bayou Backslide: A Cajun Murder Mystery Series Special Edition

A Darker Shade of Blue: From Public Servant to Professional Deviant; Policing’s Special Operations Culture: A Darker Shade of Blue

Cop Culture: Why Good Cops Go Bad

Sneak peek at Book 2

Damaged

His usual self-assured, commanding mien was vacated for twisted lips and a pinched brow that signaled disapproval. She heard his heels drive into the reconstructed wooden floors. The large glass pane windows were thrust open. Abigail’s skin tingled at the wind swept kisses of a warm afternoon’s breeze. She unintentionally moaned.

Justice’s wrath toward his brothers was illustrated as he tried to speak through lips contorted by emotion. She felt a sense of gratefulness by his protective nature. Without thinking, her fingers dallied. Not for circulation, but for making human contact with the one who took her in and protected her—sometimes.

She’d become a victim of the Stockholm syndrome, where captives begin to sympathize with their captures. She’d arrived with hate in her heart and revenge racing through her veins. Maybe it was Justice’s skill in dominating others, but at times she’d forgotten why she was there. Fuck, at times all she could think about was being dominated. She really didn’t give shit about anything, anymore—or so she thought.

Justice stood beside her—she stroked his thigh with as much motion as she could muster with her arms still restrained.

“Baby, please untie my hands. I’m not going to hurt myself anymore.”

She rolled her hips side to side. Her groin area had begun to warm. She was already so swollen from the repeated sessions from the brothers that her mind blanked on how she could now desire more sex. It was her daddy after all.