Bare ass, both bikers bolted from the cum-stained mattress shoved into a corner of the cave. The girl lay moaning, rubber tubing knotted around her left forearm. A soiled hypodermic flailed from the rusted tip still jabbed in her vein. Justice rolled her comatose body onto the floor and kicked the wafer-thin mattress over to shield her.

“How could you dishonor the code, Red?” Justice snarled as he yanked him back up by his wiry ponytail.

“Money. He offered me money,” Red cried. His words and tears evaporated behind the wallop of Justice’s fist into his soft gut.

“Where’s my money, Red?”

“I don’t know. Ricky got a crib in the badlands before the strip.”

Justice nailed him again so hard it felt like his fist had connected with Red’s spine. “Where’s my weapons, Red?”

Justice used a pattern of questioning that incorporated his victim’s name for personal connection. It meant Red would remain alive because of the personalization of the question and name. All thanks to the United States government reprogramming.

“I swear, I don’t know. Ask the pilot… Rocky Jones.” Red gasped short of breath. His wind resounded with a gurgling—internal bleeding.

“Where’s the brotherhood?”

“You fucked it up by flipping on our founding fathers. They created this club, not you.” Indignant, those would be Red’s final words.

Chapter 5

Abigail slept through the next two days. Each time she’d open her swollen eyes—Jack’s screams tormented her memory. Hell, it’d only been two days—not even long enough to be considered a memory.

Someone had changed her out of the tiny blue jean cut-off shorts and front-knot checkered shirt. The brush burns along her thighs had been cleaned up, and Nevada state highway asphalt picked out of the wounds in her right elbow. She recalled busting her ass as the biker threatened to shoot her, but the sight of Jack was too much for her frazzled mind to process.

Her eyes throbbed. Afternoon demanded her attention—there’d be work to do. Steam wafted in the room—Abigail lay flat on her back and stared at the molded ceiling tiles. Caught between grief and fury, she just lay there. Her body was numb, but her thoughts whirled to determine her next reaction, reality and future.

Finally, she moved. Bare feet padded over the dusty tile floor as she marched a stiff-legged shuffle toward the bathroom. The motion seized her with panic. Too fearful to turn her head, Abigail allowed the peripheral vision to confirm it. Yes, there was movement in her son’s bedroom. Might’ve all been a nightmare? Goosebumps ricocheted across her skin.

“Jack?” She dared herself to say his name aloud. “Jack, is that you? Come to mommy.” She was so horribly confused she didn’t know what to do. Unsure if she should enter the room, Abigail waited. She did nothing—except be afraid.

Finally she realized the motion and sound came from the helium balloons and birthday party toys. She gasped. It was real—Jack was gone. Her life would never be the same—no matter how brief. What was she supposed to do now? She could think of nothing. What was the point?

Full bottle of oxycodone in fist, she slunk back to her bedroom. Her ass teetered on the edge of a third-hand twin mattress. A half-empty glass of discolored water vibrated with each rumbling big rig. Thirty white pills tumbled across her palm and onto the nightstand. She debated over whether to take half or all of them.

I guess it depends on how dead I want to be.

All of them. Abigail scooped them into her quaking palm and rattled the pills like shooting dice. A quick sip of warm water to lube up her throat. Her lips pinched at the stagnant taste.

“Here goes nothing,” she whispered.

She coaxed her hand toward a trembling bottom lip. Deep, heavy breaths tried to calm her skyrocketing pulse. The thought of all her struggles coming to an end comforted yet terrified her. Her gaze landed on the dresser, on her reflection, and her heart caught in her throat as the bitter taste of the first pill touched her tongue.

Wet eyes blinked back reluctance. Her thin thighs flexed as one foot skidded from beneath the bed. A passing eighteen-wheeler blared its air horn after screeching tires braked. The abrupt sounds scared her, caused her to peek out through the venetian blinds behind the borrowed clothes dresser drawer.

Glassy eyes saw it atop her dresser drawer. She dumped the pills onto her mattress, and reached for her future—Ricky’s home address, and her reason for living—revenge.

*     *     *

Justice push-walked his Harley Davidson Road King to the curb. He’d selected the cruiser especially for the journey. Besides being comfortable, it had been an offering from the Las Vegas chapter once he was ordained the president over every chapter in the United States and the few new OMC chapters that sprung up globally.

His calloused fingers traced the custom imagery painted across the gas tank. It showed his position within the Savage Souls. The sun promised another scorching hot day, but Justice, like the others, sported their leather cuts without fail. The Western United States was controlled by the Hells Angels, but even they knew the reputation forged by Justice and his headquarter posse.

Outlaw Motorcycle Clubs wearing full-patched vests, or colors, as the bikers called it, into another OMC’s territory was forbidden unless permission was given—a rare event. Known as patched over, Justice refused to consider wearing the “I support Hells Angels” patches while in Big Red territory. They’d kill each other before he dishonored his own club’s colors.

Eyes squinted and a glint of approach through his rearview mirror caused him to sit up. Put together like a brick shithouse, Dragon Mike was young and relatively new in the culture of chaos.

“Mike, I’m counting on you to lead the Savage Nation out here in the desert.”

The former Marine sergeant extended his right hand. “President Justice, I’m still shocked, but I’ll never let you down. You got my blood oath.” Tacky liquid bubbled from his wound. A razor-sharp KA-BAR had sliced through a heavily tattooed palm for his blood oath, and illustrated his sacred commitment to the Savages and Justice.

Justice slipped a thumb across the electric starter button—the HOG roared to life. “Don’t be shocked, just be loyal.”

“Sir, what should I do with Red’s body?” Mike asked. “Starting to ripen the joint.” “Girl still alive?”

“Barely”

“Duct tape both together, and drop them off in either the desert or behind a hospital.” Justice tested the new leader with a choice.

“Really?”

“You’re in charge now, Mike.”

“Semper Fi, sir,” Dragon Mike snapped a salute as crisp as his final day at Camp Pendleton. Justice glared back as the ten HOGs rumbled out of sight toward the Jesse James Airfield. His teeth pressed against the wind with delight as the new local chapter leader held his rigid salute until he could no longer see him.

*     *     *

The airfield was semi-private. That usually meant illegal shit went down—especially in a landing strip plowed out in the middle of nowhere. Swung gates were left open, and clattered with the collection of thick chain links and heavy locks. Justice stopped before he glided through the unprotected entrance—almost too easy.

His left fist clenched shut and was held above his head to bring the other bikes to an idle. “Spread out. Looking for Rocky Jones, a pilot.”

Shit smells like an ambush to me.

“Bro, I don’t like this. You trusting Red’s word about this guy as the rip-off pilot?” Mercy, his biological blood brother warned.

Justice swiveled his head to cast an eye upon his questioning brother, and smiled with a cocky screw you look that often led to epic fights with his own kin.