Shattered (6 page)

“Oh, Abigail, ohh Abiga—oh my gosh, Abi…” His words trailed off as his head bucked like a damn wild stallion.

“Baby!” she screamed.

“Oh yeah, baby.” His breath still hitching in his chest, he looked as if he’d passed into another realm of consciousness. Bliss.

“No, baby, look.” Wide-eyed, she gasped, pointing toward the plate glass window. Multiple figures were positioning themselves just beyond the door.

“Son of a bitch,” he spat.

St. John shoved Abigail off the mattress. She folded between the bed and wall. He reached for his jeans but couldn’t find them in the dark. His Sig Sauer P288 duty weapon rested atop those pants. She watched his frantic attempts to find it.

“Who is it?” she asked.

The door crashed open to the rattle of automatic gunfire. Her eyes widened but never blinked. Light blue irises trembled in their sockets. Her lips quavered, holding back a scream, but tears had already arrived.

Wood-grain paneling and asbestos insulation rained down upon them as bullets tore the wall wide open. Abigail felt St. John trying to shove her beneath the bed, but the frame was solid and set on the floor. There was no place to go.

Tucked tight, she howled as the burning hot brass seared the flesh of her arched back. She saw the empty casing roll onto the carpet and realized it was from the pistol St. John had shot—her Glock 9mm. No clue how many bullets the magazine held, or how many shots had been fired. She only knew there were many, based on the fiery bounces of fired brass that struck her bare skin.

Finally, silence.

She rolled to her side and looked up to see St. John holding the pistol. The top slide was pushed back. It looked like he was out of ammunition.

His face animated, he whispered, “Stay down. I think they’re reloading. I’m going to charge them, so stay down no matter what.” Even faced with sacrificing his own life, St. John’s voice remained low and calm. No fear showed in his face, only a determination to save her.

“Thank you,” she said, then reconsidered her words. She tugged his wrist. “I meant to say I love you.”

St. John offered a fleeting smile that faded into a stone-cold look of determination to get them out of this fix. He parted his lips to speak, but jerked his gaze upward at the sound of numerous footsteps approaching.

She refused to cry anymore. He’d shown her love for once in her life and that beat the hell out of never having known it at all. St. John held her hand. This would be the end.

There were more attackers coming. She heard their footsteps outside the door.

“Y
ou shot cops,
are you fucking out of your mind?” Abigail screamed. Her hands flailed.

St. John tried to shield her from the carnage. He jerked the sheet off the bed, wrapped her in it, and moved her toward the motel’s dinky bathroom. She fought, making it difficult for him to handle her. He wrapped an arm around her bony shoulders. She pulled away, curling over to vomit. St. John rubbed her back, glancing toward the four bullet-riddled bodies that cluttered the doorway.

“You’re welcome, but beats the shit out of the alternative, doesn’t it?” Sarcasm dripped from Sue’s voice.

He towered in the threshold—sawed-off shotgun in his right hand. St. John pressed his fist against his gut to quell a nervous sickness. He owed the Savage Souls his life but he also knew they’d stake that claim at some point soon.

“Who are these assholes?” St. John asked, tugging his jeans back on. He found his 9mm under the desk chair.

“Don’t know, but I bet they ain’t the real fuzz.” Sue kicked at one of the corpses. The body wore a black t-shirt with
POLICE
printed across the front and back in white letters.

“Check his back pocket for a commission card. Anybody can buy a t-shirt,” St. John ordered.

Sue cut him a look. “How you know so much about that?”

St. John pushed past him and jabbed his fingers into the man’s pockets. “I watch a lot of TV,” he retorted. He found a California driver’s license in a chained leather wallet. “I thought so. These fuckers ain’t cops.”

“Check for tats,” Rotten, another brother, suggested.

“We gotta get out of here.” A panic-seized Abigail tried to step over the bodies.

“Don’t worry about the police. Chief Perez is all tied up.” Sue snickered, then ripped the fake police t-shirts to shreds as he examined shot-shredded skin for tattoos.

“Hey, that’s Soggy Bottom,” Rotten hollered.

St. John’s head jerked up. “Who?”

“He’s a pledge in the Vegas chapter. Started off real good, but after about four months he backslid. Missing church and losing his cut. Just turned into a shit bag of alibis,” Rotten explained. His face was red with a large vein pulsing like crazy.

St. John rolled another body onto its back. “This idiot’s wearing Los Jinetes ink. When did they start rolling together?”

Finally dressed, Abigail squeezed her way between Sue and the doorframe. St. John watched him stare at her, and then run his right thumb across the front of his throat as a signal she’d fallen on the wrong side of what the brothers allowed as acceptable. St. John’s chest vibrated at the vile spirit of violence and total intimidation with which the blood brothers operated. St. John hadn’t had a beef with Sue, but his threat to her might’ve just changed that.

Sue whipped out his switchblade and sliced the shirts off of all the corpses. He tossed them in the middle of the bed then struck a match and threw it onto the clothes pile.

“Why’d you do that?” St. John asked. “That’ll bring the fire boys screaming.”

“I’m guessing your DNA is all over this room. Any more questions?” Sue glared at him and then at Abigail. “If not, I’d suggest you both get the fuck out of here. Meet us at Ellie’s Outpost.”

There wasn’t much conversation along the way. St. John backed off the gas to allow Sue and Rotten to pull up ahead. St. John touched Abigail’s hand during the drive to help settle her nerves, but even he had to admit, that shit had been scary.

“Grab that carton in the glove box,” he told her.

“What’s is it?” she asked, lifting a small-but-heavy cardboard box.

He grabbed her Glock 9mm and dropped the magazine. “It’s your reload. Keep this with you at all times. Don’t hesitate to use it, but of course you never did.”

“No shit. Just ask Rage.” Her laughter was cold at the mention of having killed a man, but St. John figured after the hell he’d caused her, Rage deserved it.

He handed her the pistol; she lingered in the exchange. He could feel her soul’s expression had changed. He smiled. Now she wanted to survive this.

“You know what they’re going to do to me once you head for California, don’t you?” she asked. Just as quick as it had lightened, his heart sunk. She was right. He strangled the steering wheel and fixed his eyes straight ahead on the road until he pulled into a darkened lot.

Patio lights popped on, and the door opened. “We closed,” Ellie yelled.

Sue and Rotten were already situated on a wooden bench as St. John and Abigail walked up.

“Oh, it’s you boys, and if it ain’t little Annie Oakley?” Ellie drew back on a swig of beer then smacked her lips. “Want the lights off or on?”

St. John jerked a glare at Ellie to try and shut her up before she spilled the beans about the night Abigail pulled the pistol on him.

“You can kill the lights, and try keeping it down this time,” Sue said.

Ellie cackled like a Halloween witch. “I can’t promise your boy won’t scream. The last one howled like a damaged dog, but, hey, if you want to use my pad as a stash house, then feed me the flesh.”

She held the door open as Rotten walked into her place, his head down. He’d objected to having to fuck the old bat, but he also knew club rules meant no disobedience. Cock was the bribe Ellie charged for using her place to launder money and her keeping an eye out for the club.

Fuck that idiot. I hope the whore has the clap, St. John thought.

He caught Sue’s stare after the front door closed. For a moment the three of them chuckled at the thought of Rotten trying to keep his dick hard long enough to bang the old broad. Alone now with Sue and Abigail, St. John’s thoughts turned to the reality of what had just happened in the motel.

“How’d you know we were in there? You following me?” St. John demanded.

Sue stabbed a heavy finger toward Abigail. “Her.”

She leaned away from him with a fearful expression. “Why me, what’d I do?”

“You’re a pig—club property. Ain’t right if you’d go missing. Justice wanted me to make sure she didn’t slip out the back while you were balling her.”

“That’s bullshit, Sue. Don’t fuck with me. The blood brothers are still pissed at me for fucking up Vengeance. Bad thing is, y’all need my ass to get those guns back. So keep fucking with me, and you can get them on your own.” St. John felt a rush of both panic and pride as he loud capped the Savage Nation’s vice president.

“Don’t push it, Opie. Remember, this pig will be back here while you’re out there. Fuck us over, and your little motel queen will be begging for Vengeance’s attention after we all take turns at her.” Sue’s fingertips scratched over his dry, crusty lips.

St. John hated that nickname and saw the irony of Bobby Boudreaux, who’d been dubbed Sue by his father, being the one to call him Opie—it was fucking childish.

St. John slammed the beer bottle onto the wooden picnic table. It didn’t break. “Touch her even once, and I’ll be back here like hell fire.”

“Just do your job.” Sue guzzled the rest of the beer left on the table for them by Ellie.

“Just keep your hands off of her,” St. John said.

He watched Sue’s eyes scan fast and wild around the area. His look morphed into something decadent—St. John knew shit was about to break.

“Really? Hey pig, get over here and suck my cock,” Sue barked at Abigail. His voice deep and scarred from booze and shouting orders as a USMC drill sergeant, showed no mercy.

St. John leapt between the two, hands clenched and ready to fight. “The fuck you will.”

“Sit down, Opie,” Sue goaded.

He shoved his chest out. “Make me.”

St. John heard the distinctive click of a double-barrel shotgun behind and to his right. It was Rotten.

“Okay stupid—you gonna play hero?” Rotten said from the safety of an open window.

Sue curled his long blood-covered index finger, motioning for Abigail to come to him. “On your knees and crawl to me like the pig you are.” The long, tight grin across his face matched the slices of his narrowed eyes. Sue’s pinpoint pupils bounced between her and St. John. His other hand tugged at his zipper.

“Abigail, don’t you dare crawl to this asshole.” St. John reached for her.

She ducked away from his grip. “I’m property, and here to serve the brotherhood,” she rasped in a monotone.

He saw her hand shove something further into the rear of her pants—her pistol.

“Opie, let me show you what this whore’s going to get every day you’re playing suck up to Justice in California. You want to fuck with me—here, watch this.”

St. John’s gut wretched to watch Abigail reluctantly shuffle toward Sue. Her head hung low—knees and hands moved by inches as she closed in. They’d just made love hours before, and now this motherfucker was going to commit a sexual assault to prove a point. St. John’s heart raced as he made himself watch her kneel before Sue and choke down the entire length of his monstrous dick.

Rotten’s taunts and cheers synchronized with Ellie’s reappearance onto the patio. Another deviant spectator, the old woman’s delight sickened him. Sue sat in the rocking chair like a fucking king on his throne. St. John knew right then of at least two more people who were going on his list of those to die. Ellie would be shown mercy—she was probably herself a victim of gang sexual violence.

Sue snapped his fingers. St. John looked his way.

“I’m about to explode into this pig’s throat. Wouldn’t want you to miss it.”

Yeah, you’re going to explode all right, motherfucker.

F
rom upstairs, St.
John saw the kitchen light was on. It wasn’t yet four in the morning as he brushed Abigail’s hair from her forehead, kissed her goodbye, and slipped out of the bedroom. He took one step onto the stairs and hesitated, glancing back with a heavy heart. She’d pay hell after what he’d told Sue. He’d also give Justice one last chance to do the right thing and order her hands off by the Nation.