his awe as the national president arrived with his entourage of nine other brother Savages.
Metal chains clanked and rattled as the wide corrugated garage door lurched and popped, sealing the vast opening off from the civilized world. Music was louder than the big boss preferred, but he accepted their hospitality. The motorcycle garage was well organized, and the Savage Souls emblem was displayed throughout the room. He grinned at their overt display of loyalty. He dropped the kickstand and detached his weary body from the frayed leather saddle.
“Welcome to Las Vegas, brothers,” Red greeted them, “Savages Forever, Forever Savages.”
“Red, we appreciate your hospitality. It’s been one fuck of a ride,” Justice Boudreaux said.
Red cut his bloodshot eyes away from Justice. “We heard about the rip job. Sorry about that, boss.”
Justice jerked his head in surprise. “You heard about it? Let’s you and me talk in private.”
Justice, like many of his brother Savages had served in the military. His career had begun with the United States Army Special Forces until the CIA recruited him away from Delta Force. Red had probably failed to finish high school, but he knew something Justice wanted to hear about—whether Red realized it or not.
Justice waited until they were alone in a narrow hall, lined with photographs of former club members, white power images and Nazi flags with Hitler’s swastikas. Justice clenched his jaw at the red and black banners. He might resent his government, but he’d still fight to the death for his country. He fucking hated the swastikas, and had ordered every club to remove them. The muscles in his jaw flexed as his mood went from agitated to pissed.
“Red, how is it that you’ve heard about something that happened so far away within such a short period of time?” He kept the question purposefully complex. Justice wanted more than a yes or no answer.
Interrogation was one of the many skill sets that helped Justice rise to the top of the Savage Souls Outlaw Motorcycle Club. The CIA’s intensified training had inadvertently created one of the badest outlaws in the world. Red withered as he, too, realized Justice’s influence.
“I, well, they said something about it. I didn’t know who they was yapping about. Then I heard y’all was coming to LV, so I put two and two together.”
Justice brought a meaty hand down on Red’s shoulder and allowed the full weight of his right side to rest atop Red’s razor-thin torso. He crunched under the pressure. Knobs of bone protruded beneath Red’s flakey, tattooed skin. The dingy wife-beater undershirt he wore looked months unwashed.
Justice allowed the awkwardness of silence to linger until Red lifted one foot and then the next while unsure of what to do with his hands. He crossed and uncrossed them several times before he finally shoved them into his diesel stained denims. Red’s lips quivered. Justice’s didn’t.
“Okay, Ricky Geneti and me was buds back in the Air Force. He offered to cut the club in on a deal. Then asked a lotta questions about motorcycle gangs and how much cash they really had. I never thought he was talking about ripping off you.”
Justice’s fingers circled his lips to part the wooly mustache. “That’s fucking unreal.”
“What, that I knew about the rip off?” Red’s body began to twitch.
“No, that you were in the military. That’s going to make this even more difficult.”
Justice looked to the end of the dim-lit hallway and nodded. His national sergeant-at-arms, Vengeance, nodded back and then adjusted a volume dial attached to the wall. Neo-Nazi death rock from Skrewdriver blared throughout the 1%’ers outlaw clubhouse. The heavy metal, head-banging music screamed until no other sounds were audible.
Red’s methamphetamine-wrecked frame folded frail into Justice’s powerful hands. There wasn’t much t-shirt to tug, so Justice snatched the local leader-turned-traitor by the throat and belt buckle and drove him into the wall. Meatless fingers latched onto Justice’s rock-hard biceps. Red’s eyes bulged. His fingertips, charred by cigarette lighter burns from melting dope on a spoon, had begun to bleed.
Justice craned his six feet-six pillar of steel to whisper into Red’s ear, “Last chance. Where’s my shit?” Expression unchanged from resistance, Justice jerked Red up and off his feet. He glanced at the first room. The door was closed—not an issue. With the full-force of a rage-fueled wrecking ball, Justice rammed Red’s spine and skull through the solid-core interior door. The door splintered, leaving shards of wood strewn into the hall and embedded into Red’s back. He winched—there’d be more to