Broken - LS Silverii Page 0,8
come.
“Hey motherfucker, what you think you…” one of three bikers in the room yelled, scrambling for his knife. When Justice glared into his fat bearded face, he cowered and stumbled down the hall.
Red’s limp, but alert body was physically hurled across the room. The other two bikers, busy finishing up their gang-bang of what looked like a high school freshman, gazed perplexed.
Stench reeked and Justice dry heaved. The windowless room’s only illumination was porn pumping through computer screens but it was enough to show them the national president had just bounced their local boss off the deck.
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