Sabotage: Beginnings (21 page)

Justice looked across at his brother. The former United States Marine was a true bad ass, and had always known how to push Justice’s buttons. Even as kids, Sue gave him more shit than he could handle. But in the long run, that had added to the disciplined toughness Justice would need to survive his career.

“Not sure what’s going on, but shit ain’t right,” he said.

Sue passed an open beer bottle back over the alligator’s carcass and motioned for Justice to drink. Justice guzzled the rest of the cold froth and tossed the bottle atop a pile of other glass bottles and cans.

“Weird shit going on. I might be in danger.”

Sue straightened atop the upside down bucket. His shoulders drew back to ready attention as his face hardened in determination. Justice knew that look. Violence wasn’t far behind.

“Who? You fuck with one Boudreaux, you fuck with us all.”

“Politics gone south. The Agency’s pissed and somebody gotta pay. They choose me and Batya.”

Sue yanked the top off another bottle of beer. The sun silhouetted him and caused the icy bottle to shimmer in the reflection of dark waters that surrounded them.

“I’ll be damned. Live by the sword…”

Justice grabbed for the bottle. “Die by the sword.”

“Whole team or a splinter?” Sue asked.

Justice wiped off the foam that tickled his lips. “Not sure, but I see it as two subsections who used to operate in the blind, now joined forces and looking to blame me for the failure of their separate projects.”

The Force Recon Marine emptied another bottle in one long tilt. His military tattoos flexed and popped as he mashed the glass between his fingers. Justice, who’d always loved his brothers, was proud of Sue at that moment for his sincere show of being pissed off at his brother being threatened. It was like being back in school at Turtle Bayou Elementary—Sue kicked bullies’ asses back then too.

“We have to chop the head, or crush the whole snake?”

Justice waved his hand and pursed his mouth. “Oh no, there ain’t no we in this scenario.” He stood and walked to the pier’s edge. The water looked so peaceful but he knew the shit that lurked below. “You got a wife and kids my brother, and it’s not your fight. I’m not a child anymore.”

Sue jerked him around by the shoulders, his face wild with adrenaline, “You come before my family. Even before my kids. These ain’t fat-ass bullies back on the playground you’re dealing with, Justice. These motherfuckers are dangerous—they’re ghosts.”

“Sue, I love you, but don’t say that. Your family has to be first. And yeah, these ain’t the spooks we fucked with in the desert. These are desk jockeys.”

“Don’t take ’em for granted. They didn’t get where they are because they’re soft or stupid. As for my family, they’ll always be okay. You’re my brother and if it hadn’t been for you, I’d have never survived the old man.”

Justice shrugged free from his brother’s clutch. He couldn’t look at him at the moment. Knowing he was right hurt a lot. Their father’s brutality was inhumane and often aimed at Sue—real name Bobby, but just to fuck with him, their father called him Sue. It wasn’t so much he was a Johnny Cash fan as he was an asshole. Justice bore his own beatings but he couldn’t endure those Sue suffered.

“It wasn’t your fault, Justice.” Sue patted him on the back of his neck. Justice jerked from beneath his touch. “It was my fault. I shot him.”

Sue reached out again, “It was a hunting accident.” He said as his lips quivered from the hurt that remained just below the surface.

Justice tossed his long damp hair out of his face. His eyes burned fierce with the shared hurt. “It was no accident.”

“Good, you beat me to it.” Sue walked away.

“Sue, I loved him even though. He was our father. I didn’t hate him, I just hated the shit he did to us.”

“I hated him for both, but you saved me and I will always owe you my life.” Sue slipped the sharp blade between the alligator’s armored hide and the meat below. “Now how do we go about taking care of your issue?”

Justice peeled off the white cotton t-shirt to reveal a hard-as-rock torso. He’d been out of fighting shape, but the last few years working the swamps, fishing and trapping, kept his body tight and ready for anything. He leaned into the wooden railing and shaded his eyes from the sun’s glare.

“We gotta disappear first. There are a few militia groups I can connect with, but I’m sure they’re on the FBI and Homeland Security watch list. I need to be free to move unseen.” Justice hocked a wad of spit into the brackish tide.

“Think we can talk to Lawless?” Sue asked, holding up a perfect gator filet. His grin illustrated the pride he took in his work.

“No, Lawless is too mixed up with his cop life. He’d never understand the gray areas—he’s too black and white.”

“Ain’t always a bad thing, I suppose. To see things so clear.”

Justice kicked at his brother. “See clear? You call wearing a fucking mask of judge and jury seeing clear?” Justice snapped to attention and mimicked his brother writing a traffic ticket, “Your license and registration, please, ma’am. You were doing ten in a five-mile-an-hour-zone.” He chortled and fell back onto the plastic bucket.

“Come on, Justice, that ain’t fair. Lawless does a good job.”

“All right. But seriously, I’ll need for y’all to watch baby Grace for us. Batya and I can chop off the heads, but we need to know she’s safe.”

“How about Vengeance? He’s been hanging out with a pack of low life Coasties across the parish.”

Justice swiped the t-shirt across his sweat-cover chest and downed a plastic bottle of warm water. “Coasties? What they up to?”

“A few of his old Coast Guard buddies bought bikes and he’s been hanging around. They got a club house.”

Justice stiffened. “They wearing colors?”

“Some sport cuts, but this is Bandido territory, so they watch what they wear,” Sue said. “Bunch of combat vets like us.”

“Who are they?” Justice’s mind began to pop like electrical bolts over the possibilities.

“Call themselves the Savage Souls.”

“Savage Souls. That might be the answer.” Justice smashed his right fist into his left palm.

M
cCarren International Airport
was alive with the glitz and glitter that welcomed lambs into Las Vegas. With big eyes bugged out at the lights and show advertisements, they poked quarters into slots as they sloshed off their planes.

Ben Ford brushed crumbs from his trousers and straightened his hounds tooth sports coat. He thanked the airline crew then strolled off the ramp and toward the taxi.

“No baggage, sir?” The cab caller smiled.

Ben giggled. “Oh, I’ve lots of baggage, but no luggage.”

“You silly flirt.” Ben chuckled.

“Where to?” asked the taxi driver.

Ben flashed a smile at the cab caller and handed the man a crisp five-dollar bill. Inscribed on the bill was,
Meet me at the Valencia. Suite 3913
.

“The Valencia, my good man,” he said to the driver.

Ben nodded. A quick glance over his shoulder and he caught the slight tip of fingers from the attractive cab caller. He rubbed his upper arms with vigor, then scrunched against the padded seat and sighed. The ride was quick and the cabbie polite.

“Credit or cash?”

“Always cash my good man.” Ben tipped him for his fine service and hustled into the luxurious lobby.

Ben clasped his fingers together as he tapped his knuckles against his teeth. The stingy-brimmed fedora sat low across his brow. He gave the navy blue wool band a quick tug and slipped his fingers along the feather that perched inside the Grosgrain ribbon. He glanced up, his dark eyes peering between the slit of his brim and the frames of his tortoiseshell sunglasses.

“Ahh, I love the fresco ceiling,” Ben whispered to an older man playing the accordion. Dressed in authentic Italian period piece to match Venice’s ancient glory, the hotel employee feigned interest with a half-hearted nod.

The golden Armillary Sphere towered over both men as Ben soaked in the atmosphere of a recreated Italy. He spun on the polished granite floor and dabbed at the splash from an ornate fountain with his well-shined shoes.

“You don’t really give a shit do you?” he asked.

“No,” sang the musician as if it where a line from his chorus. The man arched his back to bellow out his rendition of a song Ben had never heard.

Ben pulled out a five-dollar bill.

The man smiled. “Grazie.” He grabbed for it.

Ben squeezed the paper between gloved fingers and shook his head. “No, you suck.” He dipped his hip as he strutted away from the musician, then passed the bill off to a young Asian child playing near the fountain. Time to check in.

Ben mashed the
button on the wall closest to his bed. The curtains and blinds opened to expose a magnificent view overlooking the swimming pools and the Palazzo Resort. Caesar’s Palace was just down the strip, as was the Bellagio, although he couldn’t see their famous fountains. He tapped his finger against the cool plate glass window toward the five hundred and fifty foot High Roller Ferris wheel.

“Oh goodie, mommy would love that ride.” Ben clapped his palms and caught sight of his reflection in the window. The smile slipped away as he thought of his mother. He’d not spoken with her in over two years. He missed her.

“Fuck her. She’s evil.” He sneered.

“No, she’s our mommy,” he retorted.

Ben stormed back across the suite, but was careful to hang his sports coat in the closet and folded his tweed trousers across the railing that separated the elevated bedroom from the living room. He hopped on the firm king-sized mattress and tugged at his black dress socks until they’d stretched mid-calf. His light blue boxers pried open at the flap and he watched his dick roll through the opening. He chuckled as he pulled off his fitted blue Oxford and white cotton wife-beater undershirt.

He laid a condom on the nightstand and picked up the television’s remote. He couldn’t get comfortable in bed. His back ached. He twisted his torso and recalled the powerful mule kick Batya had delivered during their roadside struggle in south Louisiana. He rubbed the back of his neck and felt the total body soreness left from that battle.

The room phone rang with a chirp. When he answered, Ben was greeted by an automated voice confirming his spa appointment.

Ben was greeted
with startled looks as he entered the spa adorned in only his hotel robe and black socks. In the elevator and along the magnificent halls, he’d collected a bevy of curious looks as he went in search of the spa. He didn’t really care though—when your job description involved eating people for a living other people’s opinions didn’t really much matter.

“Your room is ready sir. Neka will be your therapist,” The young desk attendant said.

Ben’s face flushed with heat as his blood rose. He drew himself up. “Is Neka a man or woman?”

“A woman.”

“I requested a gentleman. This simply will not do, where is the management?” He stretched his neck as he surveyed the small waiting area.

“I’ll call her,” the attendant offered.

“Her? Is everyone but me a female in this dive? I want what I ordered. Now, damn it.” Ben’s raised voice drew the attention of other employees and patrons. He slapped his palm against the Ubatuba Granite counter top.

The young girl draped her left hand over her right shoulder and pulled at the tight skin on her elbow. She looked to be about twenty years old and this was possibly her first job.

“Sir, the manager is on her way. No need to make a scene,” she said, then pressed her thin fingers across pink lips and twisted away red-faced.

Why am I acting like this? This isn’t proper behavior.

The stress of returning to his hometown without the ability to visit with his family had unnerved him. His father, Theodore “Ted” Ford was a career federal employee who’d hopped from one job to another if for only a slight chance at promotion. Somehow he’d found a task force supervisors job in the enforcement section of a high-level government agency. The man had never been a law enforcement officer his entire life—but now he was the top cop.

Ben considered a quick call to his father meet for lunch, but remembered how horrible the last failed attempt had been. And if what his mother was true, his father had announced he wanted nothing to do with Ben once he began human consumption. He twisted his mouth as his tongue dashed over his teeth. Yes, he was unnerved.

He saw a woman approaching, escorted by two men. She pulled at her ill-fitting casino-issue blazer and coughed, probably due to the smoke from the gaming floor. Ben clucked as he silently judged her blonde-over-grey dye job and scuffed flat-soled shoes. Overly tall and gut-soft, both men looked to be former cops. Their attitudes outshone their intelligence, but their clenched fists and anxious strides signaled Ben was in for a challenge.

“Is there a problem here?” she asked.

Ben withheld his reply. He leaned toward her and stared at her nameplate. He never acknowledged either goon, but licked his lips as he straightened to address her.

“Yes, Margaret, there is.”