Redemption (5 page)

Justice was right—Ford loved the trannies. St. John’s intestines felt as if they’d been ripped out through his ass and shoved back down his throat. Three people surrounded Ford. One black, an Asian, and possibly a Middle Eastern or dark complexioned Caucasian. All had women’s breasts but were still well-dick endowed.

The scene looked to be consensual. Ford was handcuffed to his own bed, outfitted in a leather and rubber concoction. This twerp who’d never worked undercover, but made his career riding the coattails of ball-busters like St. John, never apologized for his hardass demeanor or his credit-stealing antics disgusted St. John. He delighted at the sight, but still wasn’t sure he could participate in torturous murder.

“Thank you ladies,” Justice growled with a smirk that smacked of familiarity. He handed each a wad of cash as they fastened their bras. Each giggled as they stuffed them with bills.

St. John hesitated—should he remove his NVG? His insides burned as he mentally ran scenarios with every possibility of what could go sideways. Once the lamp cast enough light to clearly see in the room, Justice looked at him with an odd glint and motioned for him to place the goggles into his backpack. St. John did so, only to garner Justice’s glare at the skeleton face mask he still wore.

“Who the hell are y’all? Do you know I’m a federal agent?” Ford’s weak voice snapped and squeaked as he tried to sound like some big shit.

It worked in the agency field office because no one had the
cojones
to stand up to the weasely group supervisor. But there, he didn’t have strap-on dildos and butt plugs strewn around his office floor either. Ford was notorious for fucking over good agents. Now, Ford looked like he’d been the one fucked.

St. John ignored his question. He stood back to watch Justice work. He tugged at his mask as the neoprene caused his face to become hot—sweat soaked.

Fuck, I’m dripping DNA all over the place.

“Ford, I’m going to reposition you in just a bit. It’ll work better for all. You’ll be on your back, so you will see our faces,” Justice motioned for St. John to remove his mask. “It’s because of that, that we’ll have to kill you. Understood?”

Ford’s heat-prickled ass jiggled, exposed with just a leather harness around his waist and upper thighs. “This shit ain’t happening,” he protested.

“Sorry, Ted. It is happening. Now don’t be a dick about it. Man up and give me what I want. You’ll die much less horribly. Understood?”

“Eat shit and die.” Ford’s tone waivered between cowardice and late-night TV bravado.

Justice chuckled at the way Ford delivered his best Dirty Harry line. He manhandled the shorter man. The difficulty was finding a place on his nude, oiled body to grab. Justice settled on the leather collar and garter belt.

“You should know that eating shit will not necessarily kill you. But I will, Ted. If you make me empty this tool kit, you’ll suffer like you couldn’t ever imagine.” Speaking low, Justice’s words were clear and concise. “I know you’re contemplating whether or not you could withstand the pain. Trust me—you can’t.”

St. John, who still hadn’t removed his mask, slid into a corner so Ford couldn’t make the visual angle. He also realized the man wasn’t wearing his eyeglasses. Justice motioned for his backpack. St. John’s knees turned to jelly as he tried to lift it. Not that the pack was too heavy—St. John had set college records for his weight room prowess—it was not knowing what Justice had packed.

St. John considered refusing, but knew Justice would just walk over and get it. He also thought about running out, but that was stupid too. He whipped away at the sweat that bombarded his forehead with a flat palm, and thought about arresting Justice for the attempted murder of a federal agent.

“Opie. Bag. Now.”

St. John almost smiled with relief. The name he had always despised was, for once, something he was glad to hear. He hefted the bag without effort and handed it around the rear of Ford.

“Take that mask off,” Justice murmured between clenched teeth.

“Just do your job. You don’t even know if this prick has video surveillance cameras, do you?”

Justice shrugged.

“I’m giving you one last chance to get out of my fucking home.” Ford’s gut was soft.

St. John noticed how it shook when he spoke. He’d always despised the way Ford sauntered around the office—like a prissy queen just waiting to put the fucking to someone. He stepped closer as his frustrations intensified.

Justice looked up and sneered. “I’m sorry, what did you say?” His voice shifted to sinister.

“Get the fuck out.”

Justice slapped Ford with an open palm across the cheek. His cigarette-stained mustache quivered from the force. St. John blinked at the sound of what appeared to be cracking bone. Ford’s head fell back as if it had been unhinged. He was out cold.

“You kill him?”

Justice rubbed his right palm. “No, but that shit stung like a bitch. Go ahead and wake him up. I’ll start setting out my tools.”

St. John’s gut twisted. He felt his throat constrict as a stream of warm bile wormed its way up. The thought of what Justice meant by ‘his tools’ overwhelmed him. Arresting Justice at this point wasn’t realistic. They were equally guilty, and in his heart, it satisfied him to see Ford—that government fraud—get what he had coming to him. He just didn’t want it to go overboard.

“Wake up, Ted.” St. John slapped his face, while Justice laid out instruments on a dresser drawer.

“Seals?” Ford mumbled.

Stunned, St. John drove his fist into Ford’s temple, and the man was back unconscious.

“What’d he say?”

“Nothing nice.”

T
he firm mattress
supported Abigail as she teetered on the edge. She paced, peeking through slits in the blinds draped across a second story window in the Hope Falls Hotel. A napkin shredded between her bony fingers.

I shouldn’t have called them. I need to get out of here.

She gnawed at a jagged fingernail. Her teeth were naturally straight and she knew it was a bad habit, but after the hell she’d gone through for the chance at killing the fuckers that killed her son, who gave a shit about teeth?

She flopped back onto the thick, down comforter, her arms flung over her head. For once her body didn’t hang off the bed from side to side—this was a real bed, not the bunk beds she slept in when Justice wanted to punish her or he had other company. Abigail grinned thinking about his other company.

Bored from the wait, she let the memory flow. Her pussy tingled at the thought as a wicked grin twisted her usually somber expression. Hesitantly, she slipped her right hand into her jeans. She stopped nipping on her fingernail and slid her fingers between her lips until they pressed against her tongue with gentle pressure.

She wasn’t just a little wet; the three fingers on her right hand were soaking wet with the slippery juice created by the thought of Justice and his company. Her tongue dabbed at pouty lips. She sighed, recalling the night she was exiled from his bed. She’d tiptoed back to see what he’d traded her off for. The sight of those four young girls had worried her at first, but they looked to have been at least freshmen in college.

Her fingers rode between the slick folds of her vagina as her back arched off the mattress. She’d not masturbated since she volunteered herself for captivity. Abigail was pleased at the pleasure she experienced—it was at her pace and her pressure. She writhed on the cool motel comforter, remembering how perfect each of the girls looked as they lined up to service Justice.

Her anus ached for attention—and she smiled about her feelings of accomplishment—once she recalled hearing the girls’ giggles and moans, turn to grunts and tears. She slipped her longest finger out of her wet pussy and into her contracting asshole. It felt right. Her other fingers kept their intensity against her vulva, but she needed more direct touch. Spit covered her left hand—lubricated the rub of tight circles against her clit. Her hips rocked side-to-side in ecstasy.

Both hands worked feverishly as her mind drifted to a late night weeks ago. She’d been disturbed at her dismissal—as if she actually cared about Justice or was jealous. She was his main squeeze for months after all. But by then, she’d kissed St. John and was starting to feel the need to separate herself from Justice’s control. It wasn’t fucking easy to do—the man was a master manipulator of human behavior.

Abigail brought herself to the verge of an orgasm, but backed off to linger in the memory. It wasn’t the thought of him dominating four miss-high-and-mighties, it was that they couldn’t handle the sheer fucking primal treatment once Justice got his mo-jo going. The man was a natural predator, and whomever he fucked was his prey. Abigail knew it was perverse to take pride in her ability to handle him—all of him—but when you’ve got nothing, you’ll cling to something. Anything.

The area between her pussy and asshole was so slippery that all ten fingers slipped across the perineum until each breached both without concern of what went where. She’d tamed that beast. Snake charmed his long cock until he couldn’t think except to mumble her name. She loved the rarity of feeling the sense of control.

“Those stupid bitches.” She laughed out loud. “I had to finish him off that next morning while the brothers dragged their drugged bodies from the clubhouse,” she talked herself to climax. As she drove both hands against her pussy and clitoris, the perverse thought of the other bikers gangbanging the sorority whores took her over the edge.

Her neck craned back as both eyes fluttered from the lack of blood and oxygen to her brain. She knew passing out was a possibility, but she didn’t give a shit—pushing her body beyond the norm had been what the brothers had trained her to do—now she did it to herself just to get off on a hand job.

Her heels dug into the bed until quivering quads gave way. She had no strength left. Both long, lean thighs tumbled open. Her pulsing pussy throbbed in the cool air. The slight caress of cold against her hot bottom reminded her of the freezing chamber her first night at the clubhouse. That memory also snaked its way to weeks prior when she didn’t have to worry about mob rapes and circle jerks—back when her son was still alive.

Breaths settled easy within her chest. She felt guilty for her thoughts—St. John was a good man—a damn good man. He was trying to save both of their misguided asses, and yet here she was with her hand in her pants, jacking off because Justice had made her his whore. She felt a knot of regret in her gut. She was still fucked up and needed help to get her mind right.

A knock against the door caused her to pop up, pleasure forgotten. Abigail’s heart hammered inside her chest as she rummaged around until she found her pistol. The rubber grips felt slimy with the moisture from her pussy. She brushed her hands against her t-shirt.

The chain was on the door, and she shoved the outside of her left foot against the door like St. John had showed her. It would serve as extra stopping power in case someone tried to bum rush the door. At least it would give her time to pop off a few rounds. She tapped three times.

“Abigail. It’s Voodoo, and Agent Lawless Boudreaux.”

She eased the door back like St. John had showed her. A light brown hand slipped through the door holding a leather wallet. Attached to it was a gold shield and a commission identification card—Krystal Marie Laveau.

“Like the witch?”

“Watch it. That’s my great-great-grandmother.” Voodoo’s voice was light as her hand retracted.

A tall shadow moved closer in the hallway.

Abigail stepped back, one hand over her heart, the other empty. Where was her fucking pistol? Eyes scanned. She saw the Glock 9mm pistol on the nightstand. She’d set it down to wipe the cum from her fingers.

Green eyes big and bright, Voodoo asked, “Baby, what’s the matter?”

“Him—the blood brother. You set me up.”

N
ervous sweat coated
St. John’s body. A red, wet patch colored Ford’s temple where he’d been hit. His eyes cut back and forth—breaths were short and strained. St. John’s gaze met Justice’s glare. His legs weakened. He sensed Justice knew more than he’d let on.