Read Online Redemption by LS Silverii - Free Book Online
Authors: LS Silverii
Tags: Fiction
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hand. “I’m so sorry. God, I can’t imagine what you’ve been through. I’m most sorry about Jack.”
Abigail’s heart hurt—it actually fucking hurt like hell. No one had ever bothered to say they were sorry about her loss. Stunned, she didn’t know what to say, so she merely nodded with a sorrowful smile and held back her tears.
“I want to put this all behind me. I realize now that my life with St. John will bring the closure that revenge can’t.” She stumbled over the words of conviction and true revelation.
“Smart. You deserve it,” Lawless said.
“So, I need you two to help put the last piece of the puzzles together. I’ve figured out almost everyone involved, except for who seems like the mastermind. Ricky only had the balls, but not the brains to set this up—he was told what to do.”
“By who?” Voodoo leaned in.
“Don’t know. The guy’s locked tight I guess. I’ve got his number from the calls and messages to Ricky. I tried texting but it always bounces back. I’m at a dead end.”
“We can run a trace to see who it’s subscribed to,” he offered.
“It’s a 712 Vegas area code. Eight-two-eight,” she recalled from memory. Eyes jutted up and to the right as her lips pinched tight.
Voodoo scribbled on her palm.
“Three-two-zero-three.”
The federal agents shot looks at each other. Their gaze distanced as they concentrated. Lawless pulled his lips into a pucker with his thumb and forefinger. “Are you sure?”
“I’ve lived this damn nightmare every waking second. Hell yeah, I’m sure.”
Voodoo pressed her fingers into his shoulder. They both avoided looking at each other. Voodoo’s expression sagged as if the weight of knowing had crushed her.
“That’s the agency psychiatrist’s number. Doctor Eleanor Worthington.”
Chapter 11
S t. John snuck another text message to Abigail but still got no reply. Anger seethed through him toward Justice. Had he put out the order to kill her because he suspected St. John was a cop? Eyes ablaze, he scowled at Justice as they pushed their Harley Davidsons from behind the cover of brush.
“We gotta head over to get rid of this gun and these tools,” Justice said without emotion.
He’d just planted two rounds into a federal agent. The man was a machine—never a show of emotion. But no wonder he feared Gray Man—he’d trained him.
“Justice, you got something you want to ask me?”
“Not now. I got my answer.”
“And I got mine,” St. John snapped back.
Morning was still far enough off to clean up the mess, but too close to become comfortable about escaping what they’d done. St. John let his head slump back against the massive muscles in his neck. Over the years, he’d busted his ass to build his body, but now he felt the throbbing pain in each and every fiber.
His bike balanced closer to the solid yellow centerline than the lane. The rush of hot air blasted his chest with each passing vehicle as they headed toward the city. Maybe it was the fatigue, or his moral fabric, but he was overwhelmed with what he’d become. It hadn’t happened overnight.
What had become of the good guy who loved his mom and always fought for the underdog? The one that always cheered for the good guys—it had all seemed so simple back then. Clear-cut lines between black and white, right and wrong, were no longer clear.
He battled heavy eyelids. Each blink lasted longer than the previous. His fingertips rested lightly over the high handlebars. His usually rigid torso slumped in the saddle, and he felt his breathing become shallow—relaxed.
Rumble strips embedded into the highway’s centerline shuddered his bike. His head jerked up. The memory of Fury impaled on the eighteen-wheeler’s grill rocketed through him. St. John let out a gasp and yanked his ride back into the northbound lane.
“Something eating at ya?” Justice yelled over the loud pipes that echoed off canyon walls.
“Just tired.”
This entire scenario had
Abigail’s heart hurt—it actually fucking hurt like hell. No one had ever bothered to say they were sorry about her loss. Stunned, she didn’t know what to say, so she merely nodded with a sorrowful smile and held back her tears.
“I want to put this all behind me. I realize now that my life with St. John will bring the closure that revenge can’t.” She stumbled over the words of conviction and true revelation.
“Smart. You deserve it,” Lawless said.
“So, I need you two to help put the last piece of the puzzles together. I’ve figured out almost everyone involved, except for who seems like the mastermind. Ricky only had the balls, but not the brains to set this up—he was told what to do.”
“By who?” Voodoo leaned in.
“Don’t know. The guy’s locked tight I guess. I’ve got his number from the calls and messages to Ricky. I tried texting but it always bounces back. I’m at a dead end.”
“We can run a trace to see who it’s subscribed to,” he offered.
“It’s a 712 Vegas area code. Eight-two-eight,” she recalled from memory. Eyes jutted up and to the right as her lips pinched tight.
Voodoo scribbled on her palm.
“Three-two-zero-three.”
The federal agents shot looks at each other. Their gaze distanced as they concentrated. Lawless pulled his lips into a pucker with his thumb and forefinger. “Are you sure?”
“I’ve lived this damn nightmare every waking second. Hell yeah, I’m sure.”
Voodoo pressed her fingers into his shoulder. They both avoided looking at each other. Voodoo’s expression sagged as if the weight of knowing had crushed her.
“That’s the agency psychiatrist’s number. Doctor Eleanor Worthington.”
Chapter 11
S t. John snuck another text message to Abigail but still got no reply. Anger seethed through him toward Justice. Had he put out the order to kill her because he suspected St. John was a cop? Eyes ablaze, he scowled at Justice as they pushed their Harley Davidsons from behind the cover of brush.
“We gotta head over to get rid of this gun and these tools,” Justice said without emotion.
He’d just planted two rounds into a federal agent. The man was a machine—never a show of emotion. But no wonder he feared Gray Man—he’d trained him.
“Justice, you got something you want to ask me?”
“Not now. I got my answer.”
“And I got mine,” St. John snapped back.
Morning was still far enough off to clean up the mess, but too close to become comfortable about escaping what they’d done. St. John let his head slump back against the massive muscles in his neck. Over the years, he’d busted his ass to build his body, but now he felt the throbbing pain in each and every fiber.
His bike balanced closer to the solid yellow centerline than the lane. The rush of hot air blasted his chest with each passing vehicle as they headed toward the city. Maybe it was the fatigue, or his moral fabric, but he was overwhelmed with what he’d become. It hadn’t happened overnight.
What had become of the good guy who loved his mom and always fought for the underdog? The one that always cheered for the good guys—it had all seemed so simple back then. Clear-cut lines between black and white, right and wrong, were no longer clear.
He battled heavy eyelids. Each blink lasted longer than the previous. His fingertips rested lightly over the high handlebars. His usually rigid torso slumped in the saddle, and he felt his breathing become shallow—relaxed.
Rumble strips embedded into the highway’s centerline shuddered his bike. His head jerked up. The memory of Fury impaled on the eighteen-wheeler’s grill rocketed through him. St. John let out a gasp and yanked his ride back into the northbound lane.
“Something eating at ya?” Justice yelled over the loud pipes that echoed off canyon walls.
“Just tired.”
This entire scenario had
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