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Authors: LS Silverii
Tags: Fiction
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Fuck it—he still didn’t know what had happened to Graham, and whether or not Ford and Worthington were on the take. What he did know was a man who’d served his nation with more dignity than most, rode less than ten yards away from him, but was forced to sneak around highway checkpoints and police raids because the government he helped to overthrow foreign governments had turned their backs on him in his time of need. The same government who paid St. John every two weeks, with a promise of a pension and pride for serving, had made Justice public enemy number one.
St. John tried to rationalize his connection to Justice, yet his void for feeling over Fury’s horrific death. He swigged from the cool canteen of water he’d filled before leaving the station. Poured a stream over his eyes to wash the crusted sweat away.
He was able to pinpoint the time when he’d developed the hard shell over his heart toward humanity. It had been just a few months out of the training academy. He came across an elderly man not breathing. St. John worked his ass off blowing breaths and doing chest compressions. He even thought the man groaned on occasion and he’d saved him, but it was only his own air being forced back out by the cracking ribs during compressions. That night, he’d cried as the late news announced the stranger’s death.
Only a few months later, and hundreds of hours of indoctrination into the culture of cops, he came across another similar tragedy, but this time his responses were very different. He worked like the devil to save the man with CPR, but couldn’t. This time, he laughed amongst his brother officers, and even dubbed himself the angel of death. Somewhere in between, he’d lost—or given up—a vital part of who he was for the sake of fitting in. He’d lost his humanity.
“Hey, Opie.” Justice was back.
St. John bobbed his chin.
Justice gave him a thumbs up. “Thanks for back there. What you said about taking care of my brother. I ain’t a fucking droid, so yeah, I’ll miss him. It’s just that we got too much riding on this mission to get distracted,” he said through tight lips. “So, thanks. I appreciate you giving a shit about him.”
And just like that, St. John knew where his loyalties were deeply entrenched.
Chapter 13
A fter more hours on I-80 than he ever imagined he’d travel, St. John was ass-worn out. The trek through Utah and Nevada offered glimpses of nothing like he’d seen in Florida, but most of those hours were spent rolling after sunset. The trip’s toll was greater than the anticipated twenty-one hours of saddle time. He and Justice had both suffered great loss—a blood brother, and St. John’s desire to serve the agency.
Camped across the California state line, St. John tossed Justice a piece of beef jerky. “You going to tell me where we’re heading or is it still a secret?”
Justice’s head lay atop his bedroll, his boots propped up on his saddle. “Why you want to know? Just tag along until we get there. Once we do, I’m gonna want that phone of yours.” He held his hand out. “Operational security—you understand?”
St. John felt the bite of insult tear through his flesh. Should he confront him about the way his lack of trust created new barriers between them each time? Would Justice even give a shit? Instead, St. John grabbed as much rest as he could—it’d been almost two days since he slept. Yet, his mind toiled again over why Justice didn’t trust him.
I wonder if Abigail is okay. They’d better not touch her.
He woke feeling as if he’d just closed his eyes. Sun up, Justice up, so he was up. St. John wanted five more minutes. He listened to the roar of the rushing water, but only saw a stream of piss as Justice relieved himself feet from where St. John lay.
“I said it was time to get up.” Justice had a wicked sneer to his tone that
Fuck it—he still didn’t know what had happened to Graham, and whether or not Ford and Worthington were on the take. What he did know was a man who’d served his nation with more dignity than most, rode less than ten yards away from him, but was forced to sneak around highway checkpoints and police raids because the government he helped to overthrow foreign governments had turned their backs on him in his time of need. The same government who paid St. John every two weeks, with a promise of a pension and pride for serving, had made Justice public enemy number one.
St. John tried to rationalize his connection to Justice, yet his void for feeling over Fury’s horrific death. He swigged from the cool canteen of water he’d filled before leaving the station. Poured a stream over his eyes to wash the crusted sweat away.
He was able to pinpoint the time when he’d developed the hard shell over his heart toward humanity. It had been just a few months out of the training academy. He came across an elderly man not breathing. St. John worked his ass off blowing breaths and doing chest compressions. He even thought the man groaned on occasion and he’d saved him, but it was only his own air being forced back out by the cracking ribs during compressions. That night, he’d cried as the late news announced the stranger’s death.
Only a few months later, and hundreds of hours of indoctrination into the culture of cops, he came across another similar tragedy, but this time his responses were very different. He worked like the devil to save the man with CPR, but couldn’t. This time, he laughed amongst his brother officers, and even dubbed himself the angel of death. Somewhere in between, he’d lost—or given up—a vital part of who he was for the sake of fitting in. He’d lost his humanity.
“Hey, Opie.” Justice was back.
St. John bobbed his chin.
Justice gave him a thumbs up. “Thanks for back there. What you said about taking care of my brother. I ain’t a fucking droid, so yeah, I’ll miss him. It’s just that we got too much riding on this mission to get distracted,” he said through tight lips. “So, thanks. I appreciate you giving a shit about him.”
And just like that, St. John knew where his loyalties were deeply entrenched.
Chapter 13
A fter more hours on I-80 than he ever imagined he’d travel, St. John was ass-worn out. The trek through Utah and Nevada offered glimpses of nothing like he’d seen in Florida, but most of those hours were spent rolling after sunset. The trip’s toll was greater than the anticipated twenty-one hours of saddle time. He and Justice had both suffered great loss—a blood brother, and St. John’s desire to serve the agency.
Camped across the California state line, St. John tossed Justice a piece of beef jerky. “You going to tell me where we’re heading or is it still a secret?”
Justice’s head lay atop his bedroll, his boots propped up on his saddle. “Why you want to know? Just tag along until we get there. Once we do, I’m gonna want that phone of yours.” He held his hand out. “Operational security—you understand?”
St. John felt the bite of insult tear through his flesh. Should he confront him about the way his lack of trust created new barriers between them each time? Would Justice even give a shit? Instead, St. John grabbed as much rest as he could—it’d been almost two days since he slept. Yet, his mind toiled again over why Justice didn’t trust him.
I wonder if Abigail is okay. They’d better not touch her.
He woke feeling as if he’d just closed his eyes. Sun up, Justice up, so he was up. St. John wanted five more minutes. He listened to the roar of the rushing water, but only saw a stream of piss as Justice relieved himself feet from where St. John lay.
“I said it was time to get up.” Justice had a wicked sneer to his tone that
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