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Gray Man.
    If he intervened and allowed the government to seize the stash, it would mean the arrest of his brothers and the end of his own part in the operation. Ultimately, that too would mean his return to a desk job, following up on leads about dime bags of dope and unregistered hunting rifles.
    “Hey, Opie.” A voice startled him.
    He spun. “What’s up, Justice?”
    “I still ain’t happy about what you said to me the other day.”
    “I’m not going to apologize for it. I spoke my mind, and as far as your brother, he got what he deserved.”
    Justice stood in no one’s shadow—not even St. John’s. His body was big and thick, with muscles developed from steroids and jailhouse-style weightlifting that focused on pumping up his arms and chest. He extended his hand.
    “I respect you for standing up for what you believe in. As for Vengeance, you’re right, he got what he deserved.”
    With those words, St. John became even more conflicted about loyalties to agency versus brotherhood. Justice had become a mentor, but also someone with whom he held respected footing with as far as speaking openly. He’d even been free to give the national president and former military hero recommendations on the way he handled club business. In an odd sense, St. John truly wanted Justice to succeed.
    “I never know where I stand with you, and it’s unnerving. I’ve been nothing but loyal, yet I feel like you lose trust in me,” St. John said.
    Justice stepped past him and fell into the rocking chair. “Son, I never know who I can trust. It shifts from moment to moment, but honestly, I get a might suspicious of people who always ask if I trust them. Just do what you’re supposed to do and trust will follow.”
    “I understand. But its still unnerving.”
    Justice shoved a wad of chewing tobacco inside his mouth. “When we going to be ready to head out? I feel like a ship without a rudder since Rage’s murder. Without his intel, we’re shooting in the dark, and I still don’t know who’s communicating with Gray Man.”
    “You think we should hold off on the grab job?” St. John asked.
    “Why?”
    “Dude, your very own brother was just killed. Take time out to grieve. You might be bad ass Justice Boudreaux, but you’re still human.”
    Justice rocked forward in the white-painted rocking chair, so well used the layers had worn through to the wood in places. The muscles in his jaw rippled and his eyes narrowed. He puckered his lips and rocketed a blast of tobacco spit juice onto the crotch of St. John’s jeans.
    St. John stumbled back. “What the fuck is wrong with you?”
    “You sound like a whiny bitch, so I wet your pussy for you.” Justice sucked back a snot oyster through his nostrils and looked to be preparing to spit more than tobacco next.
    “Fuck you then. And fuck Rage. I’m sure he deserved it.” St. John stormed away and into the yard. He looked for something to wipe the shit off his pants.
    “Here.”
    St. John turned to face Justice, who held a towel in his hands. “That shit was uncalled for. Opie, you’ve been nothing but a good dude with me. I take advantage of that. I ain’t going to go all pussified and say I was wrong, but you’re a good brother.”
    St. John wanted to stay pissed but his desire for acceptance made that impossible.
    “Can I hug you instead?” St. John laughed as he reached toward Justice.
    “Uhmm, no,” Justice said quickly, leaning onto the scrapped wooden flatbed trailer.
    “So back to the road trip. Think we should postpone?”
    Justice crossed his legs and shook his hole-riddled boot sole. “I thought about it, but it might be best if we go up to watch for a few days. No communication with the outside.”
    “You mean just us?”
    “Who else would you recommend?”
    “I’d say Mercy, but he probably needs to stay back to keep an honest eye on the club. Sue is too busy wishing he were you, so that’s of no use out there. I’d say Fury.”
    Justice slapped