St. John’s ass was dragging after the twelve-hour haul from Mystic. His senses waned with fatigue, but he forced himself to focus. Worried that he wasn’t as sharp as he’d need to be, he debated whether he should try to delay Justice’s confrontation of Ford. Once they made contact with the federal agency supervisor, St. John knew his cover would be blown. His fingers jabbed into pockets and pouches trying to find the skeleton facemask. “Fuck!” he spit. Had he forgotten to stow it? Justice hesitated as he push walked his Hog into a orchard of trees and manicured shrubs. “Problem?” “No. Hot engine. Guess I’m getting tired.” Justice situated his bike and made room for St. John to slide his close by. “Son, there’s no such thing as tired right now. This is bigger than a few hours of missed sleep. Understand?” He patted St. John’s shoulder and winked. St. John nodded, but it was more of a gesture to shake the cobwebs from an exhausted consciousness. He reached across his gas tank to snatch the cell phone from the leather pouch strung up between ape hanger handlebars.
