Saint Justice
A Christopher Wren Thriller Book 1
by Mike Grist
Genre: Thriller
A thousand homeless ripped off the Chicago streets. A biker gang slaughtered in a Utah police station. A terror conspiracy like nothing in history.
"This is addictive, intelligent, edge-of-your seat writing - as urgent and gripping as it gets!" - bestselling author Oliver Harris.
When rogue DELTA operator Christopher Wren uncovers a vast warehouse crammed with human cages in the deserts of Utah, the payback will be swift and righteous.
But Wren soon learns there's far more than caged humans at stake - a terrifying conspiracy stands poised to forever shatter the United States, leaving only blood and sorrow behind.
Wren will never let that happen. Not on his watch.
Justice will be done.
Saint Justice launches the Christopher Wren thriller series with explosive originality, packed with roller coaster twists that will leave you hungry for just one more page.
Perfect for fans of Lee Child's Jack Reacher, I Am Pilgrim by Terry Hayes, Orphan X by Gregg Hurwitz, Mark Dawson's John Milton and Vince Flynn's Mitch Rapp.
VIKINGS
Christopher
Wren slumped at the wheel of his leased Jeep Wrangler, looking at the
still tableau of the bikers' bar set against the purplish Utah night.
Red and white neon in the window announced Budweiser, King of Beers.
An air conditioning flap clicked repetitively like a high, strange
pulse, next to the single red dot of a functioning CCTV. Stars
wheeled lazily above, insects burred and clicked, and in back the red
tracer rounds of receding cars sped by on I-70.
Wren
squeezed the bridge of his nose. He'd been driving for weeks, on
interstate highways when the mood took him, on dirt roads through
little desert towns when it didn't, through forests and canyons and
empty American plains, looking for something he hadn't yet found.
There was a fog in his head that wouldn't clear, that time and
distance couldn't shake. Perhaps this place was what he needed.
The
Brazen Hussy.
The
bar's name shone with a yellow backlight. Ten large black bikes were
parked neatly out front like dutiful hounds. He knew the makes and
the plates, some Harley and some Triumphs, and in the fuzzy halogen
glow of the bar's one security light, he registered the gang decal on
their tail fins; a blue skull with blond dreads and a hammer of Thor.
Vikings.
They were a mid-sized chapter based across five states, involved
mostly in drugs, underage porn and low-level human trafficking. Dry
figures and facts rose up from the last debrief he'd got; their rank
amongst other biker gangs, the roads they claimed as their own, their
affiliations with white power organizations. The Brazen Hussy was
their central Utah chapterhouse.
He
killed the engine and stepped out of the Jeep. The blacktop of the
lot was hot even through his Mulberry loafers, pitted and scratchy
with gravel. For a moment he stood in the dark, letting his eyes
adjust to the warm night breeze, redolent with the ozone smell of the
desert, the green sap of blooming cacti, and the acrid waft of
gasoline. He thought about ripping up a shirt and weaving it into a
turban, so there could be no misunderstanding at all. It would be
good if he had his full beard, more than this scraggly stubble; but
he had what he had.
A
brown man walks into a white supremacist biker bar in Utah; like a
joke. The punchline was coming, and he walked toward it. The Jeep's
locks clicked and he tossed the keys casually into a puddle of shadow
at the bar's side. After a moment's thought he took out his wallet
and did the same thing, extracting only three crunchy ten-dollar
bills. His heart beat hard; this stuff never got easier.
He
pulled open the door. Inside it was dark, hot, and smelled like a
used boxing glove; fermented sweat mingling with cracked leather and
grease. All eyes swung to him, and he scanned them in turn, taking in
the details even as he made for the bar, feet sticking on the stained
vinyl flooring. Half the space was cordoned off; in the shadows
beyond lay a stage with a strippers' pole, not tonight. Along the
back wall five men were gathered round a pool table with torn blue
felt, downlit by the table's lamp. Three wore their chapter jackets
despite the residual heat, as if the struggling AC was doing a far
better job. One was stripped to a white wifebeater, late-twenties and
showing off pale muscles written with Celtic cross tattoos.
These
would-be patch members; made men in the world of organized bike
gangs. They looked at him with a mix of aggression and surprise.
Probably this had never happened before, a sheep striding into their
den.
Wren
walked up to the bar. On the wall they'd hung white power
memorabilia: the Confederate flag, the Don't Tread on Me serpent, a
large Viking seal, a swastika Stars and Bars, a cheap-looking
painting of a rosy KKK knight atop his white charger.
"I
love what you've done with the place," Wren said.
The
bar girl glared at him. Two bikers at the bar, mid-aged with long ZZ
Top beards and leather jackets grayed-out by the sun, just stared at
him, like there was no way to compute his presence here.
"I'll
take a Bud," Wren said.
"I
ain't serving you," said the bar girl. She was young, twenty-two
maybe, wearing her bleached blond hair in natty sideshot pigtails,
with a hint of meth-mouth visible in the redness round her lips. Wren
looked at her and read a lifetime of coming last. Last at school,
last at home, last in life.
"Why
not? You clearly need the money."
Her
mouth snapped open to respond, but one of the bikers raised a
quieting hand. "That's all right, Liza. City boy here's got a
smart mouth. Nice Jeep, too." He pointed a finger at the CCTV
screen in the bar's back. "What are you, some kind of banker out
of Salt Lake, getting rich off the Jew bailout?"
Wren
looked at the guy; late forties with the scarred cheeks of a
bare-knuckle boxer, now subtly slipping on a silver knuckleduster
beneath the bar. Possibly a gang enforcer; the muscle who kept the
gang protected.
"Banking
of a kind," Wren said, looking him in his blue eyes. "Collecting
old debts, mostly. I specialize in reparations."
The
boxer laughed.
"I'll
buy one for you," said Wren, "and your boyfriend there
too."
The
guy next to the boxer looked surprised.
"This
is a gay bar, right?" Wren went on, feigning uncertainy. "I
thought, all the leather? Of course, I'm not judging."
The
boxer laughed, but the edge was there and building. "Boy, you
must be high. I guess we should go easy for that. How you feel, Jug,
shall we go easy?" He patted the hefty shoulder of the man at
his side.
Jug
was younger, early thirties, wearing a few metal studs in his face
with a gang tattoo on his shaved skull. He wasn't a ranking member,
Wren figured; not from the redness around the tat. He was a prospect
at the bottom, on probation for full-blood membership.
A
wannabe.
"Not
that easy," said Jug, and stood. He was a big guy, maybe a
linebacker once, but far along the road to fat. Wren read the
desperation all over him. Bench three hundred pounds and carry close
to that in his gut, or he soon would; living off roadkill, exhaust
and fast food, dreaming of becoming a respected rider in the
mid-ranks, though that would never happen. Wren saw the lack of
conviction in his eyes, and took it into account.
Bonus.
Jug
strode down the bar, circling around to take up a seat on Wren's
right and cutting off his exit.
"You
breed them fat out here," Wren said, admiring Jug's girth. "So
this is the real America, huh?"
The
boxer rested his left fist on the bar top, no longer hiding the
knuckleduster. "You've got a real hard-on for this, boy. How do
you think it's going to go?"
Wren
sighed. Sometimes the build-up to violence made him tired. How much
more honest was it just to walk up and punch someone in the face? "It
depends how much of a pussy you are, and how many guys here are
wearing steel toe boots."
"Steel
toe boots," mused the boxer, turning his knuckleduster so it
scraped on the bar. "Makes a difference, I suppose. You been
beatdown a lot? You get a thrill out of it?"
"This
isn't therapy," said Wren, "get on with it."
The
guy shot a look to his group around the pool table. They were all
watching. He smiled. "Fine, but first I gotta know just what
kind of mongrel you are. Wetback? Raghead? All these shit browns blur
into one."
"I'm
a goddamn rainbow," Wren said. "Mexico by way of Pakistan.
It's your lucky day."
The
boxer licked his lips, like he was about to tuck into a juicy steak.
"And Muslim?"
"Once
upon a time. I'm an apostate now. Anything else you need to know?"
"I
think that'll do. Jug."
Jug
laid a heavy hand on Wren's shoulder. Wren looked up at him while the
boxer padded over, and saw through the desperation to the sadness.
Probably
his name was Boyd. Maybe he'd been cool in High School but wanted
more out of life now. He wasn't smart, and for all his white
privilege he'd just landed at a junk food drive-thru, spraying
ketchup for college kids. His own kids, if he had any, found him an
embarrassment. The tattoo and piercings were an active decision to
stop being a loser and get out of the trailerpark.
It
was funny. The one thing they never told you when you joined a gang
was the truth: we want you because you're a loser. Trust us, we know,
because we're losers too.
"What's
your real name, Jug?" Wren asked, clamping his own hand over
Jug's. It was rough-knuckled with eczema. "Is it Boyd?"
Then
the boxer threw his punch. Wren kicked hard off the bar with his left
foot just as the knuckleduster arced in, a sweeping haymaker left.
His stool rocked back and he fell out of the blow's range, but his
hand on Jug's jerked the fat man straight down into it. There was a
toothy crunch as the boxer followed through and Jug's mouth
splattered in blood, then Wren hit the floor and rolled.
"Shid!"
Jug shouted, clamping his hand to his mouth. The boxer wheeled, shock
on his face but holding up his guard and taking a step in. The guys
at the pool table moved. Wren rose smoothly to his feet, maybe ten
seconds ahead of the five of them, and fired a vicious kick to the
boxer's groin.
It
landed perfect and bent him double; Wren followed with a jump-knee
cracking into his forehead, dropping him like a boneless sack of fat.
No MMA training for him. At the same time Jug roared through a mouth
full of broken teeth and charged. Bareknuckle fights in Kabul had
prepared Wren well; he slipped the first and rammed the fat man's
belly with his shoulder, blowing the air out of Jug's lungs. While he
gasped and bent double, Wren sped around and planted a firm push kick
into his wide ass.
Jug
tumbled into the five patch members as they closed in, pulling two
down with him and knocking a table in the way of another. While they
dealt with that, Wren smoothly slipped Jug's wallet into the back of
his waistband; palmed in the charge.
"You
all wanna see my Koran?" he asked, then the first pool cue came
in. It was the guy in the wifebeater, muscles rippling and rage on
his face. He had to be their road captain. Wren got a hand up and the
cue broke over his forearm, whipping across his vision trailing
blood. He sent a straight right but he was off-balance and the
captain bulled through it, following up with an elbow into Wren's
chin that sent him down.
After
that he was done. Wren lay in their midst, rolling and flexing where
he could, covering his face and eyes, taking the beatdown as they
worked out their rage on him blow after blow. They stamped, and spat,
and kicked, and it was good.
Finally
the fog in Wren's head began to clear. He deserved all this and more.
Christopher Wren is an ex CIA operative, working undercover to stop
an all out race war from happening. A white supremacist cult leader
is taking people off the streets and forcing them into his little
cult. Saint Justice is filled with violence, human trafficking,
action, murder, and human cruelty.
Saint Justice grabbed my attention from the first page and held on
right up until the last. There was never a dull moment in between.
The action never stopped and the twists just kept on coming as each
page was
turned. Wren is a tough dude who never gives up no matter how many
beatings he takes on.
Wren’s life has not been an easy one as he has changed over the
years going from an ex-cult member to ex military to ex CIA you name
it and Wren has probably took it on in some fashion or another as an
undercover operative.
Saint Justice is not an easy read with all the violence, beatings,
murders, and gore but if you can handle things of this nature then I
think you will like this one. One click your copy today to begin this
hard core thriller!
Don't miss the other books in the series!
Monsters
A Christopher Wren Thriller Book 2
Reparation
A Christopher Wren Thriller Book 3
**New Release!**
Ghost War
A Christopher Wren Thriller Book 4
Mike Grist is the British/American author of the Christopher Wren thriller series. For 11 years Mike lived in Tokyo, Japan, exploring and photographing the dark side of the city and the country: gangs, cults and abandoned places. Now he writes from London, UK, about rogue DELTA operator Christopher Wren - an anti-hero vigilante who brings brutal payback for dark crimes.
Discover Mike's other books and his stunning ruins photography at his website http://www.michaeljohngrist.com/
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