American Hellhound

by Lauren Gilley

  Maggie rolled her eyes and hastened her steps, rewarded with a little jump from the girl. She was an outlaw now, she guessed, whether she wanted to be or not, and that came with a set of perks she didn’t want: like terrifying freshmen.

  The girl led her to the labeled door of Mrs. Davis’s office and then ducked away. Maggie knocked once and let herself in.

  If the counselor’s role was to comfort and guide you, make you feel safe and understood, her office did a poor job of conveying that. Windowless, eight-by-eight. The desk was crammed against the back wall and the two chairs for visitors looked like they’d been salvaged from the cafeteria, the seats hashed with Sharpie marks and white paint flecks. The silk plant in the corner needed dusting. The desk was cluttered with stacks of paper, the top of the computer monitor littered with resin cat figurines. More cats on the motivational posters on the walls. The blinds were down and cracked open; stripes of light and shadow across the walls, across Mrs. Davis’s face, lending her an uneven appearance.

  “Maggie, welcome,” she greeted, voice saccharine, cooing like she was talking to a much-younger girl.

  Maggie thumped down into a chair and didn’t respond.

  Mrs. Davis attempted to scrape the paperwork on her desk into orderly piles. “Let me just…oh, there that is…sorry, just a moment…there.” She laced her fingers together and leaned forward. A line of shadow fell across her eyes and made her look like she was wearing a sleep mask. “Now. Let’s you and me talk for a bit. No pressure. Okay?”

  Since she’d been summoned from her classroom, Maggie figured she had no choice in the matter. She wanted to grind her teeth, but she said, “Sure.”

  “Great!” Mrs. Davis said, too bright, and then began a complicated process of morphing her expression into one of rehearsed concern, lips pursed, brows drawn together. “Maggie, I called you in today because I’m worried about you.” A stretch, considering they’d never had a conversation up to this point. “I’ve talked with your teachers, and your altercation with Stephanie Cleveland was very out of character.”

  Maggie held herself stiffly on the edge of her chair. “Stephanie stirred up a bad situation for me at home. And then she vandalized my car. The ‘altercation’ wasn’t unwarranted.”

  Mrs. Davis looked disapproving. “Violence is never the answer.” A milder version of what the cops had told her.

  “No, ma’am,” Maggie agreed. “It isn’t.” Except when it was, sometimes.

  “In the future, I hope you’ll come see me when you have a conflict with a fellow student so that I can facilitate conflict resolution.”

  “Sure.” This wasn’t over, not by a long shot.

  “Generally, when a student acts out,” the counselor continued, voice dripping sweetness, “it’s because there’s tension at home. How are things at home, Maggie? Are you getting along okay with your parents?”

  Where in the hell was this kind of concern the past sixteen years? It took a fight – a visit from the police – before someone noticed that she wasn’t okay.

  Tone icy, Maggie said, “My mother thought Stephanie was a nice girl, and that turned out not to be true. Obviously. I don’t have a home problem. I have a problem with people being terrible.”

  Mrs. Davis blinked. It took her a moment to regain her composure. “Well. I.” She took a breath and sat back, light glinting in her eyes. Eyes that were sharp, suddenly. The counselor veil had slipped, revealing the irritated adult beneath.

  “Maggie, there are rumors – and granted they’re just rumors – that you’ve run away from home and are living with a friend.” Her lip curled in disgust. “A male friend.”

  Shit.

  “If this young man is threatening you–”

  “No.”

  Mrs. Davis jerked in surprise.

  It took every ounce of self-control not to scream at the woman, but she managed. “Mrs. Davis, I have never, in my whole life, done anything wrong. Not by any standards. And yet my mother thinks I can’t do anything right. My classmates try to torment me. I have nothing to look forward to. My whole life is geared toward manners, and activities, and being presentable. It’s all superficial. And finally, finally, someone wants to spend time with me. The real me, and not the candy shell my mother has tried to foster. Someone treats me like I matter, and you ask me if he’s threatening me.”

  “You’re a minor.”

  “But old enough not to be taken in by lies. Forgive me, Mrs. Davis, but this is the first time we’ve ever spoken, and anything you know about me you’ve learned from other people. People who have no idea what’s really happening. I guess I don’t understand why this conversation is about what’s been said about me, rather than what I’ve said myself.”

  The counselor sat staring, mouth open, flabbergasted.

  “If there’s anything you’d like to ask me, I’ll be happy to answer your questions,” Maggie said, recognizing her mother’s imperial tone in her own voice. “Otherwise, I’m missing an important calculus lecture.”

  Later, she would look back on this moment and realize that it was the end of Margarete Lowe: Very Nice Girl, and the beginning of Maggie Lowe: Not To Be Fucked With.

  ~*~

  “I don’t know how long I’ll be. I’ll try to call when I’m on the way back – but, wait, that’ll wake you up.” He was babbling and couldn’t seem to stop. “Do you–”

  “It’s fine,” Maggie assured, smiling. “Go do what you need to.”

  Maggie had come home from school today…different. It wasn’t that she’d changed – she was the same gorgeous girl he’d kissed goodbye that morning – but she seemed…settled. More firmly present in her own skin. He hadn’t noticed that she was uneasy before, but now she wasn’t, all relaxed and loose-limbed, her smiles easy, and he noticed that.

  When he’d told her Duane needed him tonight, she hadn’t wrinkled her nose or made any unhappy remarks about dealing. She’d smiled and asked if he wanted dinner before he left. (She was making lasagna; his stomach was too nervous to handle something that heavy.)

  “Keep the door locked,” he said, shrugging into his backpack. “And call Jackie if you need anything – number’s on the fridge.”

  “Yes, I know.”

  He frowned to himself. He needed to teach her how to shoot. Soon. He didn’t like the idea of her here alone with no way to defend herself.

  “It’s fine,” she said, as if reading his mind, and moved into him, hands on his chest, eyes wide and full of affection. He didn’t deserve her.

  “I don’t like leaving you alone after dark.”

  “I know. But it’s just for tonight, not for forever.”

  Wasn’t it, though? He couldn’t imagine a forever that didn’t involve nefarious night errands at Duane’s behest.

  He flashed her a tight smile. “Don’t wait up.”

  One kiss turned into two, to three, and not surprisingly, he was the last to arrive at the clubhouse. It was a moonless, overcast night, the property flat and featureless under a monochromatic sky. Light blazed in the clubhouse windows, casting Duane in a hellish light; he sat on a picnic table, face a shadow, cherry of his cigarette kicking sparks up into his eyes. For a brief moment, before he parked, Ghost was convinced he was looking at a real hellhound, that the Lean Dog on the back of their cuts wasn’t just a legend.

  Then he told himself to quit being stupid and walked to meet the others.

  “Nice of you to show up,” Roman said. He was already sitting astride his bike, backpack and helmet on, being the outlaw version of a suckup as usual.

  Justin stood beside his own bike, looking less than sober.

  “He okay to ride?” Ghost asked.

  “He’s fine,” Duane said. “Go load up.”

  As he passed through the common room on the way to the office, he spotted Duane’s new favorite groupie, Jasmine, sitting alone on one of the sofas, statue-still with her hands wrapped around a plastic cup, gaze fixed in the middle distance. Her lip was split, the corner
of her mouth the grapefruit-pink of a fresh bruise.

  Ghost paused. “Hey.” Again, when she didn’t respond, “Hey.”

  She came to life with a startled jerk, head whipping toward him. “W-w-what?”

  He hadn’t spent much time with her, but he didn’t remember her having a stutter. “You okay?”

  Her eyes dropped to the floor. “Yeah. I’m okay.” Her voice thin and wavering.

  “What happened to your face?”

  She touched her lip, brows going up like she was surprised to find it damaged. “Nothing.”

  Ghost took a reluctant step toward her, lowering his voice. “Was it Duane?”

  She didn’t answer.

  “Damn it.” He didn’t have time for this. Looking after one underage blonde was all he could manage at a time. He continued on to the office, opened the safe, pulled out the pre-packed bundles he’d be delivering tonight.

  The scrape of a shoe on the hardwood signaled Duane’s presence before he said, “The blue bags.”

  “I got ‘em.” Ghost stowed them in his bag.

  “Roman has the address and the password for the buyer. Follow his lead.”

  “Just like always,” Ghost muttered.

  “Hey,” Duane said, and his tone demanded a response.

  Ghost glanced over his shoulder and met his uncle’s gaze.

  “Roman’s here. He’s committed.”

  “I’m about to walk out of here with a bunch of coke strapped to my back. You don’t call that committed?”

  “You were late, he wasn’t. He wants to do this, you don’t. Your head’s not in the game, nephew. And Roman’s is. He’s all in. I gotta reward that.”

  Ghost turned back to the safe. He gripped the next bundle so tight he thought he might have punctured the plastic. “Yeah, well…” He had no argument. He knew it, Duane knew it.

  “This is an important deal tonight,” Duane said, thumping his fist against the doorjamb in farewell. “Don’t fuck it up.”

  ~*~

  Knoxville wasn’t a seedy city – it was downright idyllic in most spots – but it did have its seedy areas, like all cities. Roman’s address sent them into the heart of one, a fringe neighborhood full of aging Victorian cottages and Craftsman single-stories, the paint peeling, the sidewalks crumbling, the yards all ringed by rusted chain link. Lots of half-dead cars on the curbs, echoes of barking dogs, shady guys in hoods standing beneath streetlights – the whole nine. Their destination proved to be an old factory on a corner lot, flanked by dreary, boarded-up houses. Grass and tree roots had shattered the pavement of the parking lot. The building was red brick, its windows glinting like eyes in the glow of a security light. Some of the original lettering remained on the façade: JOH S N & S NS. Two cars were parked by the door: a Jeep and a fairly new Cadillac.

  Roman took a long moment staring up at the shattered second floor windows – the victims of bored teenagers with bricks and rocks – tugging off his gloves, breath pluming in the cold. Ghost was struck by the sight of him: Roman was afraid, he realized. And maybe because a potential customer had shot at them recently, but maybe it went deeper than that. Maybe Ghost should be a little bit afraid too.

  “What?” Ghost asked.

  “Nothing. Try to keep up, Teague.”

  There were no lights on in the place, and that was just one of many things tripping the alarms in Ghost’s head. Another was the prestige tag on the Caddy: RYDRDIE. Knoxville wasn’t a seedy city, no, but it had its seedy characters. The Ryder family fashioned itself a hillbilly mafia. Ghost had seen them around, had even had a few classes with Neil Ryder, a grandson of the family’s patriarch. They usually wanted nothing to do with the Dogs, not after Leo Ryder was denied prospect status and booted on his ass. They didn’t have many teeth between them, but they had their pride, and the Dogs were on their enemies list.

  Roman knocked three times on the factory door, and a moment later it creaked open to reveal a pale face. Awkward features, colorless hair. The ten years since Ghost had seen him last hadn’t done Neil Ryder any favors.

  “What’s the word?” Roman asked.

  Neil said, “Jaded,” and Roman nodded. He stepped back and opened the door wide.

  Ghost put a hand on Justin’s elbow as they walked in. He had no idea how the guy had stayed on his bike on the way over.

  “I’m okay,” he said, voice thick, and let out a soft burp.

  “Yeah. Real asset you are,” Ghost complained. “Try and stay on your feet, okay?”

  Justin mumbled something unintelligible.

  Inside, two large flashlights had been set up on tables facing one another, creating a pocket of cool light. Four men stood at its edges, half in shadow, faces indistinct. Ambient light filtered in through the windows, illuminating the shapes of dusty furniture, bits of trash. But otherwise the first floor was largely in shadow, so thick it seemed solid. Like you could grab it by the handful.

  It hit Ghost as wrong straight off. A buzzing up the back of his neck, a tightness at the base of his throat. Like the exercises he’d been put through in basic: you knew something was wrong, and your job was to react quickly when it blew up – sometimes literally.

  He let go of Justin and put his hand on the butt of the Colt in his waistband, hanging back from the light.

  Roman, though, stepped right between the beams, blue-white all over, and swung his pack down. “Gentleman,” he said with a showman’s bow, “I come bearing narcotics.”

  “You got the coke?” one of the four asked. Deep drawl, definitely a Ryder.

  Ghost became aware of Neil standing behind him. He swore he could hear Roman roll his eyes.

  “Uh, yeah, that would be the narcotics.”

  The drag of the backpack’s zipper was too loud, echoing off the brick and concrete.

  Ghost slowed his breathing and listened, straining.

  Shuffle of Roman’s hands in the bag.

  Justin’s labored breathing as he fought his drunkenness.

  Skitter of a rat on the floor above.

  Rustle of fabric – behind him, Neil.

  Click of a safety – in front of him. One of the men in front of Roman.

  There was a chance these rednecks were quick on the draw. But they weren’t Army, and they weren’t Ghost Teague.

  He had a fraction of a second to make a decision, and hesitation would kill a man in these scenarios. Ghost drew his Colt and threw himself on top of Roman. He grabbed him around the shoulders and rolled. They had to get out of the light, out of the light, out of the light. And just as they did, one of the men fired.

  Crack of a gun, ping of the round hitting concrete. Justin yelled.

  “Get down!” Ghost shouted toward James, and then he had to worry about himself – and Roman, grudgingly – because they were still too close for comfort.

  Roman sputtering a protest, he shoved him between two stacks of plastic chairs and urged him on, foot sliding in grease on the floor, dust from the furniture filling his mouth as he sucked in a breath. Another shot cracked off behind them, and Ghost shoved Roman hard in the back. He hissed in response, but finally got his feet under him and moved on his own, ducked down low, a hump-backed shape in the gloom.

  Ghost followed, gun in one hand, the other ahead of him, feeling for the edges of desks and tables so he didn’t crash into them. Johnson & Sons had produced handbags once upon a time; this must have been where all the office furniture from their various buildings had come to die. There were rolling chairs, more stacked chairs, file cabinets, massive desks with footwells beneath, and countless wooden tables. They skittered like rats, listening to irate shouts and shuffling footfalls somewhere behind them, gaining ground by the second. The Ryders weren’t smart, and now Ghost knew they weren’t fast either.

  Finally, Roman stopped and Ghost ran into him. They were jumbled up behind a massive file cabinet. Ghost could smell the fear-sweat on his club brother.

  “What the fuck is this?” Roman whispered.


  In the dark, Ghost could just make out the wild shine of his eyes.

  “Your goddamn buyers are trying to kill us,” Ghost whispered back. “That’s what.”

  “They’re not mine! This was Duane.”

  “Nice, Uncle, real nice. You always gotta get someone else to do your dirty work,” Ghost said to himself.

  “What?”

  “The part I don’t get is why he set this up with you here. He likes you.”

  “What are you talking about?”

  Ghost ignored him, instead eased to his feet so he could peek around the edge of the cabinet. Five silhouettes stood in front of the flashlight setup. The Ryders weren’t chasing them because they had Justin, a sixth shadow slumped at their feet.

  “Goddamn it.”

  A laugh floated through the factory. “We got your friend!” one of them called. “And your drugs.”

  “Shit,” Roman said. “Duane’s gonna kill us.” He sounded more concerned about that than the prospect of being killed by hillbillies in the immediate future.

  Ghost had two things on his side: the dark of the building, and the faint trace of light coming in through the window at his back. It helped that Justin was on the ground, and out of the line of fire. He set up a shot, let out a steadying breath, and fired.

  One of the Ryders, the tallest one, went down like a sack of hammers, instant and boneless.

  There was a scuffle, shouting. One of the shadows grabbed Justin by the arm and attempted to haul him up. A few shots pinged harmlessly off surrounding cabinets, way off the mark.

  “I wouldn’t touch him,” Ghost called. “I got a better bead on you than you’ve got on me. I’ll drop all your asses.”

  “Ghost, someone’s gonna hear the shots. The cops are gonna come,” Roman said down by his knee. Cowardly fucker.

  “Not in this neighborhood they’re not,” Ghost said, for once glad to be in a shitty part of town. To the goons: “Walk out of here right now and we can pretend this never happened.”