“He told me that. You think I’m lying?”
No response. Dead hydrangea blossoms rubbed the Monte Carlo’s windows, quiet rustling.
“I don’t care if you believe me,” he snarled. “But Duane’s out of his goddamn mind. Wait here if you want, go home, hell, flag down the rednecks when they get here. Whatever. But I’m gonna go break up this party and get Mags the hell out.”
He’d gone three steps when Collier sighed and said, “Fuck, like I’m not gonna come with you?”
They were almost to the street when Roman called, voice unsteady, “He knows?”
Ghost paused and turned, looked back. Roman stood in a patch of moonlight, hands clenched at the back of his neck, expression wrecked.
The guy was an asshole, always trying to make Ghost look bad, or one-up him, sucking up to Duane like some prep school jackass. He might have been scheming and doing shit he shouldn’t. But he wasn’t evil. He didn’t deserve to get killed by hillbillies. Ghost couldn’t help but feel sorry for him in that moment.
Ghost said, “According to him, he knows everything.”
Roman let out a low, animal sound of pain, teeth flashing as he grimaced. “Oh shit. Oh fuck. Oh shit.”
“He doesn’t know what I’m about to do, though,” Ghost said, and felt the touch of Roman’s gaze across the distance between them. “You with me?” And he wasn’t just asking about now, this party and this plan. He was asking both of them to come over to his side, to realize the horror of their situation and join the movement toward a better future.
“I am,” Collier said.
After a long moment, Roman nodded. “Yeah, I’m with you.”
~*~
Maggie had never been upstairs in Hamilton House. If possible, it was more derelict than the first floor. With the windows boarded, and with far less foot traffic than the first floor, spiders had multiplied, and mold had proliferated in all the dark corners – and there were many of them. The smell of damp was pervasive up here, corrosion and rust mixed with a faint whiff of death.
Stephanie stood along the balcony, where the air was fresher – relatively: the stench of smoke and sweat and drink filtered up from the first floor, along with a warm splash of light and the pounding of the music. She had her back to Maggie, facing her friend Maureen, and she was crying, her sniffles audible even from a distance.
“I…I just…” she hiccupped.
Maureen patted her arm, face an overdramatic pout of sympathy. “I know, sweetie, I know.”
“Like, how could anyone do that to me?” Stephanie whined, bursting into sobs.
Maureen put her arm loosely around her friend’s shoulders. “She’s just jealous,” she soothed. “Like, totally jealous.”
Maggie took a step forward and the floorboards creaked. The music was muffled up here, and both girls heard the sound, turning to look at her. Stephanie, she could immediately see, wasn’t actually crying, her eyes dry, the sounds just for show.
“Oh my God.” Stephanie made a face when she saw Maggie. “Who invited your lame ass up here?”
Over her shoulder, Maureen made a similar face. Maggie was convinced all the popular girls at her school practiced the same disgusted facial expressions in the mirror together.
Maggie said, “I heard my mom was trying to make trouble for you.”
“Bite me,” Stephanie hissed, and turned around.
She wasn’t sure what she’d hoped to accomplish by coming up here. Well – that wasn’t true. She’d hoped she could head any further retaliation off at the pass. She didn’t think Ghost would be willing to paint her car again. But she didn’t know why she’d thought she’d make any headway.
She guessed she had to try, though.
She took a step closer. “Steph, look, I know you hate me, and to be honest, I hate you. But for what it’s worth, I’m sorry my mom’s stirring shit up. You stirred shit up first, so I guess it’s only fair–”
Stephanie turned back to face her, glowering.
“My point is, whatever your mom’s mad about, just deal with it. You don’t want to start anything else.”
“Are you…are you threatening me?” she asked, incredulous. “You stupid biker whore.”
“Yeah,” Maggie said, evenly. “I guess I am. But also, your reputation isn’t in tatters yet, not like mine. Whatever your mom’s mad about will blow over. So don’t blame it on me, okay? And don’t touch my car again.”
“Or what?”
“Or I’ll kick your ass for real this time.”
Whatever Stephanie was about to say was lost to a sudden shout from below as the music cut out.
~*~
Ghost wanted to get this whole houseful of kids away from danger. Sure he did. He wasn’t a monster. But there was only one he actually cared about, and he was on a mission to find her.
Collier killed the music and there was a collective roar of protest from the partygoers. There were at least a hundred of them, maybe more, friends and siblings and hangers-on. Most were drunk or on their way to being there, glassy-eyed in the dazzle of Christmas lights, calling for the music to come back on.
Ghost whistled. Once, sharp. Cupped his hands around his mouth and shouted, “Hey! Listen up!”
Someone recognized him, because a cheer of “Dope’s here!” went up from the back of the crowd, followed by a ripple of excited murmurs.
Over by the stereo, Collier made a face like what you gonna do now?
“Shut up!” Ghost roared. “Shut up and listen a second! There’s no weed.”
“Booo!” several voices chorused.
“The cops are on their way,” he continued. “So all of you need to clear out.”
“You called the cops?!”
“Dude!”
“Lean Dogs suck!”
“You heard him!” Collier spoke up. “Get a move on. Out. All of you.”
They were in the ballroom. When silence fell, it seemed to echo, ringing in the corners of the high ceiling. From above, he heard, “Ghost?”
Mags.
He tipped his head back and allowed himself one indulgent look at her: hands on the rail, golden hair spilling around her shoulders, expression a painful blend of surprised and glad and hesitant.
“Stay there,” he told her, aiming a finger at her for good measure. “The rest of you,” he said, dropping his head, “need to get the fuck out, you hear me? You’ve got ten minutes. Get your shit and go. Now.”
Something in his voice finally got through to them. They grumbled and shot him dirty looks, but they started heading for the exits, snatching up six-packs and wine coolers as they went.
He looked at Roman, pale-faced and rattled. “Get ‘em out,” he instructed. And headed up the stairs.
There were two girls at the top. “Oh my God, Steph,” he heard one say, and his eyes shifted to the blonde. She was pretty, sure, but she looked thirty-five, harsh, cruel features; he’d bet she was an ugly crier.
“Wait,” he said, and slapped a hand against the wall, so both girls were forced to pull up. They gasped. “You Stephanie?”
When she looked him in the eye, he remembered her from the drop Roman had made a few weeks ago, the one Maggie had been dragged to.
She remembered him too, apparently, teeth chattering with nerves.
“Don’t lie to me. I know you are.”
“Y-yeah. I’m Stephanie.”
“The next time you think it’d be a good idea to take spray paint to Maggie’s car, remember I don’t mind hitting a woman.” He left her there, sputtering.
Maggie was waiting for him, leaning on the second-floor balcony railing. Jeans and a peach-colored top with pearl buttons, high heels, diamond studs, and his jacket, too-big and perfect on her. She watched his approach with her body held stiffly, her head low, looking up at him through her lashes. Almost like she was afraid of him.
“You called the cops? That’s not very outlaw of you.”
“There’s no cops.” He reached her and pulled up
short, not sure of his welcome. She looked like she’d just as soon slap him as kiss him. “Somebody a helluva lot worse is on the way. We gotta get all these kids outta here.”
“Kids?”
“That’s what’s gonna insult you?”
“I’m way past insulted.”
“Yeah, well–” Over the scuffle of feet and din of unhappy conversation, he heard the low rumble of a truck with aftermarket pipes.
“Ghost,” Collier called up. “Company, man.”
His heart lurched. “Shit.”
True fear began to overtake her face. “Ghost, who is it?”
“A buncha inbred banjo players who” – and the thought occurred to him them, truly terrifying – “would probably like to take a turn on a Dog’s old lady. So get down and stay down. Don’t let them see you.”
“Ghost–”
He knelt down and pulled up the leg of his jeans, movements jerky and hasty. He carried a .22 in holster stashed down the shaft of his boot and he pulled it out. “Here.”
Her eyes were shadow-colored in this dim light, huge and wild. “I don’t know how to shoot.”
“It’s easy. Pull the hammer back with your thumb, hold with both hands, aim, pull the trigger.” He thrust the little revolver into her hands. “Don’t use it if you don’t have to, and let ‘em get right up on top of you. Six shots. Don’t miss.”
“Ghost,” she pleaded, eyes slick, hands trembling as she reluctantly took the gun.
“Stay low.” His heart was thundering in his ears, louder than the sound of the crowd below, than Collier shouting for him. “Roman, get out!” he called over the railing, then pointed to the dark doorway of a bedroom. “Mags, go, wait for me to come get you.”
She stared at him, chest heaving.
“Mags, please. Just do it. I can’t let something happen to you.”
The sound of his pleading seemed to snap her out of it. She managed a nod. “Yeah, yeah, okay. So don’t let it.” She slipped into the shadow.
It was a monstrous effort, leaving her up there, shifting gears, but he managed, pounding back down the stairs. He itched to pull his Colt, but waited. The last few kids were leaving, footfalls and voices fading down the back hallway.
“Roman?” he asked Collier.
“Gone.” Collier drew his piece. “Where do you want me?”
“There, that front room. Come in behind them when they get in and we’ll pull a pincher move on them.”
Collier tipped his head in acknowledgement. “Let’s try not to be Rommel in this scenario, yeah?”
“Yeah.”
His heartbeat was a kettle drum in his chest. Stay down, stay down, stay down he willed Maggie upstairs. And he threw in a prayer to boot.
Six men entered through the front door, walking slowly, taking their time to spill into the ballroom and take up position across from Ghost. He recognized Neil. Noted the bulges of guns in Carhartt jacket pockets.
One was older than the others, heavyset, his square jaw gone to jowls. Like the others, he had a bad hairline and sunburn, dirty jeans and narrow pig eyes.
He spat on the floor and said, “Where’s Duane?”
“He sent me,” Ghost said. “I’m his nephew.”
“Yeah. Ghost. I know who you are.”
He had to be careful here. What he wanted to do was open fire on these assholes – surge of adrenaline and anger in his veins, the soldier’s instinct to eliminate the enemy before they could eliminate you – but he was outmanned. And his girl was upstairs, waiting for him. Giving him a reason to end this peaceably.
“And who are you?” he asked, as respectfully as he could manage.
The man grunted, and didn’t look like he would answer. His boys shifted, gazes moving around the room, the decorations, the abandoned beer keg. But he said, “Joe Ryder.”
“Alright, Joe. I take it you’re the man in charge, yeah?”
“What’s it to you? I ain’t here to talk.”
“Well, now, don’t be hasty.” He shot the group a smile and deliberately relaxed his posture. “I think talking could do us both some good.”
The man’s expression hardened. “Your crew dropped three of my boys. I ain’t got shit to say to you.”
“My condolences. I’m deeply sorry about the loss of your men. But now,” he said, when Joe started to interrupt, “you gotta see it from our perspective. We go out on two separate deals, making regular drug drops, and we get shot at. Out of the blue, no warning, we didn’t do anything, just.” He made a gun with his fingers. “What’s a guy supposed to do when someone opens fire on him? Get shot? Throw down the drugs and run? C’mon, Joe, you know that’s not how the Dogs operate. That’s not how any crew worth its salt reacts, including yours. The underworld is the Wild West, my friend, and anyone who shot at us knew that full well going into it, before he pulled the trigger. We shot back. Yeah. Okay. I’m sorry it had to be that way, but that’s how it works.
“Like I said: I’m sorry about your boys. Truly I am. But I don’t see why we have to add to the body count. Not when we could work something else out.”
Joe snorted. “The only reason you ain’t full of holes right now is because I already worked something out – with Duane.”
“I see.” He was starting to, at least.
“I want Roman,” he said. “I told Duane if you gave him up, I’ll let the rest of you walk.”
“How generous of you,” Ghost said. “Why Roman?”
Some of the boys shifted forward, restless, darting questioning looks to their boss. None of them had anticipated any backtalk.
“What?” Joe asked, scowling.
“You want Roman,” Ghost said, shooting for reasonable. “And sure, he’s a good choice. He’s a shitheel, and nobody’ll miss him. But why do you want him specifically?” When Ghost had been the one to kill at least two of the slain Ryders.
“Roman knows what he did,” Joe said.
“He had dealings with you, then?”
“Cut the shit, kid. Where is he?”
Ghost’s thoughts spun. Duane had talked about Roman going behind his back, trying to make bad deals with gangs, other clubs, but he hadn’t relayed any of the specifics.
“Roman promised you something,” he said, realization dawning. “And he didn’t deliver; he double-crossed you. That first night, out at that house in the woods – your boy was trying to take him out, wasn’t he?”
“I ain’t telling you shit. Hand him over.”
“Exactly what kind of deal have you got worked out with Duane?” He had no doubt it reached beyond Roman. Duane wasn’t even a little bit generous.
“Where is he?”
“Not here. He bolted when he heard your trucks pull up.”
“Son of a bitch,” Joe hissed. “Quit fucking around.”
Neil took an aggressive step toward Ghost.
“I wouldn’t try it,” Collier said, stepping into the hall, cutting them off. “We’ve got more guys in here, watching you,” he lied, “waiting on you to make a move.”
“You’re really starting to piss me off,” Joe said.
“I don’t doubt it,” Ghost said. “But since we’re here at a stalemate, let me float something by you.”
“Fuck you.”
“I can get you Roman. Hand-delivered and gift-wrapped.” At this point, he was betting on the fact that the Ryders really did want Roman, considering they hadn’t shot him yet. It wasn’t an eye-for-an-eye after all, but a vendetta. And vendettas could be exploited.
“In exchange for what?”
“You tell me what you’ve got cooked up with Duane.”
Joe grinned: it was tobacco-stained and nasty. “You boys don’t know what goes on in your own club. That it? The boss shut you out?” He let out a hoarse, creaky laugh. “That’s why you Dogs can’t get anywhere. Disorganized pieces of shit.”
“Yeah, yeah, we’re shit. But I’m asking, okay? You want Roman, I want info. Let’s make a swap.”
Over Joe�
��s shoulder, Ghost met Collier’s gaze: be careful, his expression said.
“I oughtta shoot you.”
“But you haven’t yet,” Ghost pointed out. “And that means something.”
“Fuck you.”
“Give me two hours, and I’ll give you Roman.”
“Two hours.” Doubtful, but not a refusal.
“Whatever Duane’s promised you, I can do better. My uncle’s a short-sighted man with no ambition. Trust me: long term, you want to be on my good side, not his.”
A long, tense moment passed, punctuated by the quiet rubber flaps of the bat wings overhead, stirred by the incoming breeze.
Finally, Joe smiled again. “You got balls, I’ll give you that.” His eyes moved down and then back up, taking in Ghost like he was sizing up a horse he wanted to buy. “Alright, kid. I hate your uncle’s guts.”
“Most people do.”
“You’ve got two hours. Meet us waterside, the old Mercury place.”
Ghost saluted him. “Two hours. And you’ll tell me what I want to know?”
“Yeah. I’ll tell you.”
~*~
Maggie didn’t take a full breath until she heard several extremely modified trucks roar to life out in the driveway. When she tried to stand, her legs were shaking too badly to support her, so she waited another moment, concentrating on her feet, her ankles, her knees, all her uncooperative joints. Slowly, she managed to get upright, leaning against the wall, hand slick with sweat around the grip of Ghost’s gun.
It felt horribly real all of a sudden: the life-and-death part of Ghost’s outlaw existence. She hadn’t ever thought it all the way through, but it made a terrifying kind of sense: men living in open defiance of the law and society’s rules wouldn’t object to killing one another.
A sobering thought.
But it didn’t change anything, not for her at least.
“Mags?” Ghost called from down below, and her legs started working – albeit shakily.
She peeked over the rail and saw him standing in the middle of the ballroom, bathed in Christmas light, black and hard-edged, the true darkness that all the Halloween decorations had tried and failed to capture. He twisted to look up at her over his shoulder, and the impression of him – black eyes, black hair, black shadow of stubble along his jaw – almost knocked her back down. No wonder a whole troop of thugs had walked out the door rather than stay and fight him. Who wouldn’t?
American Hellhound Page 38
