Silence reigned for a long moment. Speaking through his fingers, Fielding said, “I hate you so much. I always have.”
“Yeah, I figured. Not a big fan of you either.”
A glazed-over eye peeked between pointer and middle finger. “Why you?”
“Why me what?”
“Why the hell would a perfectly nice girl from a good family want anything to do with you?”
“We’re not really gonna have this old conversation, are we?”
Fielding shrugged. “Maybe. I’m drunk.”
Ghost stood. “Have one of your flunkies make you some coffee. Time to sober up, Vinny.”
When he glanced back over his shoulder at the door, he saw that Fielding was shooting him the bird.
Ghost returned the gesture and left.
Thirty-Five
Nothing was happening. They patrolled the city, they checked in with contacts, they told their dealers to go off the grid and lay low. They stocked, and armed, and readied. They were as prepared as possible.
And there was nothing. Not so much as a whiff of trouble.
Waiting was horrible. It tasted acidic on the back of the tongue; the air heavy and metallic with the rain of clouds they couldn’t yet see, night settling dark, and clear, and star-studded over Dartmoor. A false portrait of peace.
Ghost woke with a start, breath caught in his throat, heart leaping out from between his ribs. His gaze darted wildly around the dark room, trying to catalogue his surroundings, rectify them in his mind. He knew right away that he wasn’t at home, and it took an alarming handful of seconds for him to realize that he was at the clubhouse, in a dorm, instead of his own bedroom.
Shit.
He breathed through the burst of panic, slow and steady, until his heart began to slow. He lay on his side, facing Maggie, the two of them curved like parentheses around Ash, who slept on his stomach between them, snuffling into the sheets.
It took him a moment to realize that Maggie’s eyes were open, ocean blue in the darkness.
“How long you been awake?” he asked, voice rusty from sleep.
Her face was soft in the shadows, a stolen bit of calm before the storm broke. “A while.”
“You should try to go back to sleep. Gonna be a long day.”
“I could say the same to you.”
But the difference was, he was the cause of the long day; he was the asshole who ran the club that tempted other clubs to test their strength. That forced them to answer. When he was twenty-seven, the night they rolled Duane’s body into a hole and Maggie told him she was pregnant, he could have packed up their growing family and driven them clear across the country. Sold his bike. Settled them in a town where no one knew what the black dog tat on his arm meant, gotten a job at a garage, or a grocery store. Mopped floors, anything. Anything to support his family.
Instead, he’d stayed, and he’d led. And by some miracle, Maggie had stayed right by his side. She deserved a medal for that.
Careful not to wake Ash, he reached across and tucked her hair behind her ear, passed his rough thumb across her impossibly smooth cheek. “I’m sorry, baby.”
She frowned. “For what?”
He felt his own mouth attempt a smile, sideways and sad. His daughter was the writer of the family; he didn’t think he had the means to put I’m sorry for your whole life with me into words with any eloquence. So he said, “Everything.”
“Don’t be sorry.” She reached to lay her hand over the back of his. “Be the meanest damn dog in the fight.”
~*~
Kris startled awake and then wasn’t sure why. Then she saw the figure standing at the end of her bed.
“Shit,” she breathed in the same moment that fear spiked and, just as quickly, realization dawned.
Mercy had a point about getting Reese a bell. He was her own brother and he still managed to scare the hell out of her.
She pushed upright, so tired she felt drunk, head fuzzy and eyes full of grit. “What are you doing?” As her vision cleared, she saw that dawn was breaking, pale light filtering through the curtains, and that Reese was dressed for a job: black skinnies, combats, his grubby surplus jacket, and beneath it, Kevlar. The black turtleneck that covered his pale throat, hair tied back at his nape with a band, so it wouldn’t get in his way. If he pulled his hood up, he’d be set, ready for battle.
“I,” he started, gaze on the floor, corner of his mouth tucked back in a rare show of doubt. Expressing himself was difficult, always, having been denied the privilege for so long, but this seemed different. She felt the tension coming off of him. His hesitancy.
“I want,” he tried again, sighing through his nostrils, frustrated now. “Be careful.” His eyes snapped up to hers, electric, raw, full of emotion that he clearly didn’t know how to handle. “I want you to be careful.”
Kris bit her lip – and bit back all the things she wanted to say. She wanted to tell him that he should stay here, that he didn’t have to involve himself in this war. That she wanted him to find a way to crack his shell and let her in, just a little. Even though it would doubtless take months and months for therapy to accomplish such a thing.
What she said was, “You be careful too.”
He nodded and turned away, left as soundlessly as he’d no doubt entered, when she’d been sleeping.
Kris blew out a breath and flopped back onto her pillow, body alive with nerves, now. She hated this – all this emotion. She had no idea how to handle it; no doubt she needed a therapist too.
She stared at the ceiling, buzzing with anxiety, until she realized there was no hope of going back to sleep, and no sense in staying in bed. She flipped the covers back, stepped into her flip-flops, and ventured out in search of coffee.
The hall was dark, but several doors bore strips of light along the bottoms. She heard muffled voices, shuffle of sheets and feet on carpet. The clubhouse was packed to the gills, every intown member and his family, all of them crammed into small dorms with folding cots and playpens for the babies.
Just a few months ago, being surrounded by so many bikers would have been horrifying and mundane.
Now, it wasn’t horrifying – these people were good in her eyes – and for that reason she was nervous in a way she never had been when she was a slave. She never knew when her standing here might change; in so many ways, she was finding out that the pressure of the unknown could be twice as frightening as known terrors.
Some of the single guys were camped out on the sofas, unmoving beneath their blankets, dead asleep. There was no sign of Reese – God knew where he’d gone – but he wasn’t the only one lurking and awake in the underwater light of dawn.
In the kitchen, Kris pulled up short when she found Roman sitting at the small café table pushed up against one wall, hands wrapped around a steaming white mug. The smell of coffee was sharp and welcome, as comforting as the look on his face was disturbing.
“Hi,” she greeted, just a whisper, lingering in the threshold.
He didn’t look up. “Hi.”
It was stupid to feel wrong-footed around him. Very stupid. He’d seen her chained to a bedpost, for God’s sake. So she walked to the coffee pot and poured herself a mug. Added three spoons of sugar, because she could. She could eat and drink and do whatever she wanted now, and she was never going to skimp on sugar, not ever. Then she went to sit across from Roman.
His head lifted, and he looked worse than she’d first thought: lined, and gray, and hollowed-out. She didn’t see the flash of fear or anger in his eyes, the way she imagined it in the other men splashing their faces and peering into bathroom mirrors this morning. No, he looked resigned. Grim.
“What’s wrong?” she asked.
He shrugged and avoided her gaze.
“Are you scared?”
He made a face. “No. Aren’t you?”
“Terrified,” she admitted on a shaky exhale. “I don’t want to go back.”
“You won’t.” His eyes came to her then. “Kris, you won’t.�
��
She offered him a bare smile. It was nice of him to say that, but he wasn’t in a position to promise her anything.
Nobody was.
~*~
Ghost smoothed down the last Velcro strap of his flak vest and shrugged his shirt on over it. It was black, a white silhouette of a dog on the front. They were going soft colors today, plain jackets, no cuts. If shit got crazy, he didn’t want their patches flying all over the evening news.
God forbid.
His twin Colt 1911s went in his shoulder holster, under his jacket. .38 in his boot. Bowie knife strapped to his leg; backup knife in his other boot.
He caught a glimpse of himself in the dressing table mirror as he turned for the door. The black of his eyes and hair. The shadow of gray at his temples, and along his jaw. The lines on his face. The trim waist and hips, beat-up jeans. Glint of his wedding ring; his other rings, chunky and hyper-masculine by comparison to that simple band.
He looked like a soldier, he thought.
He hoped he looked enough like a king.
He ran into Aidan and Tango in the hallway, the two of them leaning close together, talking in low tones, their own flak vests visible beneath their shirts. Tango had a .45 crammed in his waistband. Aidan had a love bite on his neck, just beneath his ear, a souvenir from a worried old lady. (Ghost said a silent thank you, again, for Sam, and her positive influence on his boy.)
They both glanced up when he appeared, expressions tight with stress…but ready. All set to receive orders and carry out the grisly tasks he set before them.
Ghost felt a lump form in his throat. Mercy was his son-in-law, and he loved him, yes, but he felt more like an equal. A brother.
These two, though, they were his boys. Always babies and awkward kids in his mind. He loved them fiercely, in ways he didn’t normally let come to the surface. And he was so, so scared for them today. They had wives; they had futures. They were better than him, more innocent, even after everything. And he wanted to wrap them in cotton and stuff them in a dark closet until everything was over.
“Hey,” Aidan said. “Are we–”
Ghost stepped in and caught them both at their napes, pulled their heads in close to his, their foreheads warm and smooth against his jaw.
Tango leaned into him.
Aidan’s breath caught on a hitch.
“Love you boys,” he said, chest tight.
“Yeah,” Aidan said, roughly.
“You too,” Tango whispered.
Then he pulled back and clapped them on the shoulder. “Let’s go.”
~*~
Cars breezed past on I-40, kicking up dust and bits of gravel, road dirt. Ghost hissed when a hot pebble bounced off his arm.
“Van,” Walsh said.
It was dark blue, wrapped in a peeling sticker for a local plumber.
“I’ve seen them on the road before,” Rottie said. “They’re legit.”
The van passed, and it was back to watching.
They’d begun the day, just after dawn, with a patrol of the city. They broke it down into quadrants, searching in groups, on the look-out for anything that struck them as odd. When they came up empty – a blessing – they took watch dog posts within each sector, and here they sat, waiting, scanning.
At this point, if something was going to happen, Ghost wanted it to go ahead and happen already.
“Hey,” Walsh said, and they all looked.
A black van, no markings, headed into Knoxville. It slowed a fraction when it drew alongside them, shifted over a lane. Then, once it was past, shifted back and headed up the exit ramp.
Ghost caught a glimpse of driver and passenger, both bearded and wearing sunglasses.
Walsh started the truck and they followed.
~*~
Maggie was in the process of nursing Ash when her phone rang. She held him steady with her left arm and dug her cell from her back pocket with the right, shifting carefully on the dorm bed so she didn’t dislodge him. The boy liked his groceries. Maybe it was silly, but she felt a moment’s self-consciousness, caught with her shirt open, in the middle of this intimate maternal moment. Whoever was on the line wouldn’t be able to see her, now, but she didn’t love the interruption.
Then she thought it might be Ghost, calling with news…or one of the other guys, calling with news about Ghost, and her blood ran cold.
“Whoever” turned out to be her mother, though.
“Mom?”
“Oh my God,” Denise said by way of greeting, voice choked with panic. “Margaret, it’s your father. I’ve called 911.”
Her stomach moved through a complex sequence of flips. “His heart?” Her own pounded wildly in her chest. Ash squirmed against her breast, fussing.
“Yes, he’s – I don’t know what’s happening. He had terrible chest pains. I called an ambulance. I didn’t know what else to do…” Denise sounded like a different person entirely, unmoored and emotional.
Maggie would have to be the calm one, she realized. In this instance, her mother couldn’t. “Okay,” she said, squashing her own panic. “Okay, that’s good. Are you en route?”
“Y-yes.”
“Good. Okay.” Jesus. “Did you bring his meds?”
“Yes.” Stronger: “Of course.”
“Okay.” She cradled Ash close, already feeling like someone had snatched him away from her. “Do you need me to come?”
“I…” Denise’s hesitance and doubt told Maggie all that she needed to know: This was bad, and her mom wanted her there. Needed her support. And then: “Please, I…”
“Okay, I’m coming.”
She hung up and sat, staring at the wall, letting Ash finish. He was a warm, solid weight in her arms. Soft. Sweet. Hers. Hers and Ghost’s. He already looked just like his daddy, she thought. Those eyebrows, the downy soft hair at his crown, the shape of his lips. He would look like his brother and sister, all the spitting image of their old man. So handsome.
When he was done, eyes closing and pink mouth going slack, she eased him up onto her shoulder, patting his back.
“My sweet little man,” she cooed into his tiny, velvet ear. “I love you so much. You have no idea.”
She found Ava in the kitchen, starting the day’s third pot of coffee. A tea kettle steamed on the stove.
Ava got one look at her face and said, “Oh no. What’s wrong?” No doubt her mind was no the boys, the club conflict.
Maggie said, “Your grandpa’s had a heart incident. Mom called an ambulance.”
“Oh shit.”
“I’m gonna join her at the hospital.”
“Mom.”
“I have to go. It’s my dad. And after I bitched about Mom not telling me last time…” Her throat was tight, eyes stinging.
Ava looked devastated. And fierce – always fierce, her girl. “Dad wouldn’t let you.”
“I know. But he’s not here.”
Ava turned away, muttering under her breath. Ghost’s offspring, through and through. When she looked back, she was resolute. “I’m going with you.”
Maggie smiled at her. “You have three babies.”
“So do you,” Ava fired back.
Maggie touched her face, cupped her cheek with one hand. “I have to do this. I’m gonna leave your little brother with you.”
Ava’s eyes glimmered. She glanced away, biting her lip. “Don’t go alone.”
“I won’t.”
Maggie reached for her the same moment Ava leaned in, and they embraced, careful of Ash between them.
“Please be careful,” Ava whispered.
“I will.”
They traded I-love-yous, and Maggie passed the baby over, heart grabbing at the sight of the two of them together.
In the common room, she was met by unhappy, but resigned expressions.
“I’m coming,” Harry said, shrugging into his jacket.
“You too, Roman,” Maggie said. What else was he doing besides staring into his coffee cup? And besides, he kn
ew these Saints assholes. If something happened, he might prove useful.
“I’ll come too,” Kristin volunteered, to Maggie’s surprise.
She gave the girl a long look, finding her fearful, but clear-eyed.
“Okay.”
She glanced at Ava. Mercy wasn’t an officer, but every woman in the room knew who was in charge in the queen’s absence.
“Be safe,” Ava said, a wealth of unsaid cautions in her eyes.
“We will.”
~*~
The black van traveled through the heart of town, and then beyond it, toward the warehouse where Ghost had once shot at the Ryders. This fucking place, he thought, as the van swung into the parking lot.
Walsh pulled their truck over several driveways down, hands tight on the wheel. “We already checked here. They weren’t using it for storage.”
“No, but this is where Reese was hiding out,” Ghost said, gut tightening with unease.
“Which means Roman squealed to them,” Michael said, grimly, leaning in from the back seat to peer through the windshield. “Called Badger and told him where to find the kid.”
“We’ve had Reese for months,” Ghost said, frowning to himself. It was true that there was no reason for Badger’s people to know or care about this warehouse; it had been empty for decades, and save for Reese, no one had used it for anything in months. That was the problem, wasn’t it? Had Roman tipped them off? Told them where to find the kid? If so, the intel was old.
Unless.
“This is where Reese was hiding out,” he repeated. “Maybe they tracked him here somehow, before they got put away.”
It was silent a beat, and then everyone said, “Shit.”
~*~
Reese slid the cellphone from his jacket pocket and opened the contacts list. He’d stolen it from Badger before they’d left: a sleek silver iPhone 6, loaded with apps, most of which he didn’t see the value of. He’d expected, in the months to follow, that Badger would realize it was missing – humans couldn’t live without their phones for more than an hour – and have the line cancelled. But he didn’t, and that was when Reese realized Badger must be using GPS to track him. A risk, yes. But also a chance to draw them away.
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