American Hellhound

by Lauren Gilley

  Reese bought a charge chord in Arkansas, on the trip to Knoxville, and had kept the thing fully-charged ever since, plugged into an outlet at the warehouse, waiting for it to become useful.

  Now, pulled over in a gas station parking lot, behind the wheel of a nondescript sedan he’d borrowed from the Lean Dogs motor pool, he found the number for Badger’s VP, Harlan.

  Around him, people pumped gas, threw fast food bags in the trash, talked on their phones. A family of tourists – minivan, pillows and luggage visible through the windows – argued about which kinds of chips and candy bars to buy inside the convenience store.

  Reese recognized it – the whole scene – as evidence of life. Real life. The kind of life he couldn’t remember having. But he was detached from it. Couldn’t reach it, imagine it, pretend to be part of it. His sister wanted it, she even understood it, but to him it was all window-dressing for a different kind of reality. The kind in which people breathed, and ate, and slept, and fucked, and killed one another, until their own hearts stopped. Life wasn’t an experience – it was an exercise, one that didn’t seem to have much point. There were tasks, and he completed them. At some point in the future, that would stop.

  He pressed Harlan’s name and put the phone to his ear. It rang twice.

  Badger’s voice answered. “There you are, shithead. Where are you?”

  “I thought you knew,” Reese said. “You tracked the phone.”

  “Yeah, and then you moved it.”

  In retrospect, it was risky to have intentionally lured them here. At least, it put the Lean Dogs at risk. Reese didn’t want anything to happen to them, but drawing Badger to Knoxville had been personal. Maybe the first thing he’d ever done for himself. By using the warehouse, he’d lead them somewhere empty, somewhere they couldn’t hurt anyone. And now they were here, and he could put a bullet in each of them.

  Badger made an impatient noise. “Cut the shit, kid. It’s time to come home.”

  “I don’t have a home,” Reese said, and hung up. He tossed the phone into the garbage on top of old Burger King bags and started the car.

  ~*~

  Roman offered, with obvious reluctance, to drive, but Maggie waved him off. The last thing she wanted right now, with her shaking hands and unsteady breath, was to surrender to someone else’s competence. She needed to keep it together, and that required she stay in control.

  It was a tense, silent ride to the hospital.

  In the parking lot, Harry hustled up to her door, hand resting on the butt of his gun, head on a swivel. “Stay close,” he told her, and it was a request rather than an order.

  Maggie held her purse tight to her side, heavy with the weight of two guns and a knife.

  Kristin kept close at her side as they walked, head down, face white, Roman right behind them.

  “Thank you,” Maggie told the petrified girl. “You didn’t have to come.” And in truth, she had no idea why she had. It didn’t matter, though: she was grateful for the company.

  She breathed a sigh of relief when they passed through the airlock and into the hospital. Safe for the moment.

  ~*~

  Kris wasn’t sure why she’d offered to come. She wanted to be useful, sure, do anything to prove that she was worth keeping around. And she’d seen Ava’s face, knew the girl had wanted to come with her mother, watch out for her, keep her safe. So she could say she felt compelled to step in, serve as a disposable sort of comfort.

  But it wasn’t logical. She didn’t fully understand her urge to leave the clubhouse, only that it had been overwhelming.

  She suspected it had something to do with Roman, wanting to be close to him. That wasn’t logical either – she didn’t think – but it was instinctual. The moment he cut her loose from the bedpost in Badger’s dorm room was the moment some mindless part of her brain decided he was safe, good, protective.

  As they walked down the long white halls, following the signs to the cardiac ward, Roman fell into step beside Kris, leaning in until their shoulders bumped, his breath hot in her ear. “Why the fuck are you here?” he hissed, angrier than she would have thought.

  “Why are you?” she whispered back.

  The true answer was that Maggie had asked him to come – Kris figured Maggie was banking on Roman serving as mediator if they ran into the Saints. Or sacrifice. But what Roman said was, “I owe them this. You don’t.”

  “They took me in, same as you.”

  “Fuck you,” he said, voice raw. “You don’t owe anyone shit.”

  When she glanced his way, she found his gaze trained straight ahead, jaw clenched. Furious. Or desperate.

  “Roman–”

  They rounded the corner into a family waiting room and a woman turned toward them, ash-blonde, stick-thin, magazine-elegant.

  “Margaret,” she gasped, tears tracking down her face, and rushed to Maggie.

  Kris looked toward Roman again…but he wouldn’t look at her.

  ~*~

  Aidan slowed the truck and looked across the cab, past Mercy and out through the passenger window toward Ghost and Maggie’s house. “Shit.” There was a black pickup in the drive, and a man in a hoodie in the shade of the porch, peering through the front windows.

  “They’re looking for us,” Tango said from the back seat. Anyone who didn’t know him wouldn’t have detected the note of fear in his voice, but Aidan heard it.

  “I spot four of them,” Mercy said.

  Aidan did too: driver in the truck, guy on the porch, and two more creeping in the shrubs along the side of the house. He didn’t see any crowbars or hammers – no obvious tools for breaking in. This crew wasn’t out to inflict property damage.

  “Ghost said not to engage,” Carter reminded.

  “I know that,” Aidan said, tense with nerves. He hated adrenaline with no outlet, the way it turned his hands jittery.

  He cruised past the house and turned around in a driveway a few mailboxes down. He hung back, loitering under the heavy green cover of a birch tree.

  “It would be so easy,” Mercy said, almost dreamily.

  Four-on-four were even, if not good odds. But throw in Mercy, and the Dogs would have the upper hand, no contest. But.

  “Easy to get arrested,” Aidan said. “We stick to the plan.”

  When the four Saints were back in the truck and pulling away, Aidan followed.

  ~*~

  Four dark-clad Saints went into the warehouse and spent thirty minutes, coming back out grim-faced. Ghost knew what they’d found inside: the ratty twin mattress, case of bottled water, and pile of empty tuna cans.

  “They tracked him here,” he said. “Somehow. Or else he called and told them he was here.”

  “I can’t see him doing that,” Michael said. “He hates those assholes for what they did to his sister. He’s got no reason to help them.”

  “Stockholm Syndrome.” Ghost shrugged. “Or maybe he’s just a good actor. Who knows.”

  Michael’s expression remained unconvinced in the rearview mirror.

  “As of right now, we can’t assume we can trust him,” Ghost said. He didn’t say that he felt betrayed and vaguely sick.

  His cellphone blared to life in the cup holder, Tango’s name flashing across the screen. “Yeah?” he answered.

  “Someone was casing your house,” Tango said, voice betraying only a touch of nerves. “Four guys, black truck. They just left.”

  “You followed them?”

  “Yeah. They’re headed back into town.”

  “Stay on them.” His call waiting beeped. “That’s somebody else, I gotta go.”

  He switched over without checking the number, expecting one of his other guys. “Yeah?”

  A pause. Then: “Good morning, Ghost.” Badger.

  Ghost’s hands tightened, on the phone and on the strap of his seatbelt. He pulled the cell from his ear and thumbed it onto speaker. “Good morning,” he returned, and thought his voice sounded casual. “You’ve been on the news l
ately. What’s that like?”

  Badger chuckled. “Oh, I expect you’ll find that out for yourself soon.”

  “Yeah? You think?”

  “I’m counting on it.” The line went dead.

  The dial tone filled the truck as Walsh piloted through the next turn, the van still in sight two cars ahead of them.

  “Okay,” Walsh said. “That sounds pretty terrible.”

  “He’s got some stunt planned, and we’re probably about to drive right into it,” Rottie said. “Shit.”

  “Call Hound,” Ghost ordered. “Tell him to get in touch with Fielding. Drunk or not, he needs to get his ass in gear.”

  His phone rang again. “Jesus.” It was Ian this time. “What?”

  “Hello,” the Englishman said pleasantly. “Have you heard from our friend Badger?”

  “Right before you called. I’m following four of his guys to God knows where.”

  “Ah, yes, well, I believe I know where. He’s leading you to me.”

  “To you?”

  “Yes, to my funeral home. He’s making quite the scene. Taking my people hostage and so forth.” And that was when Ghost realized that Ian’s polite veneer was just that – a glossy covering that attempted, not quite successfully, to cover extreme emotion.

  Screw saving face in front of the guys – at the end of the day, this kid was one of Ghost’s, too, and he needed somebody in this scenario to worry about him. “Ian, are you okay?”

  Walsh made a surprised sound in the next seat.

  Tense, furious, desperate, through clenched teeth: “He’s holding a gun to Alec’s head. So no. I’m not even a little okay.”

  “Jesus. Alright. Where is he? Where’s your security?” He thought of the hulking, silent, loyal Bruce; there was no way he wouldn’t throw himself in front of a bullet for Ian or anyone Ian cared about.

  Ian took a shuddering breath. “They’re all in here with me, in the building. Alec was going to surprise me with lunch – the bloody idiot. I told him to stay at home today. I–” He made a choked-off sound, a suppressed sob. “They’re in the parking lot, a dozen fucking biker cretins, and they have Alec. The second a member of my security team steps outside, they’ll paint his brains across the blacktop.”

  “Shit.” He could envision the scene, the dangerous impossibility. “Try to calm down, okay? Badger’s after me and mine. He doesn’t care about hurting Alec, alright?” When we get there, he’ll turn him loose.”

  “You’d better hope you’re right.” Fury that bled into terror. A jagged breath. “I…”

  “It’s alright, kid. Hang tight. We’re coming.”

  ~*~

  Sitting in the waiting room, Harry prowling at the door with his figurative hackles raised, Maggie wanted a lot of things. A cup of coffee, a glass of wine, a cigarette. Her husband’s arm around her. Her baby in her lap. Her other baby at her side, providing droll commentary. None of which she could have at the moment. But most of all she wanted – prayed – for her father to be okay, because she hadn’t finished trying to get to know him again, adult-to-adult.

  Her thoughts wouldn’t hold still, flying from Ghost, to Ava, to Aidan, to Ash, her worry for her family like a second consciousness inside her head, one that wouldn’t be drowned out or silenced, no matter what was going on in the immediate vicinity.

  Something cold and dry touched the back of her hand and it startled her to realize it was her mother’s hand, pale and cold as bone, shaking with emotion. Maggie twisted hers beneath it, palm-up, and laced their fingers together.

  “It’s okay, Mom. He’ll be alright.” They were the only words she could offer.

  Denise closed her eyes and nodded, lashes shiny with tears. “I know.” Her lips trembled. “I know.”

  But they didn’t know, and that was the unbearable part.

  The doctor had come by just before she went to the OR, already dressed in mint green scrubs and cap. She was optimistic, she said, but they should be prepared. She said she’d send someone to update them as soon as there was news. That had been thirty minutes ago, and since then, Maggie had tried her best to keep it together for her mom.

  What they needed was a distraction.

  Across from them, Kristin and Roman sat side-by-side, heads down, hands folded in their laps. At another time, Maggie would have chuckled over their mirrored posture.

  Now, trying to stem her guilt over being a terrible daughter, she said the first thing that popped into her head when she looked at them. “Explain to me why you two aren’t together.”

  Kristin’s head jerked up, expression stricken.

  Roman said, “Fuck. You sound just like your old man, you know that?”

  Denise pulled in a breath to protest – either the fuck or the old man, or maybe Roman’s tone in general.

  Maggie squeezed her hand. Wait. And miraculously, she waited.

  Maggie gave Roman her best Ghost impression: an unimpressed stare. She couldn’t do the single eyebrow lift, so she raised both. “That didn’t sound like an answer, Roman.”

  He grumbled something under his breath and folded his arms, tucked his hands into his armpits.

  “What was that?”

  “What’s it to you?” he asked.

  “My dad’s in surgery and I’m looking to take my mind off the fact. Sue me.”

  Kris fidgeted in her chair. She looked ready to bolt.

  Roman gave Maggie a flat look. “We’re just not, okay?” His tone said drop it.

  “You know,” Maggie said, her anxiety finding an outlet in anger. “I don’t want to embarrass Kristin or make her uncomfortable. You, though” – she pointed at him – “you I have no qualms about.”

  “That why you wanted me to come up here? Embarrass me?”

  She wasn’t going to answer that in front of her mother, but she saw in his face that he didn’t need her to. She’d brought Roman along for one reason: he might serve as a good bargaining chip if they ran into the Saints. It was a long shot, but better than no shot at all.

  Roman’s grin was mean. “You always were more ruthless than I gave you credit for. You and Ghost – that’s a match made in heaven, isn’t it?”

  “Excuse me, young man,” Denise said. “You’d do well to keep a civil tongue in your head.” She was still trembling, still fighting fear, but some of her usual haughtiness was bleeding back to the surface.

  Over in the doorway, Harry hid a smile in his hand.

  “Show a lady the proper respect,” Denise continued. “Honestly, you bikers all need to take etiquette classes.” She gave a decisive nod, pleased with her reprimand.

  Roman stared at her, dumbfounded. “Yes, ma’am.”

  Kristin popped to her feet, cheeks scarlet, and hurried to the vending machines in the corner. She made no move to buy anything; stood staring at the candy bar selection, hugging herself.

  After a few minutes, Maggie let go of her mother’s hand and stood. “Be right back.”

  She watched Kristin’s reflection in the glass as she approached, saw the pinched brows, the lip drawn between her teeth.

  “Candy craving?” Maggie asked, drawing up beside her, a dollar held out in offering.

  Kristin didn’t take it. Low, forcing Maggie to lean in close to hear, she said, “It’s my fault.” Her face was a jumble of guilt, fear, and sadness. “I’m sorry.”

  “What’s your fault?”

  “Why we’re not…” She bit her lip so hard it went white. “I know Roman wants…but I’m not…”

  “Honey,” Maggie said, filled with sympathy. “That’s not something you need to feel sorry about. You don’t owe a man that. Nobody does.”

  “I care about him,” she whispered.

  “Of course you do.” Maggie her arm across her shoulders; they were shaking. “He’s been really good to you.” And he had; she didn’t like him, but she gave Roman credit for getting Kris and Reese away from the Saints. He couldn’t be irredeemable after something like that. Unless…

&nbs
p; “He’s not pressuring you, is he?”

  “No,” Kristin said. “No, he’d never. He’s…” She sighed. “I don’t know,” she said, miserable. “I want to make him happy. I know he’s not.”

  Maggie wanted to tell her that Roman Mayer had never been happy, probably not at any point in his fifty-plus years of life. She said, “Is that why you came today? You wanted to make him happy?”

  Her eyes cut over, white-rimmed, frightened. “I’m afraid Badger’s gonna attack the clubhouse. I didn’t want to be there.” Shame-faced, embarrassed. “I’m sorry.”

  Maggie sighed. “You don’t have to be sorry for that either.”

  ~*~

  Three trucks full of Dogs pulled up to Ian’s funeral home headquarters to find the parking lot full of vans and bikes, with not a customer in sight. That at least was a blessing.

  A loose knot of men stood inside a ring of vehicles. Even before he got out of the truck, Ghost could see Alec, the standout figure, in stylish shirt and slacks, his hair shiny with product, his glasses reflecting the afternoon sun. One glimpse of his face was enough to feel his terror, feel a sympathetic lurch in his chest.

  “Shit,” Ghost said. Then, to the others in the truck: “Priority one is getting this kid away from them. After that, anything goes. I want Badger. I wanna watch him kick off myself.” And get him to explain why the hell he was doing all this.

  “Yeah,” Walsh said.

  Michael cracked his knuckles.

  ~*~

  The shame of it was, once upon a time, Vince had loved his job. The idea of it, at any rate. He’d come from a kind family, if not a wealthy one. A law-abiding, play-by-the-rules family. College was never an option with his budget, but law enforcement had called to him. His city, though beautiful and bountiful, had a dark element. A seedy underbelly that grew, unchecked and violent, beneath the city’s football-loving, college-bound surface. A dark element he’d witnessed firsthand on a sidewalk outside Bell Bar, when a sly and wicked biker stole Maggie Lowe right out from under him. A biker who continued to haunt his every step.