American Hellhound

by Lauren Gilley

  There hadn’t been a single night since it happened that he hadn’t dreamed of the day he shot Amy Richards. He saw it vividly, the way she crumpled, heard the startled, breathy gasp as the bullet pierced her body. Not dreams, but nightmares, the kind that sent him lurching awake in the dead of night, nauseous, sweaty, heart trying to beat its way through his ribs. Nightmares that had him reaching for the bottle again and again.

  He was Ghost Teague’s bitch these days. That in and of itself wasn’t the shameful part – it was the fact that he deserved to be. He’d toed the line every step of the way, his whole life, justified in his sense of superiority. Every day…until that day with Amy.

  Turned out he was just as fallible and wicked as the rest of the world. Knoxville was crumbling, diseased at the roots. There was nothing he could do at this point, save try and tamp down some of Ghost’s collateral damage.

  At least, that was what he’d told himself yesterday, deep in the bottle. Ghost being a righteous prick, like he had any kind of moral credibility.

  But today, with the blinds open, his head pounding, painfully sober, he acknowledged that he couldn’t look at morality as two discreet categories. Good vs. Bad wasn’t a line, but a sliding scale, one on which he no longer knew his place. He knew from devils, though. In this case, the one he knew was the one to back. No matter how much he hated the sight of the bastard’s face.

  His office door was flung open, startling him from his web search, revealing an equally-startled Officer Parsons.

  “Sir, there’s something happening at the hospital.”

  His phone rang on his hip, and it read LDMC. The clubhouse was calling.

  ~*~

  The man holding a gun on Alec was tall and broad, padded with layers of fat, his beard going gray. A no-neck thug with ham hands and the blank look of someone who didn’t care about the outcome so long as he got the chance to shoot somebody.

  He was one of fifteen, not counting Badger, all of them bristling with weapons and bulky with flak vests.

  In their midst, Alec looked pale and fragile as china.

  Ghost halted and propped his hands on his hips, his boys fanning out on either side of him. He knew they made a ridiculous tableau. Like West Side Story or some shit.

  Except his heart was pounding and his palms were clammy.

  “Hey, Alec,” he said, tone gentle. “Hold on, okay? We got you.”

  “Look at that,” Badger said. “You’re all worried about the little fairy. Do you and the redhead take turns?”

  “You’re the one who’s been in lockup,” Ghost said. “Maybe you could gimme some pointers.”

  Badger grinned. “Christ, you’re an asshole.”

  “Yep. What’s with the Mexican standoff, Badger? You busted out just to come insult me?”

  “You have something of mine and I want it back. You won’t give it back, so I thought I’d come pay your sugar daddy a visit. And look what we stumbled upon.” He jerked his head toward Alec. “I told you,” he said, tone devolving, taking on a desperate edge. “All you had to do was cooperate.” Eyes flashing, white around the edges. Composure unraveling like old rope.

  Shit, Ghost realized. This was a man who was out of options. Always the most dangerous kind.

  But this wasn’t an area in which he was willing to negotiate. He’d wavered, once before, when Michael brought Holly into their midst. Maybe having another baby had softened him, but he knew he wouldn’t make the same decision, if he could go back and do it again. And he wouldn’t make it now, not when the stolen lives of innocents were at risk. If he was going to be the patron saint of the victims of the world, then so be it. He could live with that title.

  “You’re not getting your pets back,” he told Badger. “That girl–”

  “Fuck the girl,” Badger snarled. “She’s just the kill switch. Where’s Reese?”

  Ghost shook his head. “No idea. I don’t have him on a leash like you did. Why would I? Has this whole stunt really been about one boy? You’d wreck your whole club just to get him back?”

  “If you’d put him through his paces, you’d understand.”

  Ghost said, “You started a war over a hit man?”

  Badger coughed an ugly laugh. “Reese knows fifteen different ways to kill a man with his bare hands. He speaks fluent Spanish and French. He can break into any kind of lock. He’s not some thug with a sledgehammer” – derisive snort aimed at Mercy – “He’s James Bond and a trained sniper in a ninja’s body. The perfect operative.”

  “Except for the part where instead of sniping terrorists, he does your dirty work.”

  Badger took an aggressive step forward – collective tightening of the ranks on both sides in response – and leaned into his face. Ghost heard the rustles and clicks of guns being drawn.

  “Get out of my face.”

  A vein throbbed in Badger’s temple; his face colored. “I paid a hundred grand for that little monster. Give him back.”

  “I don’t make deals with slaveowners,” Ghost said.

  Badger nodded and stepped back. “Alright. Okay.” He exhaled loudly through his nose, shaking his head. “Remember this conversation. When this city – when every city – turns on you? Remember you had a chance to stop this.”

  “Stop it? Like you aren’t trying to push my club out with your own?”

  Badger grinned, manic, unhinged. “Yeah, well, I am the one with the hostage–”

  The crack of a gunshot echoed across the parking lot. Just as it registered, Ghost heard a familiar pulpy thump.

  The big man holding a gun on Alec tipped forward, boneless, and fell face-down on the asphalt like a tree, the side of his head blown out, watermelon-red.

  A sniper.

  There was a goddamn sniper.

  Someone with training. Someone who’d cost Badger a hundred grand.

  In the fraction of a second it took for the man to fall, Ghost made a snap decision he hoped he wouldn’t regret later. He hoped Reese was on their side, and that he would lay down cover. He needed him to, at this point.

  Silence rang for one beat in the wake of the shot, everyone stunned. And then pandemonium.

  Ghost dove for Alec, grabbed him by the front of the shirt and dragged him to the ground, shielding him with his own body. “Stay down.” He put a hand on top of his head; he’d fold him up and put him in his pocket if he could. He couldn’t stomach bystander casualties right now.

  He cast a wild glance over his shoulder as more shots cracked across the lot. Some of the Saints had their guns drawn, but most were ducking behind vans and running for cover.

  Ghost spotted Mercy at his back, firing at the corner of a van, providing cover.

  He also spotted Badger making a break for it around the side of the building.

  “Merc! Get Alec inside.” He was going after Badger himself.

  ~*~

  Maggie shifted in her chair and tried to hide a wince. She’d pumped that morning, so Ava had bottles for Ash, but she was starting to feel full and tender. Whatever Ghost and the boys were doing, she hoped they got things wrapped up soon, or an armed escort was going to have to bring Ash to her.

  As the minutes ticked by, Denise became more nervous, and therefore more short-tempered. She was pacing now, fanning her face with a heart surgery pamphlet. “Honestly, Margaret, this security detail business is ridiculous. Why don’t you send these clowns home?”

  “No offense,” Maggie said to Harry and Roman. Both of them shrugged. “Mom, why don’t you let Harry go get you some coffee?” Secretly, she thought caffeine would only make things worse, but Denise couldn’t berate them all while she was drinking.

  “I already told you, I–”

  A loud crack of sound echoed from down the hall. Muffled by doors and walls, but nonetheless distinctive.

  It sounded again. And then again.

  Gunshots.

  Maggie traded quick glances with Harry, Roman, and Kristin, all of them snapping to immediate attention. Krist
in’s eyes widened and flooded with fear.

  Maggie’s heart jumped up into her throat and she tried to swallow it back down. Panicking solved nothing.

  The sound of screams reached them, uneven and faint.

  Harry pulled his .45. “Time to go.”

  “Yeah.” Maggie stood and reached into her purse to check her own gun. Guns – plural.

  “What?” Denise asked, head whipping left and right. “What’s going on?” Color draining out of her face, hands shaking.

  Maggie took her arm in a firm grip. “Mom, we have to go.”

  “Go? What? We can’t leave your father? What are you talking about?”

  “Dad’s still in the OR.” And he wasn’t the target anyway. “We’ve got to get out of the hospital for a little bit.” A thought occurred, one she didn’t like, but voiced anyway. “Well, I do. You could stay here. They’re not–”

  “They’re after me,” Kris said, squeezing her eyes shut, taking a deep, gasping breath. “Oh God. I’m sorry. They’re after me, they need me to control Reese, and–”

  “Stop,” Roman said, stepping up beside her, hand landing on her shoulder. “This is not your fault.” It was said with such feeling that Maggie wished – in a part of her brain that wasn’t in full emergency mode – that the two of them could take a moment to reassure one another, address the way they each cared so much about the other.

  But she said, “Not important right now. Everybody, time to move. Stay close.” With her free hand, she reached for Kris. “Harry, lead the way.”

  “Yes, ma’am.” He stepped out in the hall and did a scan, waved for them to follow.

  The din was louder outside the waiting room, a tangle of crashes, shouts, and screams. Coming closer every second.

  “Move,” Harry said, setting off at a jog in the opposite direction.

  “Come on.” Maggie urged the other women, towing them along. Please, she prayed, unspecified begging. Just please.

  Roman fell in behind them and they moved, Harry setting a fast pace.

  Denise panted and gasped, shuffling along as fast as she could in her patent mules.

  Kris chanted “Oh God, oh God” under her breath.

  They passed a nurse’s station, and the nurse’s call of, “Excuse me, you can’t–” turned into a shocked yelp.

  Maggie heard the slap of footsteps closing in behind them. “Take the stairs,” she called to Harry.

  Behind them: the crashing of carts and gurneys overturning, angry guttural shouts of the attackers, more panicked yelling of hospital staff and patients.

  A chunk of wall exploded above their heads.

  “Shit!”

  Denise screamed.

  Kristin clutched Maggie’s arm hard enough to bruise it.

  Maggie shook her off and glanced back over her shoulder, her vision unsteady as she ran. The man coming around the corner, who’d just shot at them, was wearing a ski mask…and a Lean Dogs cut. It was a crudely done counterfeit, obvious to her from a stolen glance, but the civilians around them wouldn’t know that. To them, it would appear like a bunch of Lean Dogs had come in and started shooting up the place.

  Jesus.

  It was the perfect plan to ruin their standing in the city…and maybe commit a murder in the process.

  Roman raised his gun to return fire. Nurses shrieked.

  “Not in here!” Maggie grabbed the back of his shirt and tugged, just as another shot tore out a fresh chunk of sheetrock. “Come on!”

  They barreled into the stairwell and started down at a dead run.

  Denise stumbled, gasping, crying.

  “It’s okay,” Maggie lied, holding her around the waist, helping her along. “Just keep going. It’ll be fine.”

  They rushed down one flight, two, three, were headed for the exit when she heard someone thundering down after them two flights up.

  Shit, shit, shit, shit.

  Harry punched through the door and they staggered into the blinding sunlight of the parking lot.

  Maggie had the absurd out of place thought that it was a truly gorgeous day.

  “Get to cover,” Harry said, he and Roman setting up at the end of a parked car, guns trained on the door.

  Maggie spotted an ambulance parked at the curb and ducked around it, towing her mom and Kris with her. Denise was past the point of speaking, clinging to Maggie like a child.

  Maggie pulled her phone out and her sweat-damp fingers fumbled across the screen, trying to call Ava so she could sound the alarm at home. She could hear sirens in the distance, approaching…and the clang of the door opening. Followed by a rapid barrage of shots.

  Her brain tried to fly into full-on panic, a desperate, chemical reaction, nerves singing. Get away, get away. But years of self-control pulled her back on track. She could panic later. Right now, she slid her phone away, call not made, and listening as bullets pinged off cars and concrete. She had to figure out how many men they were dealing with, and if the boys were okay.

  She dropped to her hands and knees, leaning low to peer under the ambulance. She saw five sets of boots: Harry and Roman behind the car, and three attackers.

  Several more shots popped off, and then a body hit the ground. Harry, clutching his arm. Alive for the moment.

  Maggie pulled her Glock from her bag as she stood, one smooth movement.

  “No!” Denise hissed.

  She waved for her mom to hold back and rounded the back of the ambulance. She saw one of the fake Dogs go down, shot by Roman. The remaining two appeared to be out of ammo, reaching for extra mags in their pockets.

  In a flash of sudden movement, the one closest to Roman dropped his gun and charged.

  Roman squeezed off a shot, but the attacker knocked his arm, sending the round up into the air. The momentum of the tackle knocked Roman to the ground. Maggie saw the flash of a knife.

  The other attacker leveled his gun on Harry.

  And Maggie put two neat rounds through his torso.

  Textbook shots. He collapsed, spitting blood, both lungs punctured.

  The man with the knife twisted to look toward the sound of gunshots.

  Maggie stepped over the one she’d shot, pausing to shoot him again, right in the heart, and then aimed at the knife-wielder’s head.

  “Drop it.”

  He did.

  She shot him anyway.

  He went limp on top of Roman, landing with his head pillowed on Roman’s chest. Maggie would have laughed if circumstances were different.

  She scanned the lot around them, searching for and not finding any additional threats. The sirens were on top of them now, patrol cars screeching into the parking lot up front. They’d be back here soon.

  Harry sat up, still holding his arm. “I’m alright?” he said. “Just need a few stitches.”

  She turned back to Roman, who was in the process of rolling the fake Dog off himself with a grimace.

  “You okay?” she asked.

  He patted down his t-shirt, hand coming away red. His face was pale, and going paler. “Yeah, not really.”

  ~*~

  Ghost heard shouts, scuffles, and gunshots around him, but his world was narrowed down to one thing: getting to Badger. The bastard wasn’t going to live to make anyone’s life more difficult. Not a chance.

  He thanked God he’d been working out more and laying off the smokes, because his body responded when he pushed it, sprinting for the side of the building, the narrow alley between the perimeter wall and the brick façade of the funeral home. Badger was a big man, and no doubt strong, but Ghost was leaner, faster. He caught him as Badger was trying to find hand- and toe-holds along the back of the wall, trapped at a dead end beside the dumpsters.

  Ghost grabbed him by the jacket and dragged him back, threw him down on the pavement. He kicked him in the nuts, hard – Badger curled up and gagged – and pulled one of his Colts.

  The urge to pull the trigger was staggering in its intensity. This man had was a threat to his family �
�� his blood family and club family, all the men and women and children who relied on his leadership to keep them safe and financially stable. So it wasn’t guilt that stayed his hand, but doubt. A touch of fear. The lingering worry that he still didn’t understand this whole Dark Saints/Roman situation.

  “Why do you want Reese so bad?” he asked. “You gonna take over a third world country or something?”

  It was amazing how powerless a man looked when he was down on the ground. Badger had his legs drawn up, red-faced, panting. “Go to hell,” he gasped.

  “Yeah, sure. Not yet though. What were you trying to do?”

  “Fuck you,” Badger said. And then, like a dam breaking: “Fuck you, asshole! Like you don’t fucking know! You and your fucking empire. The rest of us don’t have uncles who leave us clubs. We scrap for every damn bit of real estate we have, and it’s still not enough. It’ll never be enough, because you fucking Dogs squeeze everyone else out!”

  Ghost said, “What?”

  “You don’t get to own the whole damn world, Ghost. I won’t let you.”

  “That…is the stupidest damn shit I’ve ever heard.” He laughed. “What, you want a piece? You were gonna use your walking weapon to pick apart the Dogs so you can be the big bad outlaw boss? I gotta tell you, man, that plan was doomed from the start. And this? This is just sad.”

  He felt a sudden sharp pain across his arm, like a bee sting. Snapped his head up and saw one of Badger’s men at the end of the alley, already lining up another shot.

  Ghost dove for the ground.

  And Badger rolled toward him.

  Shit.

  In a flurry of hands, and elbows, and knees, Ghost’s head cracked back against the pavement. His hand came open in the struggle, and his gun slid away – a terrifying clatter. Badger loomed over him, wicked edge of a knife catching the light.

  He was right: Badger was strong, and heavier too.

  Ghost threw a sharp right that connected with his jaw. Pain in his hand. Grunt from Badger. He listened for another shot, but it never came.