American Hellhound

by Lauren Gilley

  “Dad!” Aidan’s voice. Slap of running feet.

  Later, he wouldn’t be able to recreate this moment blow-for-blow. It was like shaky handheld camera footage. Like breath lodged in his throat and knuckles hot and wet with blood. He called on his body, and it answered – it was reliable that way: it rallied when he asked it to; it cradled his baby; brought his wife pleasure. He shouldn’t abuse it the way he did. He needed it still, for so much longer, forever…for as long that ended up being for him. He wanted to watch Mercy turn into a shotgun dad when Millie started dating. Wanted to give Ash his first bike. Wanted to love his Maggie every night. Wanted to fortify his club so that, eventually, when Aidan had the president patch sewed to his cut, he would rule over the strongest outlaw organization known to man.

  He was the king, damn it, the Lean Dog, an American hellhound. And fuck idiots like this who tried to challenge him.

  When Aidan reached them, Ghost was upright, straddling Badger – who gasped up at the sky, drowning in his own blood, his own knife buried in his throat.

  “Dad,” Aidan said; he was shaking. “Dad! Shit! Here, let me–” He stepped in and hooked his arm around Ghost’s shoulders.

  Badger made one last wet sound and went still.

  “I’m alright,” Ghost said, and he reached to brush Aidan’s arm off.

  Tried to, anyway. His arms felt heavy and uncooperative. One was burning – the bullet graze, he remembered – and both seemed made of lead. He…shit, he was tipping over. He was…

  Oh. That hurt. That…

  “What…” he started, and the pain became sharp and discreet, right in his gut, beneath the edge of his flak vest.

  His head was too light. He was…

  “Dad.” Aidan’s face was so worried as he pushed it in close to Ghost’s. “Lie down. Come here.”

  That sounded like a good idea. And Aidan was helping him, also good.

  The sky was a magical clear blue, darkening at the edges as evening crept in. A perfect spring day. And now Badger was dead.

  And he thought he might be dying too.

  “Hey.” He grabbed Aidan’s jacket as he leaned over him, a supreme effort. Huh. He was on his back now, firm pressure covering the pain in his abdomen.

  “It’s alright,” Aidan said. “I got you.”

  “No, no, hey.” His vision wavered, crowding with black spots. “Listen.”

  “Dad–”

  “I love you. I don’t say it enough.”

  He heard voices, shouts, assorted bangs and thumps, and finally, sirens. And low, just before he blacked out, Aidan’s desperate praying.

  Thirty-Six

  On the roof – ideal flat surface, crenellations to provide cover and on which to balance his M24’s bipod – Reese scanned the scene below. The hostage had been secured inside the building and armed security personnel had streamed out into the parking lot. The Dogs had killed or restrained the Saints.

  Badger was dead – he could tell through his scope.

  Unfortunately, Ghost was down too. But his son was applying pressure, and the wail of sirens was drawing closer.

  Situation contained.

  Slowly, he lowered his rifle. The sun was riding just above the tree line, brilliant gold; its brightness made his eyes water. The breeze touched his face, a gentle caress. It didn’t smell like Denver; it smelled green, and warm, alive in a way that made the fine hairs stand up on the back of his neck.

  Badger was dead.

  His face fight tight, suddenly…and it was a long moment before he realized he was smiling.

  ~*~

  Ian mapped every inch of Alec’s face and throat with his fingertips, anxious, flickering movements, searching for wounds, for blood that wasn’t there. The frames of his glasses were a tad crooked, but there wasn’t so much as a scratch on his person. Barely a wrinkle in his shirt.

  “I’m fine,” he kept saying, over and over, but Ian couldn’t stop touching him, a feverish compulsion, his vision slowly glazing over, hands moving of their own accord.

  “Baby,” Alec said, voice cracking, and his hands latched onto the lapels of Ian’s jacket. “I’m fine.”

  “Nothing about this is fine,” Ian snapped.

  Alec recoiled visibly from the bite in his voice, shrinking down into his shirt collar. But he didn’t let go.

  Ian wanted to cover his hands with his own, give in to the pressure building behind his eyes and crumple, bury his face in his whole and unharmed throat, breathe in the clean smell of him. Always clean, his Alec, untainted by the nightmares of his own life, sweet and innocent, so blessedly stupid when it came to the evils of the world.

  Instead, he shoved away from him and marched toward the wide front windows of his building. Snapped his fingers to get his security team’s attention. “Outside, now.”

  “Yes, sir.” They flooded out, weapons drawn, to assist the process the Dogs had begun.

  “Marie,” he said, turning to his girl at the front desk. “I need a stack of security contracts, signed and dated six months ago; I want one for each of Teague’s men. How long will it take to add them to the payroll?”

  She blinked, surprised, but recovered. “A few hours, maybe…”

  “Get started. I want it all official before the police start asking questions.”

  “Yes, sir.”

  “Ian,” Alec started, reaching for him.

  “I don’t have time right now, darling.” Cold. All-business. From the corner of his eye, he saw his boyfriend wilt, mouth downturned, gaze wounded. “We’ll talk about it later.”

  He took the heart-stopping image of his boyfriend with a gun pressed to his temple – the sight that had curdled his stomach and stopped his heart – and filed it away neatly to be dealt with later. When he didn’t feel so much like screaming.

  ~*~

  “Jesus Christ, Maggie,” Vince said with a deep sigh as he dropped down onto the step beside her.

  “Sorry about the mess,” she deadpanned, and took a much-needed sip of her coffee. A paramedic had handed it to her, and damn it, she needed the caffeine at this point. Not like she’d be nursing in the next hour anyway. “Here to arrest me?”

  They were sitting in the back parking lot where she’d shot the Saints, seated on the top of the loading dock steps. Harry and Roman had been taken inside for medical attention. Kristin had offered to walk Denise inside to the waiting room, and Maggie had accepted; there was no need for her mother to see her get slapped into cuffs.

  Now, techs milled around, roping the area off, getting out cameras and collection bags. The bodies were draped with sheets and Maggie didn’t have any guilt over the fact that she didn’t feel one shred of guilt about taking two of their lives. If that made her a monster, oh well. She’d do it again in a heartbeat.

  “No,” Vince said on a sigh. “This was self-defense.”

  She snorted. “You really believe that?”

  “I do. Should I not?” He glanced her way, brows raised. He looked older than he should have, worn out and jaded. But there was still belief there – a belief in her that she’d probably never deserved.

  She swallowed. “No, it was self-defense.” Defense of her mother, her friends, her club. She didn’t wear a patch on her back, but this club was every bit her family, just as it was Ghost’s.

  He nodded and looked away, toward the crime scene. “These guys wanted everybody to think the Dogs were responsible for this.”

  “Did they shoot anyone?”

  “Not inside, no. Shot some equipment, some walls. Turned over a bunch of shit. I think they just wanted to terrorize everybody on their way to you. Make the Dogs look bad.”

  “Mission accomplished, I guess.”

  “Maybe. But when I do my press briefing, I’m gonna say this wasn’t the Dogs, that they were imposters.”

  “You’d to that?” she asked, surprised.

  Vince wouldn’t look at her, shrugging uncomfortably. “I don’t like what the Dogs do. But…I get it, I think.
They’re not the enemy. Not like these guys were. I know Ghost and his crew would never try to scare civilians like this.”

  Maggie smiled. “Thanks, Vince.”

  “Yeah, well…” He ducked his head. “Don’t thank me until you hear about Ghost.”

  Her stomach lurched. “What about Ghost?”

  Thirty-Seven

  Sometimes, when he was drunk or ungodly tired, in the short span of a night that would end too soon, Ghost dreamed of Duane. It was like the bastard wanted to torture him from the grave, waiting until he was off his game, exhausted and vulnerable. Those dreams were nightmares, really, and in them, Duane laughed at him, teeth flashing white like fangs through the dark. He called Ghost weak, and scared, and pussy-whipped. A disgrace to the Teague family name and the Lean Dogs cut.

  He said all those things now, his laughter jeering, echoing across the decades that separated past from present.

  Fuck you, Ghost thought, and his eyes opened.

  Creaked open, rusty and heavy, a struggle he wasn’t expecting. His whole head felt heavy, actually, weighted-down in the back, packed with cotton. Morphine, he realized. And it was wearing off, his body coming alive with pain.

  His vision was fuzzy, but he could see the white walls and ceiling of a hospital room. He heard the quiet beeping of a heart monitor – his – and a TV rumbling on low.

  Then a warm hand touched his face, and everything came into focus. The pain was nothing compared to the immense relief of hearing Maggie’s voice, warm and sweet.

  “There he is.”

  She pushed his hair off his forehead and raked her nails back across his scalp.

  “Mmm.” His mouth was dry, his tongue thick. But he could say, “That’s nice.”

  Maggie’s face appeared above his, radiant as the sun, her golden hair framing her smile. Her eyes were shiny. “Hey there, tough guy. How’re you feeling?”

  “Like shit,” he croaked. “But I ain’t dead.”

  “No, you’re not.”

  She leaned down, her hair soft and fragrant against his face, and kissed his mouth.

  See, Duane’s problem was that he’d never had a Maggie, which was why he was dead, and Ghost wasn’t.

  ~*~

  He dozed, and when he woke next, he was clear-headed enough to raise the bed up so he and Mags were eye-to-eye.

  “If it hurts, then lie back down,” she fussed, straightening his pillows so they supported his shoulders and neck. “Don’t be a hero.”

  He winced; it did hurt, but he couldn’t just lie around like some kind of invalid. “Too late for that.”

  “Don’t be an ass,” she amended, smiling.

  “Too late for that, too.”

  “Trust me, I know.”

  When he was settled, she went to the Pack ‘N Play and scooped up Ash. Ghost had at least a hundred questions, but he took a moment to watch her get settled, open her shirt, set the baby to nursing.

  “You two should go home and get some real sleep,” he said, throat tight in a way that had nothing to do with all the meds he was on. “No sense sitting here with me.”

  Maggie sent him a yeah right look.

  “You need your sleep.”

  “I’m not the one who got stabbed in the gut.” She shuddered, grip tightening on Ash. In a clear attempt to change the subject: “Alright, I know you’re dying to ask me everything. Fire away.”

  His first question was, “You’re alright?”

  She smiled. “I’m fine.”

  “The kids? The babies?”

  “Also fine.”

  He heaved a deep sigh, some of the tension in his chest easing. “You’re sure?”

  “Sure. The whole entire family is fine, newbies and hangers-on included.” She snorted. “Roman’s in the room next door.”

  “What?”

  “Stab wound. Y’all are two peas in a pod.”

  “Christ, don’t say that.”

  She chuckled. “You can compare war wounds later.”

  She then launched into a detailed, but matter-of-fact account of what had happened at the hospital, including the fake Lean Dogs cuts, Fielding’s loyalty, and Harry’s stitches.

  Ghost muttered “fuck,” and “shit,” and “baby” throughout, hands curling into fists in the blankets. He thought he might puke, sick with useless worry, guilt, and anger. “I can’t believe you did that.”

  “Yes you can. And Dad’s fine, by the way. Came through surgery like a dream.”

  “Yeah, shit. That’s good.” A thought struck. “What about your mom?”

  “Freaked out. Terrified. Mostly of me, I think.” She glanced down at the baby. “Nothing like watching your daughter pump bullets into people.”

  “No, there’s not,” he said fiercely, thinking of his own daughter shooting a man’s face off on a stretch of Louisiana highway. Of finding Maggie covered in Duane’s blood at sixteen, her gaze resolute and steady.

  “I’m just glad they’re both okay,” she said.

  “Mags.” He ached to swing out of bed and go to her, pull her in close. Shelter her. Be her man. He hated being laid up like this.

  When she lifted her head, he said, “Fuck your mom if she thinks that about you. That’s on her, not you. Your kids love you. You’re the kinda mom she couldn’t even imagine being.”

  She smiled at him, lips twitching like she wanted to say something. Argue with him, probably. She said, “Thank you, baby.” And then, surprising him: “They love you too, you know. Those kids. Aidan…” She caught her lip between her teeth, blinked hard. “He was so worried. God, he looked like he’d been in a horror movie, all covered in your blood.” Her voice hitched. “he wouldn’t go take a shower until you were out of surgery. He fell asleep at the foot of your bed, so sleepy he was drunk. Mercy had to help him out to the car.”

  Ghost looked down at his hands, eyes burning. “He’s a good boy.”

  There was a rustle of fabric, and then Maggie was sitting on the edge of the bed, baby in one arm, the other going around his shoulders. She kissed his temple, lingered there, breathing against his skin. “I love you,” she said, with incredible feeling. “I love you so much. I love our family.” Just a whisper, “I’m so glad you’re okay.”

  The baby squirmed, fussing quietly.

  Ghost leaned into her, into them, breathing them both in. “Me too.”

  ~*~

  “I guess we have you to thank for the fact that we’re not all in cuffs right now.”

  Fielding shrugged. He was sitting in Maggie’s usual chair – and how much did it suck that he’d been here long enough for Maggie to have a usual chair? – watching Ghost eat lime Jell-O. He was still in uniform, fresh from his press conference in which he’d denied the Dogs having anything to do with the week’s chaos. “I’m a lieutenant now, I have sway. If I say that Knoxville citizens were assaulted by out-of-state bandits trying to stir up drama, it counts for something.”

  Ghost set the empty plastic cup and spoon on his tray, stomach cramping in protest. He wanted a cheeseburger; he’d be lucky if he could handle the Jell-O. “Mighty convenient that we’re friends, then.”

  Fielding shrugged again, but it looked, under his stress and fatigue, like he was fighting back a smile.

  Ghost spread his hands out on his tray. His knuckles were turning a deep purple, his bruises darkening. Growing serious, he said, “I love this city, Vince. You know that.”

  He heaved a sigh. “Yeah, I know.”

  “Thanks for helping me look after it.”

  Fielding rolled his eyes heavenward, like he was praying for patience. “If I’m going to hell, I might as well do something good along the way.”

  “That’s the spirit.”

  ~*~

  “I brought you real food,” Aidan said, hefting a greasy takeout bag onto the nightstand with a grin. It was a skin-deep grin, though, his eyes shadowed, his shoulders slumped as he dropped down into the chair beside the bed.

  “Thanks,” Ghost said, with a
longing glance toward the bag: he smelled meat and cheese and fried things. “But I’m on a mashed potatoes and Jell-O plan right now, man.”

  “That sucks.” Aidan made a face. A halfhearted one, sliding down in the chair with his legs spread, arms folded across his middle.

  Ghost reached over and flicked his denim-covered knee. “You been sleeping, kid? You look rough.”

  “Not as rough as you.”

  “Seriously.”

  He blew out a breath, looking up at the ceiling. “Not really.”

  “Lainie keeping you up?”

  He shook his head.

  Ghost sighed. “Aidan–”

  “I’m not ready,” he whispered, biting his lip hard. “Okay? I’m just…I’m not ready for that.”

  “For what?”

  Aidan wouldn’t look at him, eyes going to the door, the wall, the flowers on the side table, his own hands, pressed flat to his thighs. “For you not to be around anymore.” His voice shook, dangerously, lashes flickering rapid-fire as he blinked.

  “Good thing I’m not going anywhere then, right?”

  No response.

  “Aidan, come here.”

  He shook his head.

  “Come here. It’s alright.”

  Aidan fought it a moment, running his hand under his nose. And then he shot up out of the chair and came to the bed, leaned down to fall into Ghost’s open arms, face pressed tight into his neck. He took a deep, shuddering breath that was almost a sob.

  It was a bittersweet hurt, to know that his eldest baby still needed him, painful to think that he’d squandered so much of their time together, not been fully present as a dad. He was always trying to be Aidan’s president…when he’d always just needed his father instead.

  Fuck.

  “I’m sorry I scared you,” he said, stroking the strong line of his son’s back, mind flashing back through the years to the early days, colic and crying at night and treating his fevers with red liquid Tylenol. “It’s alright, okay? We’re alright.”