She was halfway through the living room with it when Ronnie sat up from his makeshift couch bed, pushed his hair back and asked, “What’s going on?” around a yawn.
“The funeral,” she explained, balancing the box one-handed and turning the front door deadbolt with the other. “Mom and I have to set up at the funeral home and the clubhouse for afterward.”
“Oh. Right.” He blinked the sleep out of his eyes and looked at the floor.
Ava frowned to herself as she stepped outside. He’d been distant since their conversation outside the ice cream parlor the day before, not unpleasant, just removed. She’d told him about Mason harassing her over the years, about the culmination of his antagonism in his almost-rape at Hamilton House. She’d left out her miscarriage, and any mention of Mercy, and thank God, because just hearing about her assault seemed to have shaken him badly. No way could he have handled anything else.
Ghost was all in black, she saw when she returned from the truck, his black button-up over his darkest jeans, his boots spit-polished and his hair dressed in gelled, rugged spikes. He looked handsome and stern, presidential. He was grim-faced as he kissed her on the cheek. This wasn’t anything he’d wanted to do so soon in his presidency: host a burial.
“How many chapters coming?” she asked on her way to the next box.
He shook his head. “Just some Nomads who were in the area. I’ve got a bad feeling about today and I didn’t want to drag anyone else into it.”
Her stomach squeezed. He was anticipating some trouble from the city, given Mayor Stephens’ newspaper headline story. No sense getting more than one chapter locked up if it came to that.
“You look good,” Maggie told Ghost, smoothing her hands down the front of his cut. “Very in-charge of things.”
His thin smile said he knew what she was doing, and appreciated it. He kissed her and slipped out the back door.
Ava cast a glance into the next room, at Ronnie massaging his scalp from his slump on the sofa. Why? she wondered. Why am I not allowed to have what my parents have? Why do I have – Ronnie dug his phone from under his pillow and checked it – this?
That was a dangerous way to think.
The stopwatch inside her tick-tick-ticked.
It was always all-black on a funeral day; respect for the deceased, a nice set-off for their black and white center patches. And given their current errand, Mercy thought it was a nice touch of drama.
There was an abandoned gas station a quarter mile down the street from the Carpathians’ clubhouse, and that was where they sat, leaning on their bikes between the derelict pumps and the thick tangles of weeds growing from the deep pavement cracks. The sun fell on them, full-force through the tattered remains of the canopy, and gleamed dully on the muted black tanks and fenders of their bikes, catching the lenses of their sunglasses in bright flares.
“No, we won’t knock on their door,” Ghost had said with his back to the rising sun that morning, mist lifting up off the river behind him. “We won’t have to.”
And here they sat, waiting.
And here came the approaching rumble of bike engines.
“Fifteen minutes,” Walsh said, marking the time they’d spent sitting.
“I won the pool on that one,” Dublin said.
From behind the screen of the neighboring property’s chain link fence, four bikes appeared, turning in at the driveway and settling to a halt some ten yards off from their own loose knot of Harleys.
Theirs were new bikes, Mercy noted. Brand new, fresh off the assembly line. All four were current year model Fat Boys, all a shiny black, sparkling chrome pipes and handlebars, each fuel tank airbrushed with the snarling wolf head insignia in full-color, dripping saliva and everything. Flashy, uniform, tasteless, all of it. And bought with a whole damn lot of someone’s money.
“Fucking jokers,” RJ muttered, just low enough that the four approaching Carpathians might have been able to hear.
Aidan and Tango chuckled before Ghost snapped his fingers and earned their silence.
The officers had come out to be the welcoming party: young little Larsen with the president patch sitting heavy over his breast pocket; an elderly, bow-legged guy who might have been another uncle was VP; the sergeant at arms had shoulders like a Spanish bull and no neck to speak off, some brainless thug with more muscle than sense; and a bird-faced middle-aged secretary rounded out the leaders of this white trash pack.
“Jasper,” Ghost said, tone almost cordial. “It’s been a long time.”
“Too long,” Jasper said. He didn’t have the same control over his voice, that deep well of calm and gravitas.
Ghost smiled. “Well, a boy’s got to do some growing up before he’s big enough to fill his daddy’s shoes.”
Mercy heard a low, dark laugh from one of his brothers. The four Carpathians stood stone-faced.
Jasper couldn’t have been any older than Aidan. Medium build and height, the girls probably thought he was hot with his blonde hair and blue eyes and that massive chip he carried on his shoulder. There was an aura of extreme anger about him, the young, stupid kind of anger that led to snap decisions and excessive violence. The only son of Erik Larsen, his father had called himself “president” of the Carpathians fourteen years ago, before they’d ever been a legit club. Erik and his brother Peter had seen fit to crawl through Ava’s bedroom window when she was eight, deciding that assassination of one of the Dogs’ royal families would gain them a toehold, some leverage, bragging rights, if nothing else. Erik and Peter had drowned in each other’s blood that night, and Mercy had smeared sticky red streaks across Ava’s face when he’d tucked her into the crook of his arm and wiped the tears from under her eyes with his thumb. Mercy himself had dumped the bodies on the Larsens’ front lawn. The family knew his face. Knew he was to blame. Knew what he was capable of.
And now here was Jasper, ready to battle for supremacy, avenge his father’s death, take the place he’d always wanted for himself.
“James stepped down?” Jasper asked, voice hostile, chin jutting toward the president patch Ghost wore.
Ghost shrugged. “Nobody ever asks to be king, huh? It just gets handed to you. You know that.” Little nod in return. Then a slow smile. “Just like you already knew James gave up his seat, seeing as you, or at least one of your boys was at his party the other night.”
Jasper’s smile was cruel. “Do I look stupid enough to send my guys onto Dogs’ property?”
“I don’t give a damn what you look like; I’m saying you were there.”
“You got me on camera?” Jasper shot back. “Prove it. Who the fuck would waste time killing a coke-head waste of space like Andre, anyway?”
“Collier,” Ghost said, in a stage aside to his VP. “Did you hear me say ‘Andre’ just now?”
“No, boss, that I did not.”
Jasper’s face blanked over.
“I also managed to keep his name out of the papers,” Ghost said, his smile wide now. “So how’d you know it was Andre who got stabbed, Jasper? We’d all” – broad gesture to the group of them – “love to know.”
Jasper folded his arms, shook his head, puffed himself up like a little prince. “Word gets around. Everybody in Knoxville knows it was him.”
“Everybody you tipped off, you mean.”
No answer.
“Alright, Jasper,” Ghost said. The conversational tone, the assumed familiarity was grating on the younger man’s nerves, Mercy could see; Jasper’s jaw worked. “As much fun as this is, I didn’t come here for a social call. This” – Ghost circled a finger in the air, indicating the trip they’d all made to this side of town – “is your warning. Your polite warning. I am not having some all-out war with your crew. I don’t have time to play Cowboys and Indians with you. If you make one more move toward that end, I will kill you. I will destroy you, in every way possible.”
It looked like it took every single scrap of his meager self-control for Jasper not to launch himself at
the Lean Dogs president. He studied the other biker king a long moment, jaw so tight it looked like the skin might split. Finally, he said, “You’ve always thought you own this town.”
Ghost smirked. “The town’s the master; we’re the dogs. That’s something your father never figured out.”
At the mention of his father, Jasper’s gaze lifted, scanning the faces of the other Dogs. Mercy felt his jolt of recognition as his eyes landed on him.
“Who’s funneling you money?” Ghost asked, though all of them knew there’d be no answer. “You got brand new, matching bikes, you got muscle to take over businesses. Who’s lining your pockets?”
Jasper ignored him. “I’ll make you a deal,” he said, finally tearing his gaze from Mercy. “You give me Lécuyer, and our problems go away.”
Ghost laughed. “Oh, poor kid, you really don’t understand how any of this works.” He swung his leg back over his bike, forcing Jasper to step back. “We’ll be in touch,” he promised. “Remember what I said.”
His bike starting was the cue for the rest of them to follow suit. Mercy felt Jasper’s stare as they pulled out of the lot, the simmering hatred.
Larsen didn’t scare him – neither did his club, neither did anything, really. But Mercy wondered, deep down, if it came down to choosing peace and staying off the mayor’s hit list, whether Ghost would consider handing him over. That was an unthinkable sin among the brethren, betraying a brother, leaving anyone behind enemy lines. But Mercy had a feeling that the afternoon in the chapel five years ago, the day Ghost had threatened to ruin his daughter’s life just to get what he wanted, had remained somewhere in the back of his president’s mind. That resentment lingered, even if it was deeply buried.
They were a half mile down the tumbled-down business strip when Hound and Rottie pulled out of a side street and fell into place among their double row of bikes, a seamless joining into the back, like jets locking into formation in the clouds.
It was the entire chapter that rode through the heart of the city, the growl of tailpipes echoing off the brick facades, car alarms tripping, pedestrians snatching their heads around to look. It was a bold display, all of them on the move, in a double helix like this.
Mercy smiled to himself and knew his brothers were doing the same.
At the clubhouse, Ghost gathered them in a loose knot under the portico, and turned to his two trackers. “What’d you find?”
Hound cleared his throat and spat on the pavement before he said, “There’s a couple weak spots in the back fence, but they’ve got cameras, same as us.”
“They have cameras at the front and back, that pan about forty-five degrees,” Rottie said. “And they’re synchronized, so that gives you a window of a few seconds to get over the side of the fence and get up to the building. Their yard looks like a fucking episode of Hoarders, so there’s plenty of cover. And the scrap yard next door has some cars parked up against the fence, that could be your boost over. And the chain link’s easy enough to climb.”
Hound nodded, a look of pride smoothing across his wrinkled face. He had a deep, fatherly love for his protégé, without any sons of his own to follow in his footsteps. “After that, the back door’s the best way to get in, I’m thinking. My boy can pick the lock no problem.” He clapped Rottie on the back.
“If it’s locked,” Ghost said. “As cocky as these bastards are, I can’t see them taking too many precautions.”
“The cameras were provided for them,” Rottie agreed. “And it looks impressive to have them. But I don’t think they’re practical types.”
Ghost nodded, absorbing all the intel. “I don’t want too many. Rottie, you can lead the way, since you’ve scoped it out” –
Nod from the tracker.
“- and then I want Michael and Mercy carrying things out. This job needs muscle…and other skillsets.”
There were a few dark chuckles.
Mercy glanced over at Michael’s expressionless mask of a face. Boy, oh boy, wasn’t this going to be fun? He didn’t trust the guy, and that made for a dangerous situation going downright deadly.
“Eleven-thirty tonight,” Ghost said. “Now let’s head to the funeral home.”
Though Flanders was part of a street-facing strip of shops, and not the cream of the crop in the city, the owner did his fanciful best to make sure the place looked as elegant and soothing as possible. The lobby fed into a T-shaped hall; to the right were the offices and showrooms; straight ahead went out the back to the waiting hearses; to the left were the viewing and gathering rooms, the carpeted parlors with their dainty Victorian settees, heavy damask drapes, short maroon carpet, and pull-down projectors for families who’d compiled slideshows for their dearly departed loved ones.
Andre lay waxen and eerie, a certain life-like quality to his lips that made Ava think he was about to smile, in a mahogany coffin in viewing room two, carnation wreaths on easels around him, a tall spray of hothouse iris set up on a table behind.
The old ladies had outdone themselves: too many flowers; a guest book on a podium done up like a Doric column, a table full of framed photos and a stack of keepsake programs.
“We’re not doing it for him or us,” Maggie had explained, “but for his kids.” When they were old enough to understand what had happened to their father, they would have solid evidence that he had been loved and looked after, rather than an empty story from their mothers’ unenthusiastic lips.
Ava was setting out cups of lemonade and little cocktail napkins on a second table – Maggie had learned the hard way, once, that you always needed a sugary drink on hand in case a bereft family member got faint – when Andre’s ex, Kayla, walked in, new husband, toddler, and baby bump in tow.
Bonita touched Ava’s elbow beside and her whispered, “Ay Dios mio, here we go.”
Ava watched her mother go to meet the young woman, fake smile touched with an appropriate amount of sympathy. “Kayla, it’s so good to see you.”
Kayla – pretty, but dull and open-mouthed most of the time – held her little girl’s hand with one hand, and pressed the other to the top of her rounded stomach. Her husband wore a new, but ill-fitting suit. The three of them looked miserable.
Kayla’s eyes moved around the room. “You didn’t need to do all this. Not like he deserved it.”
“Charming, no?” Bonita whispered.
Ava shook her head. “I’m surprised she even came.”
Ronnie appeared in the threshold of the viewing room, stepping awkwardly around Kayla and company, coming straight toward her. He’d pulled a sport coat on over his khakis and plaid oxford; very casual for him, only a little too casual for a funeral. He looked happy, which Ava found inappropriate. By the time he reached her, she was frowning, wishing he wasn’t even here.
God, how awful of her.
“Hey, I’ve got good news.” He pulled a set of keys from his pocket. “Everything’s all finalized. I’ve got the apartment.”
She didn’t smile back. “That’s great.”
“I’m going to start moving my stuff in right now.” He cast a wondering glance at Bonita, not sure how much he should say in front of her. “You wanna come? We can make a day of it. If I get the furniture set up, we can spend the night there tonight.” His wide eyes and lifted brows said, We can get away from your parents and finally get some action off each other.
Her frown deepened. “My mom needs my help today.”
He looked over his shoulder, at the mostly empty room, at Andre in his coffin with a little shudder. “No offense, but there’s nobody here. She needs your help with what?”
Bonita excused herself, and went to join Maggie. Ava caught the woman’s fast glance, though, that question as to how she meant to handle this situation. If there was a code amongst the guys, then there was one amongst the old ladies, too. There was an expectation of strength there.
Ava folded her arms. “A member died, Ronnie. It doesn’t matter if I spend all day counting the ceiling tiles; I need to be
here to show support to the club with the other old ladies.”
His head jerked back, like she’d slapped at him. “Show support? Ava, you’re not an old lady.”
Then it was her turn to feel slapped, because he was right, wasn’t he? She wasn’t an old lady. She was a club daughter, and even if the club loved her like one, there was a big difference there.
He’d held her hand yesterday when she’d talked about Mason, when she’d shed tears at the memory. But she couldn’t detect any of that sympathy in him now. He used it like a weapon, the change in her: you don’t belong here.
“The club’s my family, though,” she said, voice a little unsteady. “And I’m helping in any way I can.”
He sighed. “I’ve tried to be really…ugh. You know what, forget it. I’ll talk to you later.” And he turned away from her and left the way he’d come.
Maggie appeared at her elbow. “What was that about?”
Ava shook her head. “I’m different, when I’m here at home. Different, and he doesn’t like it.”
Maggie made a thoughtful sound. “No, baby,” she said. “I think you’re different away from here.”
The procession to the cemetery was a spectacular thing to behold. Her dad was the spearhead directly behind the hearse, and the rest of the Dogs were staggered behind him in twin columns, all in black, all proudly flying colors. The cars followed, hazards flashing. And every resident who happened to be on the streets of Knoxville at the time turned to see what the immense animal growl coming down Main Street heralded. From the passenger seat of her truck, Ava watched the mingled awe and fear bloom on the faces they passed, a little nervous, a lot proud. She watched their sinister black reflection in the wavy plate glass of shop fronts, in order to keep her eyes off Mercy up ahead of them.
She’d known the moment he’d come into the viewing room, back at Flanders’. She’d felt his presence, this little tickling up the back of her neck, a faint heat stirring under her skin. When she’d turned, she’d found him watching her, his face pleasant and incomprehensible. She hadn’t seen him since Saturday, when the moment under the portico with him had stirred up all the old memories that always left her shaken and sick. He’d given her a single nod and looked away, and she’d had an aching lump in her throat, touched more by that gesture than she had been by Ronnie’s desertion.
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