No time.
Tick, tick, tick…
She selected three tank tops, two long-sleeved tees, a sweater, a sweatshirt, one pair of cutoffs, one extra pair of jeans, a nightshirt, socks, and her tiny toiletry kit that pulled double duty as a wallet. All of it she folded neatly in the backpack and zipped up, checking it off her mental list.
“Where’s Mercy?”
“Here.” He appeared in the doorway of her bedroom, leather jacket on beneath his cut, hair slicked and tied back, sunglasses hooked in the collar of his flannel shirt. Whatever he was taking he’d already packed in saddlebags, attached to the bike. She’d seen the bedroll bungeed on behind the bitch seat. They were ready for whatever the road threw at them.
“Merc,” Maggie said, “when was the last time your shoulder was cleaned? Let me look at it before you go.”
Guilt spiked hard in Ava’s stomach; in the flurry of the last few days, she hadn’t been forcing her ministrations on him like she should have. They’d let the wound slip, and that was something they couldn’t afford to do.
“Nah, it’s fine,” he said, rolling his shoulder reflexively.
“No, let me see,” Maggie insisted. She shooed him from the room. “Come on, it won’t take a second. I’ll dress it real quick.”
Ava took a moment, as they left, to glance around her room, make sure she’d remembered her cell phone charging cord and a hair elastic and her chapstick. She should have been afraid, she reflected, scared to death that she had to run away like this. But all she could find was excitement, a thrilling anticipation. She wasn’t running away alone. Mercy wasn’t leaving her behind. She didn’t want to risk losing her place at school, but it was just school, after all, and this was her future, with her man. This was safety in the form of the two of them together, just them and the pavement and a sunset somewhere along the Gulf.
When she joined them in the kitchen, Mercy was shirtless and straddling a kitchen chair, arms folded over the back of it while Maggie applied a fresh bandage. Her brows were puckered together as she smoothed the edges of the tape.
“What?” Ava asked, fear stirring.
“I’m sending you with supplies,” Maggie said, gesturing toward the brown paper bag on the counter. “Y’all have got to keep this clean, twice a day, no exceptions.”
Ava swallowed. “I won’t forget.”
Mercy stood and reached for his shirt, tossing her a smile. “I’m fine, baby. Don’t worry about it.”
Ghost came in the back door, his cellphone in his hand. “I talked to Stack,” he told Mercy as the big Cajun buttoned up his shirt. “And he’s working something out for you two for tonight. The feds will think to check at clubhouses within riding distance. When you hit the Georgia line, call Sly Hammond.”
Mercy nodded, grinning. “Why that man isn’t one of us, I’ll never understand.”
“For tonight, be glad he’s not,” Ghost said. “And don’t embarrass me,” he added, a stern, fatherly slant to his brows thrown in for effect.
Mercy made a pretend offended sound in his throat and shrugged into his jacket and cut.
Then Ghost looked at her. “Alright. Time to go.”
There wasn’t time to call Leah, or Carter, say goodbye to her brother, email her professors and advisor, stop for one last breakfast as Stella’s, or even make that visit to her grandmother she’d been putting off since she arrived home. She felt the threat of discovery pushing them out the door, down the driveway, to Mercy’s waiting bike. She didn’t even have time to marvel at the cataclysmic changes of a week’s time.
Maggie pulled her into a tight hug, tears slipping silently down her face. “My precious girl,” she whispered. “Be careful. Be so, so careful. Don’t step away from Mercy for a second.” She pushed her back, caught her face in her hands. “I love you more than anything in the world. Come home safe.”
“I love you, Mom.”
Then Maggie hugged Mercy around the waist, her grip fierce. “Love you, too, you big monster. I don’t have to tell you to take good care of her, but I’m going to anyway.”
Mercy cupped the back of her head, briefly. “It’ll be fine, Mags.”
Ghost and Mercy hugged, a back-slapping man-hug that said a dozen different things.
And then Ava faced her father, and she had no idea what to expect.
He pulled her into his arms and kissed the top of her head. When he pulled back, he pressed something cool into her hand. “An extra clip,” he explained. “For the nine mil I put in your bag.”
His eyes said he loved her, and she swallowed the lump in her throat, nodding, hand curling around the magazine.
She glanced back, once, her hand on Mercy’s shoulder as they pulled out of the drive, and watched her mother lean against her father’s shoulder, Ghost’s arm going around Maggie, the early, early sunlight catching the gleam of tears in their eyes.
There was steam rising off the grass of the practice fields in the early wash of first light. Buses rumbled past, belching dark exhaust, the windows filled with hands and faces and bright jackets. At the top of the hill, overlooking a PE para-pro who was setting out orange cones for the day’s walking and jogging tests between the sprayed-on lines of the field, Aidan lit a cigarette and passed his lighter to Tango.
Greg had come in a car this time, a rattletrap Volvo from the early nineties. He wore the dark hood of his sweatshirt pulled up, and worked his hands into fists over and over again that he then forced to relax.
“The mayor isn’t the one backing the club,” he said, eyes downcast, the shame in him obvious. He felt shitty about ratting, but not shitty enough to keep his mouth shut. “But they’re related. He came by the clubhouse yesterday; some drama going on or something. I overheard him talking to Jasper. He’s a real rich fucker, from Georgia, and from here, first, I think. He kept talking about his cousin. I think he’s the mayor’s cousin.”
Aidan traded a flat, orchestrated look with Tango and then leveled his gaze on Greg, working a note of apology into his voice. “That’s great and all, but we already knew that.”
Naked panic streaked across Greg’s face. He raised his voice, as another bus lurched past behind him. “Five years ago,” he said, desperately, “that’s when you guys had that problem with the designer drugs, yeah?”
Aidan felt his brows want to go up and let them. “Yeah. So?”
“William. The guy, his name’s William, that’s what Jasper called him. Those drugs – Wild Bill? – they were talking about them. Wild Bill – William. Our backer is the guy who brought those drugs into Knoxville. He’s been trying to take you guys down for years.”
Aidan felt true surprise. This time, when he looked to his friend, Tango wore a similar expression of curiosity.
“You know this for a fact?” Tango asked. “William Archer was the source of the Wild Bill?”
“I don’t have physical evidence, no, but I heard him and Jasper talking. He’s your guy. I promise you. You get hold of him, and he’ll admit it.” Fast, darting glance between them. He wet his lips. “I hear you guys have a way with…getting confessions outta people.”
Not with Mercy out of town, they didn’t, but Greg didn’t know that. And who knew: maybe Michael could step up for this special occasion.
“Greg,” Aidan said, sighing, “why are you telling me all this?”
“Because…” Doubt firing in his eyes. “You wanted me to tell you.”
“Yeah, but you’re a Carpathian.” Long, slow drag on his smoke. “I didn’t think you’d really rat them out; I was just pushing.”
Greg’s face closed up, eyes and mouth and brows tightening. It looked like a supreme effort, but he stowed away his visible emotions, got hold of himself, drew up to his full, unimpressive height. “I’m not ratting,” he said. “I’m defecting. I don’t want to be a Carpathian. I want to prospect your club.”
Aidan contemplated the smoldering end of his cigarette a long moment. Opportunity, there it was, shining in front of him. Another chance to prov
e himself, to grow from the teenager who lived in his father’s eyes into the man he wanted to project to the rest of the club. “Well…let’s see what we can do about that.”
“There’s something else,” Greg said. “Something I can give you.” He was sweating, the slanted sun glinting off his forehead. “I was there the night of the party.” He went white. “I was in the boat you guys found. I didn’t kill Andre, though. But I saw who did.”
Ghost had left the note himself in the wee hours, as they’d walked out of Mason Stephens Junior’s back door in the transitional neighborhood of tidy bungalows. He’d taped it to the sidelight, right beside the doorknob, so it wouldn’t be missed.
My favorite table at eight, it had read. No names, nothing to give him away, no hint of what had happened in the darkened bungalow. Nothing to see now, anyway. Ratchet had come behind them, once the cousins had been bound and gagged, wiping up droplets of nose blood with bleach.
Still, there was some risk involved. The risk that either of the fathers would find the note first. Or that whoever found it wouldn’t be smart enough to figure out the message.
But as Ghost sat in the bath of early sunlight, watching morning rush hour through the tinted window, coffee and Stella’s cinnamon rolls steaming in front of him, his phone chimed with a text alert.
Incoming, Michael alerted him. JL.
His note had worked like a charm.
Jasper Larsen came into Stella’s Café with entirely too much nervous energy pulsing through his movements, his hands half-curled into fists, his steps too large, his expression one of clamped-down aggression.
Ghost gave him a disinterested wave and sipped his coffee, wondering if Stella would come whack him across the back of the hand with a wooden spoon if he lit a smoke indoors.
Jasper slid into the booth across from him and folded both arms across the table in an aggressive way, pitching his weight forward, light eyes sparking.
“What’d you do with him?”
“Oh, Jasper,” Ghost said, shaking his head, prying a cinnamon roll loose from the frosted snarl of them on the plate, the rich smells of cinnamon and warm sugar flooding across the table. “You’ve gotta be cooler, man. That’s no way to start this conversation.”
Jasper grunted. “I ain’t got time for your smartass games, old man.”
“Busy day, then?”
“Where the hell is Mason Stephens?” he hissed.
Ghost sighed and scraped frosting off his lip with his teeth. “I’m gonna give you some advice, because I’ve been dealing with these goddamn Stephens longer than you have, and I’ve learned something about them. For them, there’s no measure too illegal when it comes to gaining a political reputation. Mason Senior almost got his kid killed five years ago trying to flood the streets with tainted X in an effort to make my club look bad. He would murder his own mother if he thought he could stage the crime scene to make it look like I did it.
“They’re the worst kind of predators, him and his kind. All smiles and Ralph Lauren and knives behind their backs.” He smiled. “Golden boys. All-American monsters, looking for a town to torture.”
Jasper made an impatient gesture with his eyebrows. “Yeah. Lots of people hate you.” Tight smile. “I get that.”
“Apparently not, or you’d realize you’re being used.” Ghost kept his voice at an unsuspicious volume, low, but not whispering, the meter of his words light and conversational. It was an art, really, having private discussions in public. “This whole Carpathians versus Dogs thing? That’s been orchestrated by Stephens and his cousin. He’s using you to do his dirty work in getting rid of us. And when we’re gone, he’ll get rid of you, without even blinking.”
Jasper’s jaw firmed up, eyes hardening. “He–”
“I know he bought you that clubhouse, those bikes, all that stupid fucking neon. It was his idea to torch the mattress store, wasn’t it?”
No answer.
“Look, kid, I’m gonna give you some good advice. Walk away. Take your matching bikes, your boys, take all the money he gave you, and go back to wherever you came from. There’s nothing in this fight for you.”
Something dark and fierce stole across his face, a shadow passing between him and the sunlight that struck his profile. “There’s revenge,” he said, voice low and fierce. “That isn’t nothing.”
Ghost made a dismissive gesture and sipped coffee. “Your old man and your uncle were stupid. It got them killed. Let it go.”
“I want Lécuyer,” Jasper said, not backing down. He sat up straight. “Tell you what. You give me him, and we’ll back off. That’s more than a fair trade: peace for one man’s life.” He leaned forward again. “Only an idiot would refuse that.”
“Call me a moron, then. I’d never sell out one of my boys. You want Mercy, you’ll have to get him the old fashioned way.”
“Oh, I plan to,” Jasper snarled, “I just thought I’d give you the chance to make things easy for yourself.” He pushed to his feet, looming over the side of the table. “You’ve really fucked up this time, Teague. Both those boys disappearing – someone’s going to notice that.”
Ghost shrugged. “I figure.”
Jasper’s smile was thin and vicious. “Seems like I’m not the one who needs the advice.” He stole a roll off the plate. “I’ll be in touch,” he said, stepping back, “but you won’t like what I have to say.”
Ghost watched him leave, the sanctimonious set of his shoulders as he pushed through the front door.
When Jasper was out of sight, lost down the sidewalk somewhere, Michael appeared from nowhere and took his seat, sliding into the booth across from Ghost.
“I should follow him,” he said in his perfect, modulated voice. “And cut his throat in the next alley.”
“Not yet,” Ghost said, pushing the plate toward his sergeant at arms. “Soon, yeah, but not now.”
He let the hot coffee flood his mouth, watched the flow of traffic, and wondered how far down the road Ava and Mercy were, how much fear was cycling through her bloodstream.
Michael passed a finger through the globbed icing on the plate and stared at it, like the stuff confused him. “War,” he said, without context, like he’d plucked the word from Ghost’s mind.
Yes, there would be war.
Vince Fielding took his office phone off the hook and let the receiver sit balanced over the stapler, the dial tone droning softly to itself. He massaged his face, the back of his neck, working fruitlessly at the all-over tension that had gripped him for days. If he had to field one more call from some hysterical soccer mom wanting to know when he’d get those “demons” off the street, he’d become one of those cops who drank on the job.
The city was in an uproar over the Dogs. A group of parents had arranged a protest on the courthouse lawn for later in the week, and it was expected to draw a crowd. Kids were getting pulled out of any afterschool activities that would put them on the roads at night. The grocery stores and gas stations were running out of bread and milk; people were stocking up and staying home behind locked doors like it was a fucking blizzard or something. He was being called out to look at doorknobs homeowners swore had been tampered with, missing bicycles and stolen newspapers. Everything from shoplifted gum to the common cold was being blamed on the Lean Dogs.
Add to that Mason Stephens’ unrelenting pressure, and the only thing Vince wanted to buy in bulk was vodka. He received no less than three phone calls from the man a day, and always at least one in-person visit. “I want those Dogs locked up, all of them. They’ve ruined this city for too long.”
It was Stephens who’d hooked Fielding up with his two informants, one of which was now dead, which stood to reason the other was in danger of ending up that way.
“Don’t be picky about the charges,” Mason had instructed. “No one’s ever been able to hit those bastards with RICO, or anything club-level. You’ll have to get them individually.”
And so he was dealing with Aidan Teague and Kevin Estes a
nd their prior marijuana busts and assault charges. With an un-enforceable case of statutory rape against Felix Lécuyer. A record faxed over from a precinct in London outlining Kingston Walsh’s various minor offenses. Useless and time consuming, all of it.
There was a soft rap at his door, and Officer Bell stuck her head in. “Sir, there’s an Agent Grey here to see you,” she said, face stiffening into a careful expression. “He’s with the FBI.”
Oh, great. Now the feds were involved.
“Send him in. Thanks, Becca.”
She nodded and slid back. The door opened wide and in stepped a young man who didn’t look much like an agent of any sort.
Closely buzzed dark hair, dark eyes, a belligerent, muscled-up air about him with his blazer over jeans and white-soled sneakers, he pushed his obnoxious Oakley shades up onto his forehead and extended a hand for a fast shake across the desk. “Harlan Grey,” he said, dropping into a visitor chair without preamble when Vince released his hand.
“Vince Fielding.” Vince tugged at his uniform cuffs. “You’ll forgive me for skipping the pleasantries, but I’ve got a lot on my plate, Agent Grey. Why are you in Knoxville?”
Quick, darting sideways smile, sly glance like so many punk kids. Grey linked his hands over his stomach, propped an ankle on the opposite knee and got comfy. “I was going to dazzle you with my case, but we can do the short version, if that’s what you want. I lost contact with an informant of mine yesterday. He’s failed to check in through any of our usual mediums. During our last conversation, he expressed some fear. Now he’s missing.” He lifted his brows. “Word has it you’re digging up dirt on the Lean Dogs. So was I. I think we ought to compare notes.”
“Who was your informant?”
Another grin. “You know I can’t tell you that.”
“It wasn’t one of the Dogs, was it?” Vince pressed, stubbornly. He had this sudden worry that his guy was pulling double duty, reporting to the feds as well.
“Nah. Just your run of the mill wannabe cop.” Grey’s brows went up. “One that Mayor Stephens won’t want to hear I’ve lost touch with. I want to know for sure he’s been compromised before I report back to my superior, and before I let the family know.”
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