Walsh glanced back at his laptop; he’d been glued to the thing all day and Ghost had no idea how he could even see at this point. “You gonna go up and sit with her?”
“Yeah. There’s nothing going on around here anyway.” Because, to his frustration, there were no leads on their dog killer. Aside from his weird premonitions.
Walsh nodded without looking up. “I’ll call if anything changes.”
“Thanks.”
It was that time of year when evening came on quickly and suddenly. Outside, the sun was already down behind the tree line, the last light the color of fallen maple leaves. A fog was creeping in off the river, low and sinuous, stealthy as a cat as it slunk across the Dartmoor lot. The breeze smelled of a sinister kind of wood smoke, wildfires in the mountains grown vicious thanks to the drought.
Ghost spotted an unfamiliar bike, a man sitting astride it, and the bottom dropped out of his stomach.
Against the backdrop of the orange-smeared sunset, the figure was just a silhouette: masculine shape, wide shoulders, hair just long enough to get caught in the wind. As Ghost approached, the man pushed a hand back through it, smoothing it along the crown of his head, a once-familiar gesture, just now remembered. The cherry of a cigarette glowed in the semi-darkness.
Ghost squared up his own shoulders and put a hand on the butt of the Colt that rested just inside his cut, in his shoulder holster. It was an ordinary sight: a biker sitting on his bike in the middle of a biker compound. But nerves like fingers crawled all up and down the back of his neck. And he realized his instincts were correct when he finally got within visual range of the man’s face.
“If I were you,” Ghost said, fingers curling around the grip of the gun now, “I’d hope you just look like someone I used to know, and that you ain’t actually him.”
The responding laugh lifted the hairs on his arms. Low, and deep, maybe a little rougher from the years and smoking, but otherwise just the same. “Ah, Kenny. You never did learn how to greet a friend properly.”
“No, I did. You never were a friend, though.”
Roman chuckled and swung a leg over his bike, standing upright. He was of a height with Ghost; they’d always been able to stare each other right in the eye. Duane had always wondered if that contributed to their animosity. Really, it was just because Roman was a disloyal shithead.
In the faint glow of his cigarette, Ghost could see that Roman’s face had aged like his own had, full of lines and too rough at the sharp corners, sandblasted by the wind and road. There were light streaks in his once-gold hair. But his profile, strong and sure as ever, still looked like something stamped on a Roman coin, his nose just this side of too large.
“I got your message,” Ghost said, and tried hard not to grind his teeth.
Roman’s brows went up. “What message?”
“Don’t get cute, Roman. I haven’t seen your ass in years. Explain yourself.”
He chuckled again, and Ghost hated the sound. “You didn’t think that I might be here to help you?”
“It’d be the first time.”
“Jesus, you aren’t still sore about that old shit, are you?”
“I’ll say it again: Explain yourself.”
The cigarette hit the pavement, a tiny shower of sparks.
“Okay, so,” Roman said. “You’ve got a shitstorm brewing.”
Ghost’s pulse accelerated. But he said, “And you know this how?”
“Just because you run the underworld doesn’t mean you hear all the gossip.” He reached into his back pocket and Ghost’s hand spasmed. He was fully prepared to shoot the man at this point. But Roman pulled out a folded and crumpled piece of paper, rather than a weapon of his own. “Here.” He held it out to Ghost. “This is an email I got a few weeks ago.”
A part of him didn’t want to take it; it felt like some kind of capitulation to entertain a request as simple as reading an email. It was childish, Ghost knew, his hatred of Roman, but it was the way he felt all the same. He couldn’t will it away.
There was just enough light to read what he quickly realized was a recruitment message. A club that fancied themselves the Dark Saints. They were searching for new members who had “experience with firearms,” were “accomplished riders,” and who “prided loyalty above everything else.” It was a shockingly well-written message given that it had been put out by an outlaw. Ghost hadn’t found a whole lot of literacy among clubs, other than his own.
“Never heard of these guys,” he said, trying to hand the email back.
Roman waved him off. “You keep that. Give the addresses to your tech guy.”
Ghost frowned. “Why should I care what some other club’s doing?”
Roman folded his arms and braced his feet apart in a pose that meant he intended to stay a while. “The Saints ain’t exactly new,” he started. “They’ve been around about five years now. Got their start in Denver and they’ve been expanding, slowly, one chapter at a time, making their way east.”
“How many chapters?”
“Seven. And they’re recruiting – obviously.”
“Recruiting where?”
“Anywhere that can support a chapter. But I happen to know they’re setting one up here.”
“There’s not another club in Knoxville, I’d know about it.”
“Not Knoxville. Spring City.”
“There ain’t shit in Spring City.”
“Yeah, well, now there’s a chapter of the Dark Saints there.”
Ghost felt a stab of betrayal. How had no one in his circle of brothers, dealers, and rats thought to tell him there was a new club setting up shop just beyond their borders?
Then a more frightening thought occurred: no one had known about it.
“What are they selling?” he asked, voice a snarl.
“Mostly prescription pain meds. Heavy duty shit.”
Something Ghost’s crew didn’t sell; there was a market. Scripts were the fastest-growing sector of the drug trade.
“They’re intentionally laying low,” he said. “Because either they don’t want any trouble from us…”
“Or they want to get their arsenal built up before the trouble starts,” Roman finished. “Good guesses, both.”
Ghost took a step back. “So let’s say any of what you just told me is true. Why would you come give me a heads-up?”
“Seemed like the friendly thing to do.”
“Try again.”
For the first time, Roman’s self-satisfied smile slipped a little. “I want back in.”
“In?”
“The club, Ghost. I want back in.”
The last of the sunset went out like a doused match, there and then gone the next second. It brought with it an ominous gust of wind.
“You understand what ‘excommunicated’ means, right? Or did you hit your head real hard since I saw you last?”
“You were the one who gave me the boot. And no one’s around now who was back then. You could overturn it.”
Ghost couldn’t form words. He stood there, struck dumb by the sheer nerve of the man.
“You were in a bad accident, that’s it? Your head went through a windshield or something?”
Roman grinned, teeth gleaming in the dark. “You asked why I was here, and I’m just telling you.”
“Why’d you kill the dog, Roman? Huh? It’s bad enough you think I’ll actually bring you back into my club, but did you have to do that to a defenseless animal?”
“What dog?”
Ghost took an aggressive step forward, spine tingling like he had hackles, and like they were raised. “You lying, dog-killing piece of shit. Get off my property.”
Roman breathed a laugh, but he climbed back on his bike. “That’s fine, I’ll go. You’ll be calling me soon anyway. That I can promise.”
“Don’t fucking count on it.”
Whatever Roman said in return was drowned by the roar of his Harley coming to life.
Ghost watched him go with a lump of
dread in his stomach. He’d been around too long to believe in coincidences. Somehow, this was all connected.
He heard footfalls approach from behind, and Walsh’s voice said, “Who was that?”
“Somebody who doesn’t have any business here.”
Five
He spotted Maggie standing outside the sliding glass doors of the outpatient wing, arms folded tight, chin lifted as she stared across the parking lot, hair shimmering gold beneath the lights. She should have been inside, where she was safer, but she’d always been one for fresh air and open skies.
He parked in the hash marks and killed the engine, studying his wife more closely as he took his helmet off. Usually, she wanted his company after she’d spent time with her parents. But every once in a while, she wanted her distance.
Her arms relaxed and that was the sign he needed; he went to her, pulled her in under his chin.
“Is he okay?”
“Yeah,” she said on a sigh. “He had a tiny blockage they were able to remove with angioplasty. I can’t even believe they do that shit outpatient. They just headed home about five minutes ago.”
“He’ll be fine,” Ghost said, though he had no idea if that was true. “They do that sort of procedure all the time, right?”
He felt her shrug, shoulders jerking inside the circle of his arms. “I guess.” There were checked tears in her voice.
He rubbed her back and felt the vibration of fine tremors along her spine. “How are you?”
“Fine.” She pressed her face into his chest, breath warm at the base of his throat. “Definitely pregnant.”
He’d already known that – he hadn’t doubted the at-home test – but having it confirmed by the doctor added another layer or reality to it.
“You hungry?” he asked.
She sighed. “Yeah. Starving, actually.”
“Come on.” He gave her a squeeze. “Let’s get out of here.”
~*~
After a day of worrying and battling nausea, she was ravenous, but nothing sounded appetizing. Ahead of her, Ghost turned in at Waffle House, and she smiled. When you didn’t know, where better than somewhere that had everything?
They got a booth in the window, in the corner, away from everyone else, and a waitress was heading back for their coffee and orange juice within seconds of sitting down.
“You remembered,” Maggie said, smiling as she unzipped her jacket. It was warm in here, the air fragrant with the scents of all sorts of food frying, the windows steamed, the lights of the parking lot and street beyond blurry.
“Of course I did,” Ghost protested. “I got to-go orders from here sometimes twice a day for months.”
“You were a saint.”
“A lady wants some waffles and a ribeye, you get it for her.”
The both grinned at each other over the memory, both a little shy and displaced, feeling years younger. Lately, Maggie had felt so far removed from the teenager she’d been during her first pregnancy, but this new baby was proving you never really outgrew those early stages.
The waitress brought their drinks and went to put their dinner order in. When she was gone, Ghost said, without preamble, “Roman’s back.”
Maggie choked on her juice. “What?” she spluttered, clapping a napkin over her mouth. “Did I hear that right?”
The worry and strain pressed into the lines of his face told her that, yes, she’d heard right.
“That Roman?” she asked, just to be sure.
“In the flesh.”
“Shit, Ghost.” She took a deep breath, nauseous again suddenly. “What does he want?” Another thought dawned. “That asshole killed a dog. A stray dog. Did you punch him? Because you should have.”
“I refrained,” he said, grimly, eyes flicking toward the steam-smeared window. “But I wanted to.”
In her mind, Roman was twenty-seven, long-haired, pretty enough to get noticed, manipulative, and shameless. He was probably still all of those things, but that was no comfort. “What’d he say?”
“That he didn’t kill the dog.”
A squeak of shoe tread announced their waitress and the plates thumped down in front of them.
“Thank you,” Maggie told her, and waited until she was far enough away before she said, “Then who did?”
“He says there’s a new club setting up shop in Spring City.”
“Jesus, not that again.”
“Yeah, I’ll believe it when I see it. I’ve got Ratchet digging into them. Even if they’re real, they’re small, and they’d be damn stupid to do something as bold as leave a message for me like that.”
In her experience, the outlaws of the world weren’t exactly known for their IQs. And boldness came with the territory. “I don’t want another war,” she said. “God, I really, really don’t.”
“None of us do, baby, but–”
“Someone’s threatening the club. Or you, more specifically.” A hard chill moved through her and she forced herself not to react to it. She picked up her fork and speared a bite of hash browns. “I know how it works.” She offered a thin smile. “Not my first rodeo.”
“No.” His gaze was brimming with affection, the kind that went beyond romantic love, the kind that meant they were partners, family; grown together like tree roots in the deep, fertile soil. The sort of look that was an apology, because he had to do what was best for the club, knowing she was strong enough to handle whatever came their way. You’re tougher than my boys, it said. “I know it’s not.”
Six
Then
Ghost was going to kill whoever was making that noise. It sounded like someone was hammering something. Like maybe they were beating out sheet metal with a claw hammer. Ringing some sort of Liberty Bell or something. It was like a gong, each blow echoing inside his head, catching in the tight coils of his gray matter. He entertained a vivid fantasy of wrapping his hands around the throat of whoever was making the noise, and squeezing until the guy’s eyes popped out like a cartoon character’s.
The problem was, he’d have to get up first. And that would require moving. Also opening his eyes. Neither of which sounded fun or plausible at the moment.
Last night was a blur. Somewhere between his fifth and sixth shot, one of the groupies had stood up on tiptoes to whisper “so my friend’s new around here” into his ear. It was all one whiskey-soaked orgy after that.
Now, faced with what was going to be yet another epic hangover – his third of the week so far – he wanted nothing more than to burrow his face down deeper into the pillow and return to oblivion, even as he felt himself growing more and more awake. Damn it.
He heard footsteps coming down the hall. A scuffle. And then a voice cut through the door like a buzz saw. “Look at you, standing here knocking like a pussy. That’s not how you do it,” Duane griped. “Here.” Another scuffle. And then the hammering sound grew louder, faster, more insistent. Knocking. No, pounding on the door. “Kenny!” he shouted, and Ghost groaned. His head.
The knob turned with a click and the door swung open, letting in light that burned Ghost’s eyes through the back of his skull.
“Rise and shine, dumbass!” Duane shouted, laughing. “We got work to do!” The door started to close again, but paused. “This is your first wake-up call. If I have to come back, I won’t be so goddamn sweet about it,” Duane warned, and slammed the door loud enough Ghost felt it in his teeth.
“Fuck you, Uncle Duane,” Ghost muttered into the pillow. Then he willed his stomach to stay where it was, braced his hands on the mattress, and forced himself upright.
He was never drinking again, he decided. The bed tilted and the room swirled and the light coming in through the window stabbed his eyes. “Jesus. Fuck.” He clapped his eyes shut, fought down a horrifying wave of sickness, and eased back onto his heels. He breathed shallowly through his mouth, taking inventory of the headache, the crick in his neck, the taste of metal and cardboard in his mouth. The headache defied all plausibility; he felt his skul
l expand and contract, his scalp crinkling over it like cheap wrapping paper.
The only thing that propelled him to open his eyes again was the knowledge that Duane would be back soon, and there would be more terrible door pounding to listen to. He cracked them, just a slit, and hissed at the pain. Then worked them open, slow, fraction by fraction.
Shit, he was so hungover.
So were the girls, he guessed, as he spotted them naked and tangled together on the bed beside him. One was Maria, who’d been around about a year now, but her friend, with the died hair and recent boob job – he couldn’t remember her name. Sucked cock like a champ, though. He wished he could remember the experience better than he did.
He heard footsteps out in the hall again – tentative, and definitely not Duane’s – and forced himself to his feet with a growl. Fucking hangover. Fucking job. Fucking Duane. Fucking divorce. Fucking life.
There was a hesitant knock. “Sir?”
“I’m up, prospect!” he snapped, bending down to grab his jeans. It made his head spin and he had to shut his eyes and grope across the floor for them. “What?”
“The president–”
“I know what that asshole wants! Tell him I’m coming.”
“Yes, sir.” But the footsteps didn’t retreat.
Ghost stepped into his Levi’s and pulled them up; they felt gritty against his skin, even the insides. He hadn’t showered in…a while. And it had been longer since he’d done laundry last. He zipped them, but left the halves of his belt dangling, and dug his smokes from the back pocket. “Babe.” He shook one out and turned toward the bed. “Maria,” he said, louder, and lit up.
“Hmm? Huh?” Maria shifted up onto an elbow, peering at him through half-open eyes. Her dark hair was wrecked and her voice came out a croak. “What?”
“I’m gonna need you to do laundry for me later.”
“Uh…yeah.” She flopped back down. “Sure.” She sounded asleep already.
American Hellhound Page 4