Thirty-Four
“I feel like we’re turning into the kind of family they write about in sitcoms,” Maggie said as they ambled down the sidewalk, Ava steering the stroller. “Us with our three generations.”
“Baby, hold onto the side,” Ava said to Cal, reaching to guide his hand back to the stroller. To Maggie, she said, “Forget sitcom. This is Pulitzer-winning novel territory we’re getting into.”
Maggie snorted and glanced at their reflections in the shop window as they passed. Millie was in the front seat of the double stroller, smiling and waving at strangers who seemed delighted to wave back, charmed by her sweet grin. Ash was in the back, in the shade, and when Maggie peeked in on him, he stared up with wide, grave dark eyes.
He was going to be another Teague: black curly hair, brown eyes, the propensity for frowning. Her man had some dominant DNA.
There were three generations of them out together. Millie was delighted by Ash, always calling him “my baby.” She had no concept that he was her uncle.
It was a strange déjà vu having a baby in the house again – one that was hers. Mercy and Ava stayed over plenty, and vice versa, but the hungry, wet-diaper cries that echoed through the house in the wee hours were always followed by the soft thump of feet as Ava or Mercy went to answer the call. Now, Maggie and Ghost rolled toward one another in bed, groggy and grumbling, and then jerked at the same time.
“Shit, that’s ours,” Ghost said that first night home from the hospital. The stricken look on his face in the dark – Maggie had laughed so hard it had distressed Ash further, and it had taken twice as long to shush him back to sleep.
Maggie felt so much older than she had the last time she’d done all this. Looked in the mirror these days and saw a grandmother, rather than a new mother. Cupped Ash’s fragile, smooth head in her hand and saw the sun freckles on her knuckles. Imagined she felt the laugh lines around her eyes and mouth. She wasn’t old, she knew that, but she felt a little stretched and tired.
Cal, little chatterbox, kept up a steady stream of observations as they walked down the storefronts and turned the corner to head toward Stella’s. He was currently obsessed with comic books, and Maggie didn’t pretend to take note of any of the names, just nodded and said “uh-huh” where applicable.
Stella’s was full of its usual bustling lunch crowd, and they had to wait until a table opened up that would accommodate a high chair for Millie. When they were settled, Julian came hurrying over, all smiles to take their drink order, and to coo over Ash.
“He’s beautiful,” he told Maggie, smile absorbed as he stared down at him.
“Especially when he’s sleeping,” Maggie joked.
“Looks just like his papa.”
“None of his apples fell far from the tree, did they?”
Ava made a face across the table that Cal then mimicked.
“Oh,” Julian said, as if he’d just remembered something, looking up at her face, growing concerned. “I saw the prison break on the news in back. What does Ghost say?”
Maggie’s stomach clenched. “What does Ghost say about what?”
“Prison break?” Ava said.
~*~
The TV was on when they walked into the clubhouse. Maggie carried Ash in her arms, his warm, solid weight a comfort against her chest. He fussed quietly, picking up on her stress maybe.
Walsh was sitting on a table, holding the remote, and bumped the volume up as they entered.
“…associated with outlaw motorcycle gang the Dark Saints…”
Club, Maggie corrected in her head. Though maybe the Saints didn’t deserve that distinction.
The stern-faced news commentator said, “Authorities are also searching for prison employees” – two photos flashed up on the screen – “believed to be involved with the prisoners’ escape.”
Ghost turned toward them, arms folded, muscle in his cheek twitching, face a harsh mask. He was angry, furious – and he was scared.
Maggie’s heartrate increased every time she saw him spooked like that.
“It was Badger,” he said, voice tight. “Him and his VP. From what they can tell” – gesture to the TV – “they had guards on the take and the rest of the crew started up a big fight as a distraction. Badger and his boy got out in a goddamn laundry cart.” He sounded disgusted. “Cops found their jumpsuits and sneakers about a hundred yards into the woods, and an empty garbage bag.”
“Someone left them clothes,” Maggie said.
“Yeah. Best they can tell, they’ve been in the wind for five hours.”
“Plenty of time to get here,” Aidan said, voice grim.
Roman spoke up from over the bar; Maggie hadn’t noticed him before. He was drinking Jack out of the bottle. “He won’t make a move on his own. That’s not how he works.”
“The rest of his boys are still in lockup,” Ghost said, frowning at him.
“The ones he brought here, yeah,” Roman said like Ghost was an idiot. He didn’t look steady on his stool; clearly, the drinking had been going on for a while. “But he’s got other chapters. He’ll pull in out of town boys for this. Then he’s gonna hit you hard.”
Ghost went to him in two long strides and snatched the bottle out of his hand, spattering Roman’s shirt and jeans with whiskey droplets.
“Hey!”
“Get some coffee in you. You’re the reason these assholes are knocking on my door. You’re by God gonna help me fix it.”
~*~
“Baby,” Maggie said, and Ghost realized he was mindlessly massaging his chest, the hard line of his sternum and the meat beside it, like he was trying to soothe his jumping heart with his fingers. He dropped his hand to his lap and let out a deep breath that made his lungs ache. He wanted a cigarette so badly his skin vibrated with the need, but he wouldn’t do that with Mags and the baby in the room with him.
She sat across the desk from him in the office, Ash quietly alert in her arms, his eyes tracing the dark-paneled walls.
Walls that seemed to be closing in on him, laughing at him. A laugh that sounded disturbingly like Duane.
“I fucked up,” he said.
She sighed, rolled her eyes, that move she always did when she thought he was being overly dramatic. “No, you didn’t.”
“I did,” he insisted. He wondered if she knew how close he was to panicking; of course she did, she knew everything about him. She could read him like a psychic. “I wanted it to be over and done with, and I took the easy way out.”
“You took the safe way,” she said. “The bloodless way.”
He frowned down at his desk, his open day planner on the blotter, full of his cramped handwriting.
“You were looking out for all of us. The whole city. Anybody else would have turned Main Street into the OK Corral,” she continued. “But you didn’t. You tried to do it the right way.”
Duane’s voice filled his head, and he felt the corner of his mouth lift in reaction. It wasn’t a smile, but it probably looked like one. “I hate selling drugs,” he said, quietly, an admission. He’d never been to church a day in his life; his marriage was his confessional, Maggie his priest. “Duane said, once, when I was still a prospect, ‘It ain’t about what you want. What you like. Whether it feels good to you. It’s about being in control. If you control the sin, you control the man who commits it.’” Somewhere in the cosmos – more like in hell – Duane was laughing himself sick over this, delighted as he watched Ghost come to the same bitter realizations he once had.
“Every time I look at Kev,” he said, voice starting to fray at the edges, “I remember that I sell the shit that almost killed him and I just…” His hands tightened to fists in his lap. “I tell myself if I didn’t sell it, someone else would.”
“They would,” Maggie said.
“And that at least this way, I’m in control of it.” He shrugged, helpless. “But I’m just as bad as he was. And the world’s just as dangerous as it was when he was sitting at this desk.”
When he met Maggie’s gaze, she stared back at him levelly. “You’re not God, Kenny.”
“What?”
She snorted, thoroughly unimpressed. “Don’t get me wrong, baby, you’re hot shit, and you do a damn good job around here. But you aren’t actively making the world a more terrible place. It’s plenty terrible all on its own. Don’t get ahead of yourself there.”
He felt a true smile touch his lips.
She got to her feet and came around the desk, perched sideways on it and leaned down to pass him Ash. The baby came with a little disgruntled squeal and Ghost tucked him up under his chin, high on his chest, one hand supporting his diapered butt.
“We do what we do for our babies,” Maggie said. “Maybe we’re horrible people – but our motivation isn’t. Don’t forget that.”
He felt Ash’s heartbeat against his throat, light as butterfly wings, but steady. Strong in its own little way. He smelled like Johnson & Johnson, and Maggie’s milk, and that sweet new-baby smell that lingered in his skin. Ghost breathed it in, let the warmth and weight of him sink through his own skin, tried to draw it down into his bones.
“So what’s the plan, boss?”
Ghost spanned his son’s tiny back with his whole hand, felt ribbons thinner than his fingers, soft baby rolls of fat. Breathed in the smell of his hair. “The same as it always is: wipe ‘em off the face of the earth.”
~*~
The shaking started somewhere in her chest and quickly spread, down her arms and legs, into her fingers, weakening her muscles until she could barely walk. Kris made it to her dorm – not wanting to be seen like this, weak – and collapsed onto the bed, sitting with her hands braced on her thighs, breathing, staring down at the carpet.
He was loose. Badger was loose.
She felt phantom manacles around her wrists; tasted blood in her mouth. She breathed high and fast and rough, like a rabbit caught in a snare.
No, she was supposed to be safe now. She was supposed to be safe.
The knob turned and the door opened.
Her panic spiked and subsided from one beat to the next, the adrenaline surge almost knocking her back across the bed.
Reese slipped into the room and shut the door silently behind him, stood with his back pressed to it, hand still on the knob. “I’m going to kill him,” he said, tonelessly. He could have been asking when dinner was, commenting on the weather. His unwavering gaze stayed pinned to her face; he was her brother and she loved him, even understood him on most levels, but sometimes the way he stared sent goosebumps prickling up her arms. “Don’t be scared. I’ll kill him.”
“Reese–”
“I let Ghost do it his way. Now it’s my way.”
“Reese.” She gathered what strength she could and stood up, wavering.
He stepped forward and caught her arms to keep her balanced.
She sighed.
“Do you want to leave?” he asked her, innocent as a child, violent as a thunderstorm. “We can leave. If you want.”
“I don’t.” And she didn’t. She liked it here, liked making money, and having her own room, and not being grabbed by lecherous men every time she walked past. The women were polite to her.
She glanced over at the dresser, the collection of shampoo, lotion, and cheap perfume bottles she was slowly amassing. This wasn’t a permanent arrangement – there was no way Ghost would let her stay here at the clubhouse indefinitely – but it was a start. A better start than she’d ever hoped to have. And she desperately wanted to keep it; wanted to dig her fingers into it like claws and hold onto it for dear life.
“Don’t you like it here?” she asked her brother, turning back to face him.
He’d let her cut his hair a few weeks ago, but it was still too long in front, falling in his eyes. He flicked it away with an impatient movement of his head, eyes withdrawn and animalistic underneath. He shrugged. “It’s acceptable.”
“Do you want to leave?” she tried instead.
“I go where you go.”
She took a deep breath and tried to steady herself. He was still holding her arms, so it was more of a mental gesture. “You don’t have…Reese, you can…you can make your own decisions now. You don’t belong to anyone anymore.”
He blinked at her, not comprehending.
“You don’t have to kill anyone.”
He stared at her a moment; she always wondered what he saw when he looked at her like that. If he thought her weak, a burden. Or if there was love there, something deeper than an innate sense of obligation.
Slowly, carefully, like she was the one who didn’t understand, he said, “I want to kill him.”
That was that, she guessed.
~*~
Roman looked halfway back to sober. He stared down into his third cup of coffee as he spoke, Ratchet taking fast notes with his laptop.
“Besides Denver, there’s chapters in Boulder, Oklahoma City, Omaha, and Des Moines.”
“Plenty of farm kids looking for opioids, I bet,” Ghost said. “But no big markets.”
“Denver’s big,” Roman said. “Mostly weed and scripts. But Badger talked all the time about wanting to be on the east coast. He talked about the Dogs,” he said with a rueful half-smile. “He hated the idea of someone being bigger and better known than him. He’s got an ego; every nasty thing he’s ever done goes back to his big head.”
“Nobody ever seems to get tired of trying to wrestle us out of the top spot,” Mercy said with a dark chuckle. “Stupid fuckers.”
“So he’ll pull guys from those crews,” Ghost said, getting back to the point at hand.
“Maybe all of them,” Roman said.
“Do you know anything about any of them?”
“Besides the fact that they take orders from Badger?” Roman shrugged. “No.”
Ghost had shaken off his initial panic – blind emotion helped no one – and had instead settled into a state of grim determination. Right now, he needed every scrap of intel he could get, and then he’d formulate a plan.
“What about Badger himself?” he pressed Roman. “How does he handle something like this?”
Roman shot a glance over Ghost’s shoulder toward the spot on the wall where Reese leaned, watching them with a bird-like tilt to his head. “Used to? He’d send Reese after somebody. But he doesn’t have that option anymore.”
Ghost twisted around in his chair to look at the kid; only one eye was visible, his hair in his face – and not in an artful way, like Tango chose to wear his. The guy still looked half-homeless, hollow and uncaring.
“C’mere,” Ghost said, and tried to keep his voice kind. As kind as he was capable.
Reese pushed off the wall and came to the table, stood at attention, gaze pinned to Ghost. It was unnerving as hell. “Yes, sir?”
“You were Badger’s trigger man; you saw him in action more than Roman here. What can you tell me about him? What’s his next move gonna be?”
For the first time, something like doubt flickered through Reese’s eyes. His lips parted; quiet intake of breath. “I…” Ghost watched the words get caught in his throat.
Watching him struggle – gaze darting around the table, jaw working, hands curling into fists – Ghost felt a stab of white-hot hatred for Badger shoot through him. It was one thing to hate the man on principle, for the way he’d blown into town with plans of taking it over. Typical rivalry, typical bullshit. But to know what he’d done to this kid and his sister – that turned hatred into too generous a word.
He thought of all the wounded children who’d come into his life: Holly, and Tango, and Ian, and now these two. It lit a fire in him, fierce and dangerous.
“Hey,” he said, sliding a palm across the tabletop, an undemanding reach. “Look. He’s a dead man walking, okay? He’s not getting out of this alive.” He was shocked, inwardly. Up until this moment, he hadn’t known what he intended for Badger, but saying it now, he knew he’d just made a promise he’d never think of breaking. Complications be damned: he should have never allowed someone as monstrous as Badger to live in the first place. “If you can think of anything that might help us accomplish that, I’d really appreciate it.”
Reese looked at him, really looked, made eye contact, fine tremors moving through his body, making the limp ends of his hair dance across his forehead. For the very first time, emotion broke through his mask, and it broke Ghost’s heart just a little. “I can do it myself, sir,” he offered, voice just a low rough scrape. “You don’t…you don’t have to get your hands dirty.”
“Son.” Ghost offered him a smile. It’s okay, he thought toward him. You’re here with us, and it’s alright. “Everybody in this room has dirty hands. We’re not worried about that.”
Reese took a deep breath and let it out in a rush, shoulders slumping. It was the most relaxed Ghost had ever seen him. “Okay,” he said, nodding. “Understood, sir.”
~*~
Badger had been in the wind for nine hours. Not one of Ghost’s contacts through the club had any usable intel as to the Midwest Saints mobilizing. No one had seen anything, heard anything. Nada.
“And so you’ve come to me,” Ian said with an expansive, self-congratulatory wave of his hand. “On a Saturday, no less.”
“Sorry about that,” Ghost said, not meaning it. His entire club was in the process of moving their families into the clubhouse, full-on lockdown mode. “Life or death situations don’t care about weekends.”
“So dramatic.”
“I’m gonna remind you that you’ve got skin in this game too.”
“Yes, yes, I do.” Another gesture, this one almost apologetic. He had slender, long-fingered hands, and Ghost suspected he liked watching them move when he talked, and that was why they were always so animated. “Give me a moment, if you will.” He rose from the chrome-armed, gray leather chair he was seated in and walked out of the room, around the corner and into the kitchen.
Ghost heard muffled voices: Ian talking with his boyfriend. He didn’t try to eavesdrop, stared instead through the floor-to-ceiling window out at Knoxville.
The gorgeous, modern apartment wasn’t a surprise, per se, but it was more luxurious than Ghost had been able to imagine. Like the yacht, it was tricked out in muted furniture and accessories in soothing grays, creams, and pale blues. Ghost knew nothing about brands and designers, but he could tell that everything from the chandeliers to the rugs dripped money. It suited Ian – in a way. In another way, it seemed too spare. Ghost thoughts of the rich warmth of Baskerville Hall in London, and wondered if there was a part of this London boy who didn’t long for dark wallpaper and tufted velvet furniture.
Or maybe he was just a tasteless Tennessee boy projecting onto others. Who knew.
The soft scrape of shoes announced the boyfriend’s approach before he stepped into the room carrying a glass of what looked like sweet tea. He came to the end table at Ghost’s elbow, pulled a crystal coaster from a stack, and set the drink down within easy reach. It was a heavy, expensive glass, full to the brim with ice, a lemon wedge bobbing in the dark tea.
Ghost recognized the man from Ian’s office, over a year ago. He’d been an assistant then, fine-boned, dark-haired, glasses. Pretty in the way that would attract Ian, but not flamboyant. He couldn’t remember his name.
“Thanks,” he said. He had no idea if this kid was like Maggie, if he’d been told all sorts of things he shouldn’t know.
“You’re welcome,” the boyfriend said, stepping back, smiling tightly. “Ian’s calling his contacts in Chicago. He thinks they’ll know something.”
And that answered that question.
“I’m Alec, by the way,” he added, when Ghost didn’t respond.
Shit, he guessed he was rude.
“We met before.”
“Yeah,” Ghost said. “I remember.”
“Do you need anything else?”
“Nah. I’m good.”
Ghost found he was searching for traces of Tango in this boy’s face, some hint of trauma, sharp edges, broken foundations. He didn’t find them, and he guessed, like looking at Whitney, it was a relief. Two broken boys stood only to drag one another down.
Fuck the club, but he would have let Tango go back to Ian if it had been for the best. It hadn’t been, though, and he was glad – even if he wouldn’t admit it out loud – that Ian had found someone new, too. It was better this way. Healthier.
“Well,” Ian said as he came back into the room. “Apparently, your Badger” – he said the name with contempt – “is pulling as many men as he can to Knoxville. Forty-strong so far.”
“Shit.”
“Yes, indeed.” Ian sat down, hands clasping together over his stomach. “It would appear your plan to let the law handle things has, as they say, backfired.”
“Shut up,” Ghost said, without any feeling. Forty. Forty was a lot. Not impossible, but definitely not easy.
He glanced out the window again, across the rooftops and winding streets. It was one of those achingly clear days, the sky such a perfect, pearlescent robin’s egg blue it looked like it might crack at any moment. It was breezy, occasional gusts pressing around the building with low whistles.
“Forgive me,” Ian said, “but I’m not sure what you’re expecting me to do.”
Startled by the honesty of the statement, Ghost looked back at him. Alec had withdrawn into the kitchen, silently, leaving them alone. Some of Ian’s usual smug delight had been replaced with a quiet, pensive frown. Troubled and uncertain. He conducted himself with such theatrical vivacity, played the kingpin so skillfully, that it was easy to forget how young he was. Under the labels and feral smiles, he was Tango’s age. Aidan’s age.
Another of Ghost’s wayward sons, he supposed.
Ghost felt a smile form, wispy and melancholy. “I guess I just wanted to make sure I had all my bases covered before everything hits the fan. I’m not expecting anything, kid. Just be careful.”
“I…” Ian sputtered, sitting forward, face made even younger by a rare display of shock. “I…”
“I’ll see myself out,” Ghost said. “Call if you hear anything important.”
~*~
“That’s the last of them,” Jasmine said as she took the last two grocery bags from Harry and set them on the kitchen counter.
Maggie put a red checkmark next to food on her list. “Great. You can put them away?” She gestured to the plethora of bags scattered around the room. The clubhouse kitchen was big, but it no longer looked it with the clutter of enough food to feed over a dozen people for the next three days.
“Yes, ma’am.”
“Thanks, Jazz.”
From the kitchen, she popped in on the dorm crew: Mina and Nell were making beds, laying out extra blankets, dusting off and opening old cots that Maggie hadn’t seen used since the Carpathians were a problem – the first time around. When they assured her they had everything handled, she checked on Sam and Whitney who were putting together emergency contact lists for everyone: a morbid task, but a necessary one. Ava and Holly were trying to get the kids interested in a coloring project that was quickly devolving into a game of soldiers led by Mina and Rottie’s boys.
Maggie perched on the arm of Ava’s chair and surveyed the controlled chaos. Boomer and his crew were bringing in fresh kegs and restocking the bar. Littlejohn was on bathroom duty, she knew, giving everything a last scrub-down. The floors gleamed from a fresh mopping, and despite the crush of bodies, the place was spotless.
She felt like there was a hot ball of panic lodged at the base of her throat.
“Hey,” Ava said, quietly, beside her, drawing her attention. Millie was in her playpen, so she held Ash in her lap, cradling him with the expertise of long practice. It struck Maggie as strange and darling all at once, the sight of sister holding baby brother.
She reached to smooth a piece of Ava’s dark hair back behind her ear.
“You okay, Mom?”
“Just nervous, you know?”
“Yeah.” And she did.
Maggie’s heart squeezed. She’d tried, every day since Ava’s birth, to be a different kind of mother than her own. To never stifle, steer, or sway her child in a selfish direction. If Ava had married an accountant and moved to Florida, she would have cried, but she would have let her go. She had wondered, secretly, right after Ava married Mercy, if she’d been a stronger influence than she’d hoped to be; if Ava had seen Maggie’s life as the only life, and chosen it for herself thanks to undue pressure.
That wasn’t true, though, was it? It never had been. Ava Lécuyer hadn’t ever done a damn thing she didn’t want to.
“What?” Ava asked.
Maggie loved her so much. “Just glad you’re here.”
~*~
Ghost stopped in at the precinct so often these days that no one ever questioned his presence anymore. Today, he was buzzed straight through to Fielding’s office; no one even tossed him a curious/suspicious glance as he knocked on the lieutenant’s door and let himself in without waiting for a response.
The scent of bourbon hit him in the face the moment he entered.
“Jesus.” He slipped in and shut the door in a rush, blinking as his eyes tried to adjust to the dim room. Half the overhead lights were off and the blinds were drawn, horizontal threads of light stacked across the desk as the sun tried to work its way in.
“Somebody’s trying to get canned,” he observed.
Behind the desk, Fielding sat slumped on one elbow, other hand curled around a glass tumbler full of what had to be – judging by the smell – bourbon. His eyes – glassy and red-rimmed – came to Ghost with disinterest, looking through him rather than at him. He didn’t respond.
“Jesus,” Ghost said again, dropping into the chair across from him. “Take it you heard the news, then.”
Fielding let out a wet-sounding snort and tipped back the rest of his drink, swallowing with obvious difficulty. “Yeah,” he said, smacking his lips. “Oh yeah.”
“And you clearly thought the best response was to get drunk as shit in the middle of the day.”
“It’s evening,” Fielding corrected, motioning toward his wall clock. “And yeah. Seemed reasonable.”
Ghost sighed. “What the fuck, Vince?”
Fielding took his time in answering, opening a desk drawer, pulling out a bottle of Jim Beam, pouring himself another two fingers. “See, here’s the thing,” he said. “My job? It’s bullshit these days. I’ve got no idea if the things I do are the right things to do, or the things you tell me to do.”
Ghost rolled his eyes skyward, calling on a divine patience he probably wasn’t owed. “How many drunk idiots do I gotta talk to today?”
“Huh?”
“Pull yourself together, dumbass. I had you arrest Badger–”
“Gene Enright.”
“What?”
“That’s his real name. Gene Enright.”
“Fine. Enright. You arrested him because he’s a piece of shit who needed arresting.”
“I arrested him without going through any of the proper evidence collection protocols,” Fielding corrected, rustling up a scrap of professionalism despite his level of intoxication. “Because you wanted me to. Because you own my ass.”
“I do, yeah,” Ghost agreed. “And that’s on you. And in this case, who gives a shit? The guy was trying to deal a fuckton of coke in your city. You did the right thing here – even if I did tell you to do it.”
Fielding cupped his face in his hand, groaning.
“He’s coming here, you know,” Ghost said. “Badger. He’s mad as hell and he’s coming for blood. When he gets here, are you gonna be passed out in your own puke? Or are you gonna take care of Knoxville?”
Silence reigned for a long moment. Speaking through his fingers, Fielding said, “I hate you so much. I always have.”
“Yeah, I figured. Not a big fan of you either.”
A glazed-over eye peeked between pointer and middle finger. “Why you?”
“Why me what?”
“Why the hell would a perfectly nice girl from a good family want anything to do with you?”
“We’re not really gonna have this old conversation, are we?”
Fielding shrugged. “Maybe. I’m drunk.”
Ghost stood. “Have one of your flunkies make you some coffee. Time to sober up, Vinny.”
When he glanced back over his shoulder at the door, he saw that Fielding was shooting him the bird.
Ghost returned the gesture and left.