Thirty-Five
Nothing was happening. They patrolled the city, they checked in with contacts, they told their dealers to go off the grid and lay low. They stocked, and armed, and readied. They were as prepared as possible.
And there was nothing. Not so much as a whiff of trouble.
Waiting was horrible. It tasted acidic on the back of the tongue; the air heavy and metallic with the rain of clouds they couldn’t yet see, night settling dark, and clear, and star-studded over Dartmoor. A false portrait of peace.
Ghost woke with a start, breath caught in his throat, heart leaping out from between his ribs. His gaze darted wildly around the dark room, trying to catalogue his surroundings, rectify them in his mind. He knew right away that he wasn’t at home, and it took an alarming handful of seconds for him to realize that he was at the clubhouse, in a dorm, instead of his own bedroom.
Shit.
He breathed through the burst of panic, slow and steady, until his heart began to slow. He lay on his side, facing Maggie, the two of them curved like parentheses around Ash, who slept on his stomach between them, snuffling into the sheets.
It took him a moment to realize that Maggie’s eyes were open, ocean blue in the darkness.
“How long you been awake?” he asked, voice rusty from sleep.
Her face was soft in the shadows, a stolen bit of calm before the storm broke. “A while.”
“You should try to go back to sleep. Gonna be a long day.”
“I could say the same to you.”
But the difference was, he was the cause of the long day; he was the asshole who ran the club that tempted other clubs to test their strength. That forced them to answer. When he was twenty-seven, the night they rolled Duane’s body into a hole and Maggie told him she was pregnant, he could have packed up their growing family and driven them clear across the country. Sold his bike. Settled them in a town where no one knew what the black dog tat on his arm meant, gotten a job at a garage, or a grocery store. Mopped floors, anything. Anything to support his family.
Instead, he’d stayed, and he’d led. And by some miracle, Maggie had stayed right by his side. She deserved a medal for that.
Careful not to wake Ash, he reached across and tucked her hair behind her ear, passed his rough thumb across her impossibly smooth cheek. “I’m sorry, baby.”
She frowned. “For what?”
He felt his own mouth attempt a smile, sideways and sad. His daughter was the writer of the family; he didn’t think he had the means to put I’m sorry for your whole life with me into words with any eloquence. So he said, “Everything.”
“Don’t be sorry.” She reached to lay her hand over the back of his. “Be the meanest damn dog in the fight.”
~*~
Kris startled awake and then wasn’t sure why. Then she saw the figure standing at the end of her bed.
“Shit,” she breathed in the same moment that fear spiked and, just as quickly, realization dawned.
Mercy had a point about getting Reese a bell. He was her own brother and he still managed to scare the hell out of her.
She pushed upright, so tired she felt drunk, head fuzzy and eyes full of grit. “What are you doing?” As her vision cleared, she saw that dawn was breaking, pale light filtering through the curtains, and that Reese was dressed for a job: black skinnies, combats, his grubby surplus jacket, and beneath it, Kevlar. The black turtleneck that covered his pale throat, hair tied back at his nape with a band, so it wouldn’t get in his way. If he pulled his hood up, he’d be set, ready for battle.
“I,” he started, gaze on the floor, corner of his mouth tucked back in a rare show of doubt. Expressing himself was difficult, always, having been denied the privilege for so long, but this seemed different. She felt the tension coming off of him. His hesitancy.
“I want,” he tried again, sighing through his nostrils, frustrated now. “Be careful.” His eyes snapped up to hers, electric, raw, full of emotion that he clearly didn’t know how to handle. “I want you to be careful.”
Kris bit her lip – and bit back all the things she wanted to say. She wanted to tell him that he should stay here, that he didn’t have to involve himself in this war. That she wanted him to find a way to crack his shell and let her in, just a little. Even though it would doubtless take months and months for therapy to accomplish such a thing.
What she said was, “You be careful too.”
He nodded and turned away, left as soundlessly as he’d no doubt entered, when she’d been sleeping.
Kris blew out a breath and flopped back onto her pillow, body alive with nerves, now. She hated this – all this emotion. She had no idea how to handle it; no doubt she needed a therapist too.
She stared at the ceiling, buzzing with anxiety, until she realized there was no hope of going back to sleep, and no sense in staying in bed. She flipped the covers back, stepped into her flip-flops, and ventured out in search of coffee.
The hall was dark, but several doors bore strips of light along the bottoms. She heard muffled voices, shuffle of sheets and feet on carpet. The clubhouse was packed to the gills, every intown member and his family, all of them crammed into small dorms with folding cots and playpens for the babies.
Just a few months ago, being surrounded by so many bikers would have been horrifying and mundane.
Now, it wasn’t horrifying – these people were good in her eyes – and for that reason she was nervous in a way she never had been when she was a slave. She never knew when her standing here might change; in so many ways, she was finding out that the pressure of the unknown could be twice as frightening as known terrors.
Some of the single guys were camped out on the sofas, unmoving beneath their blankets, dead asleep. There was no sign of Reese – God knew where he’d gone – but he wasn’t the only one lurking and awake in the underwater light of dawn.
In the kitchen, Kris pulled up short when she found Roman sitting at the small café table pushed up against one wall, hands wrapped around a steaming white mug. The smell of coffee was sharp and welcome, as comforting as the look on his face was disturbing.
“Hi,” she greeted, just a whisper, lingering in the threshold.
He didn’t look up. “Hi.”
It was stupid to feel wrong-footed around him. Very stupid. He’d seen her chained to a bedpost, for God’s sake. So she walked to the coffee pot and poured herself a mug. Added three spoons of sugar, because she could. She could eat and drink and do whatever she wanted now, and she was never going to skimp on sugar, not ever. Then she went to sit across from Roman.
His head lifted, and he looked worse than she’d first thought: lined, and gray, and hollowed-out. She didn’t see the flash of fear or anger in his eyes, the way she imagined it in the other men splashing their faces and peering into bathroom mirrors this morning. No, he looked resigned. Grim.
“What’s wrong?” she asked.
He shrugged and avoided her gaze.
“Are you scared?”
He made a face. “No. Aren’t you?”
“Terrified,” she admitted on a shaky exhale. “I don’t want to go back.”
“You won’t.” His eyes came to her then. “Kris, you won’t.”
She offered him a bare smile. It was nice of him to say that, but he wasn’t in a position to promise her anything.
Nobody was.
~*~
Ghost smoothed down the last Velcro strap of his flak vest and shrugged his shirt on over it. It was black, a white silhouette of a dog on the front. They were going soft colors today, plain jackets, no cuts. If shit got crazy, he didn’t want their patches flying all over the evening news.
God forbid.
His twin Colt 1911s went in his shoulder holster, under his jacket. .38 in his boot. Bowie knife strapped to his leg; backup knife in his other boot.
He caught a glimpse of himself in the dressing table mirror as he turned for the door. The black of his eyes and hair. The shadow of gray at his temples, and along his jaw. The lines on his face. The trim waist and hips, beat-up jeans. Glint of his wedding ring; his other rings, chunky and hyper-masculine by comparison to that simple band.
He looked like a soldier, he thought.
He hoped he looked enough like a king.
He ran into Aidan and Tango in the hallway, the two of them leaning close together, talking in low tones, their own flak vests visible beneath their shirts. Tango had a .45 crammed in his waistband. Aidan had a love bite on his neck, just beneath his ear, a souvenir from a worried old lady. (Ghost said a silent thank you, again, for Sam, and her positive influence on his boy.)
They both glanced up when he appeared, expressions tight with stress…but ready. All set to receive orders and carry out the grisly tasks he set before them.
Ghost felt a lump form in his throat. Mercy was his son-in-law, and he loved him, yes, but he felt more like an equal. A brother.
These two, though, they were his boys. Always babies and awkward kids in his mind. He loved them fiercely, in ways he didn’t normally let come to the surface. And he was so, so scared for them today. They had wives; they had futures. They were better than him, more innocent, even after everything. And he wanted to wrap them in cotton and stuff them in a dark closet until everything was over.
“Hey,” Aidan said. “Are we–”
Ghost stepped in and caught them both at their napes, pulled their heads in close to his, their foreheads warm and smooth against his jaw.
Tango leaned into him.
Aidan’s breath caught on a hitch.
“Love you boys,” he said, chest tight.
“Yeah,” Aidan said, roughly.
“You too,” Tango whispered.
Then he pulled back and clapped them on the shoulder. “Let’s go.”
~*~
Cars breezed past on I-40, kicking up dust and bits of gravel, road dirt. Ghost hissed when a hot pebble bounced off his arm.
“Van,” Walsh said.
It was dark blue, wrapped in a peeling sticker for a local plumber.
“I’ve seen them on the road before,” Rottie said. “They’re legit.”
The van passed, and it was back to watching.
They’d begun the day, just after dawn, with a patrol of the city. They broke it down into quadrants, searching in groups, on the look-out for anything that struck them as odd. When they came up empty – a blessing – they took watch dog posts within each sector, and here they sat, waiting, scanning.
At this point, if something was going to happen, Ghost wanted it to go ahead and happen already.
“Hey,” Walsh said, and they all looked.
A black van, no markings, headed into Knoxville. It slowed a fraction when it drew alongside them, shifted over a lane. Then, once it was past, shifted back and headed up the exit ramp.
Ghost caught a glimpse of driver and passenger, both bearded and wearing sunglasses.
Walsh started the truck and they followed.
~*~
Maggie was in the process of nursing Ash when her phone rang. She held him steady with her left arm and dug her cell from her back pocket with the right, shifting carefully on the dorm bed so she didn’t dislodge him. The boy liked his groceries. Maybe it was silly, but she felt a moment’s self-consciousness, caught with her shirt open, in the middle of this intimate maternal moment. Whoever was on the line wouldn’t be able to see her, now, but she didn’t love the interruption.
Then she thought it might be Ghost, calling with news…or one of the other guys, calling with news about Ghost, and her blood ran cold.
“Whoever” turned out to be her mother, though.
“Mom?”
“Oh my God,” Denise said by way of greeting, voice choked with panic. “Margaret, it’s your father. I’ve called 911.”
Her stomach moved through a complex sequence of flips. “His heart?” Her own pounded wildly in her chest. Ash squirmed against her breast, fussing.
“Yes, he’s – I don’t know what’s happening. He had terrible chest pains. I called an ambulance. I didn’t know what else to do…” Denise sounded like a different person entirely, unmoored and emotional.
Maggie would have to be the calm one, she realized. In this instance, her mother couldn’t. “Okay,” she said, squashing her own panic. “Okay, that’s good. Are you en route?”
“Y-yes.”
“Good. Okay.” Jesus. “Did you bring his meds?”
“Yes.” Stronger: “Of course.”
“Okay.” She cradled Ash close, already feeling like someone had snatched him away from her. “Do you need me to come?”
“I…” Denise’s hesitance and doubt told Maggie all that she needed to know: This was bad, and her mom wanted her there. Needed her support. And then: “Please, I…”
“Okay, I’m coming.”
She hung up and sat, staring at the wall, letting Ash finish. He was a warm, solid weight in her arms. Soft. Sweet. Hers. Hers and Ghost’s. He already looked just like his daddy, she thought. Those eyebrows, the downy soft hair at his crown, the shape of his lips. He would look like his brother and sister, all the spitting image of their old man. So handsome.
When he was done, eyes closing and pink mouth going slack, she eased him up onto her shoulder, patting his back.
“My sweet little man,” she cooed into his tiny, velvet ear. “I love you so much. You have no idea.”
She found Ava in the kitchen, starting the day’s third pot of coffee. A tea kettle steamed on the stove.
Ava got one look at her face and said, “Oh no. What’s wrong?” No doubt her mind was no the boys, the club conflict.
Maggie said, “Your grandpa’s had a heart incident. Mom called an ambulance.”
“Oh shit.”
“I’m gonna join her at the hospital.”
“Mom.”
“I have to go. It’s my dad. And after I bitched about Mom not telling me last time…” Her throat was tight, eyes stinging.
Ava looked devastated. And fierce – always fierce, her girl. “Dad wouldn’t let you.”
“I know. But he’s not here.”
Ava turned away, muttering under her breath. Ghost’s offspring, through and through. When she looked back, she was resolute. “I’m going with you.”
Maggie smiled at her. “You have three babies.”
“So do you,” Ava fired back.
Maggie touched her face, cupped her cheek with one hand. “I have to do this. I’m gonna leave your little brother with you.”
Ava’s eyes glimmered. She glanced away, biting her lip. “Don’t go alone.”
“I won’t.”
Maggie reached for her the same moment Ava leaned in, and they embraced, careful of Ash between them.
“Please be careful,” Ava whispered.
“I will.”
They traded I-love-yous, and Maggie passed the baby over, heart grabbing at the sight of the two of them together.
In the common room, she was met by unhappy, but resigned expressions.
“I’m coming,” Harry said, shrugging into his jacket.
“You too, Roman,” Maggie said. What else was he doing besides staring into his coffee cup? And besides, he knew these Saints assholes. If something happened, he might prove useful.
“I’ll come too,” Kristin volunteered, to Maggie’s surprise.
She gave the girl a long look, finding her fearful, but clear-eyed.
“Okay.”
She glanced at Ava. Mercy wasn’t an officer, but every woman in the room knew who was in charge in the queen’s absence.
“Be safe,” Ava said, a wealth of unsaid cautions in her eyes.
“We will.”
~*~
The black van traveled through the heart of town, and then beyond it, toward the warehouse where Ghost had once shot at the Ryders. This fucking place, he thought, as the van swung into the parking lot.
Walsh pulled their truck over several driveways down, hands tight on the wheel. “We already checked here. They weren’t using it for storage.”
“No, but this is where Reese was hiding out,” Ghost said, gut tightening with unease.
“Which means Roman squealed to them,” Michael said, grimly, leaning in from the back seat to peer through the windshield. “Called Badger and told him where to find the kid.”
“We’ve had Reese for months,” Ghost said, frowning to himself. It was true that there was no reason for Badger’s people to know or care about this warehouse; it had been empty for decades, and save for Reese, no one had used it for anything in months. That was the problem, wasn’t it? Had Roman tipped them off? Told them where to find the kid? If so, the intel was old.
Unless.
“This is where Reese was hiding out,” he repeated. “Maybe they tracked him here somehow, before they got put away.”
It was silent a beat, and then everyone said, “Shit.”
~*~
Reese slid the cellphone from his jacket pocket and opened the contacts list. He’d stolen it from Badger before they’d left: a sleek silver iPhone 6, loaded with apps, most of which he didn’t see the value of. He’d expected, in the months to follow, that Badger would realize it was missing – humans couldn’t live without their phones for more than an hour – and have the line cancelled. But he didn’t, and that was when Reese realized Badger must be using GPS to track him. A risk, yes. But also a chance to draw them away.
Reese bought a charge chord in Arkansas, on the trip to Knoxville, and had kept the thing fully-charged ever since, plugged into an outlet at the warehouse, waiting for it to become useful.
Now, pulled over in a gas station parking lot, behind the wheel of a nondescript sedan he’d borrowed from the Lean Dogs motor pool, he found the number for Badger’s VP, Harlan.
Around him, people pumped gas, threw fast food bags in the trash, talked on their phones. A family of tourists – minivan, pillows and luggage visible through the windows – argued about which kinds of chips and candy bars to buy inside the convenience store.
Reese recognized it – the whole scene – as evidence of life. Real life. The kind of life he couldn’t remember having. But he was detached from it. Couldn’t reach it, imagine it, pretend to be part of it. His sister wanted it, she even understood it, but to him it was all window-dressing for a different kind of reality. The kind in which people breathed, and ate, and slept, and fucked, and killed one another, until their own hearts stopped. Life wasn’t an experience – it was an exercise, one that didn’t seem to have much point. There were tasks, and he completed them. At some point in the future, that would stop.
He pressed Harlan’s name and put the phone to his ear. It rang twice.
Badger’s voice answered. “There you are, shithead. Where are you?”
“I thought you knew,” Reese said. “You tracked the phone.”
“Yeah, and then you moved it.”
In retrospect, it was risky to have intentionally lured them here. At least, it put the Lean Dogs at risk. Reese didn’t want anything to happen to them, but drawing Badger to Knoxville had been personal. Maybe the first thing he’d ever done for himself. By using the warehouse, he’d lead them somewhere empty, somewhere they couldn’t hurt anyone. And now they were here, and he could put a bullet in each of them.
Badger made an impatient noise. “Cut the shit, kid. It’s time to come home.”
“I don’t have a home,” Reese said, and hung up. He tossed the phone into the garbage on top of old Burger King bags and started the car.
~*~
Roman offered, with obvious reluctance, to drive, but Maggie waved him off. The last thing she wanted right now, with her shaking hands and unsteady breath, was to surrender to someone else’s competence. She needed to keep it together, and that required she stay in control.
It was a tense, silent ride to the hospital.
In the parking lot, Harry hustled up to her door, hand resting on the butt of his gun, head on a swivel. “Stay close,” he told her, and it was a request rather than an order.
Maggie held her purse tight to her side, heavy with the weight of two guns and a knife.
Kristin kept close at her side as they walked, head down, face white, Roman right behind them.
“Thank you,” Maggie told the petrified girl. “You didn’t have to come.” And in truth, she had no idea why she had. It didn’t matter, though: she was grateful for the company.
She breathed a sigh of relief when they passed through the airlock and into the hospital. Safe for the moment.
~*~
Kris wasn’t sure why she’d offered to come. She wanted to be useful, sure, do anything to prove that she was worth keeping around. And she’d seen Ava’s face, knew the girl had wanted to come with her mother, watch out for her, keep her safe. So she could say she felt compelled to step in, serve as a disposable sort of comfort.
But it wasn’t logical. She didn’t fully understand her urge to leave the clubhouse, only that it had been overwhelming.
She suspected it had something to do with Roman, wanting to be close to him. That wasn’t logical either – she didn’t think – but it was instinctual. The moment he cut her loose from the bedpost in Badger’s dorm room was the moment some mindless part of her brain decided he was safe, good, protective.
As they walked down the long white halls, following the signs to the cardiac ward, Roman fell into step beside Kris, leaning in until their shoulders bumped, his breath hot in her ear. “Why the fuck are you here?” he hissed, angrier than she would have thought.
“Why are you?” she whispered back.
The true answer was that Maggie had asked him to come – Kris figured Maggie was banking on Roman serving as mediator if they ran into the Saints. Or sacrifice. But what Roman said was, “I owe them this. You don’t.”
“They took me in, same as you.”
“Fuck you,” he said, voice raw. “You don’t owe anyone shit.”
When she glanced his way, she found his gaze trained straight ahead, jaw clenched. Furious. Or desperate.
“Roman–”
They rounded the corner into a family waiting room and a woman turned toward them, ash-blonde, stick-thin, magazine-elegant.
“Margaret,” she gasped, tears tracking down her face, and rushed to Maggie.
Kris looked toward Roman again…but he wouldn’t look at her.
~*~
Aidan slowed the truck and looked across the cab, past Mercy and out through the passenger window toward Ghost and Maggie’s house. “Shit.” There was a black pickup in the drive, and a man in a hoodie in the shade of the porch, peering through the front windows.
“They’re looking for us,” Tango said from the back seat. Anyone who didn’t know him wouldn’t have detected the note of fear in his voice, but Aidan heard it.
“I spot four of them,” Mercy said.
Aidan did too: driver in the truck, guy on the porch, and two more creeping in the shrubs along the side of the house. He didn’t see any crowbars or hammers – no obvious tools for breaking in. This crew wasn’t out to inflict property damage.
“Ghost said not to engage,” Carter reminded.
“I know that,” Aidan said, tense with nerves. He hated adrenaline with no outlet, the way it turned his hands jittery.
He cruised past the house and turned around in a driveway a few mailboxes down. He hung back, loitering under the heavy green cover of a birch tree.
“It would be so easy,” Mercy said, almost dreamily.
Four-on-four were even, if not good odds. But throw in Mercy, and the Dogs would have the upper hand, no contest. But.
“Easy to get arrested,” Aidan said. “We stick to the plan.”
When the four Saints were back in the truck and pulling away, Aidan followed.
~*~
Four dark-clad Saints went into the warehouse and spent thirty minutes, coming back out grim-faced. Ghost knew what they’d found inside: the ratty twin mattress, case of bottled water, and pile of empty tuna cans.
“They tracked him here,” he said. “Somehow. Or else he called and told them he was here.”
“I can’t see him doing that,” Michael said. “He hates those assholes for what they did to his sister. He’s got no reason to help them.”
“Stockholm Syndrome.” Ghost shrugged. “Or maybe he’s just a good actor. Who knows.”
Michael’s expression remained unconvinced in the rearview mirror.
“As of right now, we can’t assume we can trust him,” Ghost said. He didn’t say that he felt betrayed and vaguely sick.
His cellphone blared to life in the cup holder, Tango’s name flashing across the screen. “Yeah?” he answered.
“Someone was casing your house,” Tango said, voice betraying only a touch of nerves. “Four guys, black truck. They just left.”
“You followed them?”
“Yeah. They’re headed back into town.”
“Stay on them.” His call waiting beeped. “That’s somebody else, I gotta go.”
He switched over without checking the number, expecting one of his other guys. “Yeah?”
A pause. Then: “Good morning, Ghost.” Badger.
Ghost’s hands tightened, on the phone and on the strap of his seatbelt. He pulled the cell from his ear and thumbed it onto speaker. “Good morning,” he returned, and thought his voice sounded casual. “You’ve been on the news lately. What’s that like?”
Badger chuckled. “Oh, I expect you’ll find that out for yourself soon.”
“Yeah? You think?”
“I’m counting on it.” The line went dead.
The dial tone filled the truck as Walsh piloted through the next turn, the van still in sight two cars ahead of them.
“Okay,” Walsh said. “That sounds pretty terrible.”
“He’s got some stunt planned, and we’re probably about to drive right into it,” Rottie said. “Shit.”
“Call Hound,” Ghost ordered. “Tell him to get in touch with Fielding. Drunk or not, he needs to get his ass in gear.”
His phone rang again. “Jesus.” It was Ian this time. “What?”
“Hello,” the Englishman said pleasantly. “Have you heard from our friend Badger?”
“Right before you called. I’m following four of his guys to God knows where.”
“Ah, yes, well, I believe I know where. He’s leading you to me.”
“To you?”
“Yes, to my funeral home. He’s making quite the scene. Taking my people hostage and so forth.” And that was when Ghost realized that Ian’s polite veneer was just that – a glossy covering that attempted, not quite successfully, to cover extreme emotion.
Screw saving face in front of the guys – at the end of the day, this kid was one of Ghost’s, too, and he needed somebody in this scenario to worry about him. “Ian, are you okay?”
Walsh made a surprised sound in the next seat.
Tense, furious, desperate, through clenched teeth: “He’s holding a gun to Alec’s head. So no. I’m not even a little okay.”
“Jesus. Alright. Where is he? Where’s your security?” He thought of the hulking, silent, loyal Bruce; there was no way he wouldn’t throw himself in front of a bullet for Ian or anyone Ian cared about.
Ian took a shuddering breath. “They’re all in here with me, in the building. Alec was going to surprise me with lunch – the bloody idiot. I told him to stay at home today. I–” He made a choked-off sound, a suppressed sob. “They’re in the parking lot, a dozen fucking biker cretins, and they have Alec. The second a member of my security team steps outside, they’ll paint his brains across the blacktop.”
“Shit.” He could envision the scene, the dangerous impossibility. “Try to calm down, okay? Badger’s after me and mine. He doesn’t care about hurting Alec, alright?” When we get there, he’ll turn him loose.”
“You’d better hope you’re right.” Fury that bled into terror. A jagged breath. “I…”
“It’s alright, kid. Hang tight. We’re coming.”
~*~
Sitting in the waiting room, Harry prowling at the door with his figurative hackles raised, Maggie wanted a lot of things. A cup of coffee, a glass of wine, a cigarette. Her husband’s arm around her. Her baby in her lap. Her other baby at her side, providing droll commentary. None of which she could have at the moment. But most of all she wanted – prayed – for her father to be okay, because she hadn’t finished trying to get to know him again, adult-to-adult.
Her thoughts wouldn’t hold still, flying from Ghost, to Ava, to Aidan, to Ash, her worry for her family like a second consciousness inside her head, one that wouldn’t be drowned out or silenced, no matter what was going on in the immediate vicinity.
Something cold and dry touched the back of her hand and it startled her to realize it was her mother’s hand, pale and cold as bone, shaking with emotion. Maggie twisted hers beneath it, palm-up, and laced their fingers together.
“It’s okay, Mom. He’ll be alright.” They were the only words she could offer.
Denise closed her eyes and nodded, lashes shiny with tears. “I know.” Her lips trembled. “I know.”
But they didn’t know, and that was the unbearable part.
The doctor had come by just before she went to the OR, already dressed in mint green scrubs and cap. She was optimistic, she said, but they should be prepared. She said she’d send someone to update them as soon as there was news. That had been thirty minutes ago, and since then, Maggie had tried her best to keep it together for her mom.
What they needed was a distraction.
Across from them, Kristin and Roman sat side-by-side, heads down, hands folded in their laps. At another time, Maggie would have chuckled over their mirrored posture.
Now, trying to stem her guilt over being a terrible daughter, she said the first thing that popped into her head when she looked at them. “Explain to me why you two aren’t together.”
Kristin’s head jerked up, expression stricken.
Roman said, “Fuck. You sound just like your old man, you know that?”
Denise pulled in a breath to protest – either the fuck or the old man, or maybe Roman’s tone in general.
Maggie squeezed her hand. Wait. And miraculously, she waited.
Maggie gave Roman her best Ghost impression: an unimpressed stare. She couldn’t do the single eyebrow lift, so she raised both. “That didn’t sound like an answer, Roman.”
He grumbled something under his breath and folded his arms, tucked his hands into his armpits.
“What was that?”
“What’s it to you?” he asked.
“My dad’s in surgery and I’m looking to take my mind off the fact. Sue me.”
Kris fidgeted in her chair. She looked ready to bolt.
Roman gave Maggie a flat look. “We’re just not, okay?” His tone said drop it.
“You know,” Maggie said, her anxiety finding an outlet in anger. “I don’t want to embarrass Kristin or make her uncomfortable. You, though” – she pointed at him – “you I have no qualms about.”
“That why you wanted me to come up here? Embarrass me?”
She wasn’t going to answer that in front of her mother, but she saw in his face that he didn’t need her to. She’d brought Roman along for one reason: he might serve as a good bargaining chip if they ran into the Saints. It was a long shot, but better than no shot at all.
Roman’s grin was mean. “You always were more ruthless than I gave you credit for. You and Ghost – that’s a match made in heaven, isn’t it?”
“Excuse me, young man,” Denise said. “You’d do well to keep a civil tongue in your head.” She was still trembling, still fighting fear, but some of her usual haughtiness was bleeding back to the surface.
Over in the doorway, Harry hid a smile in his hand.
“Show a lady the proper respect,” Denise continued. “Honestly, you bikers all need to take etiquette classes.” She gave a decisive nod, pleased with her reprimand.
Roman stared at her, dumbfounded. “Yes, ma’am.”
Kristin popped to her feet, cheeks scarlet, and hurried to the vending machines in the corner. She made no move to buy anything; stood staring at the candy bar selection, hugging herself.
After a few minutes, Maggie let go of her mother’s hand and stood. “Be right back.”
She watched Kristin’s reflection in the glass as she approached, saw the pinched brows, the lip drawn between her teeth.
“Candy craving?” Maggie asked, drawing up beside her, a dollar held out in offering.
Kristin didn’t take it. Low, forcing Maggie to lean in close to hear, she said, “It’s my fault.” Her face was a jumble of guilt, fear, and sadness. “I’m sorry.”
“What’s your fault?”
“Why we’re not…” She bit her lip so hard it went white. “I know Roman wants…but I’m not…”
“Honey,” Maggie said, filled with sympathy. “That’s not something you need to feel sorry about. You don’t owe a man that. Nobody does.”
“I care about him,” she whispered.
“Of course you do.” Maggie her arm across her shoulders; they were shaking. “He’s been really good to you.” And he had; she didn’t like him, but she gave Roman credit for getting Kris and Reese away from the Saints. He couldn’t be irredeemable after something like that. Unless…
“He’s not pressuring you, is he?”
“No,” Kristin said. “No, he’d never. He’s…” She sighed. “I don’t know,” she said, miserable. “I want to make him happy. I know he’s not.”
Maggie wanted to tell her that Roman Mayer had never been happy, probably not at any point in his fifty-plus years of life. She said, “Is that why you came today? You wanted to make him happy?”
Her eyes cut over, white-rimmed, frightened. “I’m afraid Badger’s gonna attack the clubhouse. I didn’t want to be there.” Shame-faced, embarrassed. “I’m sorry.”
Maggie sighed. “You don’t have to be sorry for that either.”
~*~
Three trucks full of Dogs pulled up to Ian’s funeral home headquarters to find the parking lot full of vans and bikes, with not a customer in sight. That at least was a blessing.
A loose knot of men stood inside a ring of vehicles. Even before he got out of the truck, Ghost could see Alec, the standout figure, in stylish shirt and slacks, his hair shiny with product, his glasses reflecting the afternoon sun. One glimpse of his face was enough to feel his terror, feel a sympathetic lurch in his chest.
“Shit,” Ghost said. Then, to the others in the truck: “Priority one is getting this kid away from them. After that, anything goes. I want Badger. I wanna watch him kick off myself.” And get him to explain why the hell he was doing all this.
“Yeah,” Walsh said.
Michael cracked his knuckles.
~*~
The shame of it was, once upon a time, Vince had loved his job. The idea of it, at any rate. He’d come from a kind family, if not a wealthy one. A law-abiding, play-by-the-rules family. College was never an option with his budget, but law enforcement had called to him. His city, though beautiful and bountiful, had a dark element. A seedy underbelly that grew, unchecked and violent, beneath the city’s football-loving, college-bound surface. A dark element he’d witnessed firsthand on a sidewalk outside Bell Bar, when a sly and wicked biker stole Maggie Lowe right out from under him. A biker who continued to haunt his every step.
There hadn’t been a single night since it happened that he hadn’t dreamed of the day he shot Amy Richards. He saw it vividly, the way she crumpled, heard the startled, breathy gasp as the bullet pierced her body. Not dreams, but nightmares, the kind that sent him lurching awake in the dead of night, nauseous, sweaty, heart trying to beat its way through his ribs. Nightmares that had him reaching for the bottle again and again.
He was Ghost Teague’s bitch these days. That in and of itself wasn’t the shameful part – it was the fact that he deserved to be. He’d toed the line every step of the way, his whole life, justified in his sense of superiority. Every day…until that day with Amy.
Turned out he was just as fallible and wicked as the rest of the world. Knoxville was crumbling, diseased at the roots. There was nothing he could do at this point, save try and tamp down some of Ghost’s collateral damage.
At least, that was what he’d told himself yesterday, deep in the bottle. Ghost being a righteous prick, like he had any kind of moral credibility.
But today, with the blinds open, his head pounding, painfully sober, he acknowledged that he couldn’t look at morality as two discreet categories. Good vs. Bad wasn’t a line, but a sliding scale, one on which he no longer knew his place. He knew from devils, though. In this case, the one he knew was the one to back. No matter how much he hated the sight of the bastard’s face.
His office door was flung open, startling him from his web search, revealing an equally-startled Officer Parsons.
“Sir, there’s something happening at the hospital.”
His phone rang on his hip, and it read LDMC. The clubhouse was calling.
~*~
The man holding a gun on Alec was tall and broad, padded with layers of fat, his beard going gray. A no-neck thug with ham hands and the blank look of someone who didn’t care about the outcome so long as he got the chance to shoot somebody.
He was one of fifteen, not counting Badger, all of them bristling with weapons and bulky with flak vests.
In their midst, Alec looked pale and fragile as china.
Ghost halted and propped his hands on his hips, his boys fanning out on either side of him. He knew they made a ridiculous tableau. Like West Side Story or some shit.
Except his heart was pounding and his palms were clammy.
“Hey, Alec,” he said, tone gentle. “Hold on, okay? We got you.”
“Look at that,” Badger said. “You’re all worried about the little fairy. Do you and the redhead take turns?”
“You’re the one who’s been in lockup,” Ghost said. “Maybe you could gimme some pointers.”
Badger grinned. “Christ, you’re an asshole.”
“Yep. What’s with the Mexican standoff, Badger? You busted out just to come insult me?”
“You have something of mine and I want it back. You won’t give it back, so I thought I’d come pay your sugar daddy a visit. And look what we stumbled upon.” He jerked his head toward Alec. “I told you,” he said, tone devolving, taking on a desperate edge. “All you had to do was cooperate.” Eyes flashing, white around the edges. Composure unraveling like old rope.
Shit, Ghost realized. This was a man who was out of options. Always the most dangerous kind.
But this wasn’t an area in which he was willing to negotiate. He’d wavered, once before, when Michael brought Holly into their midst. Maybe having another baby had softened him, but he knew he wouldn’t make the same decision, if he could go back and do it again. And he wouldn’t make it now, not when the stolen lives of innocents were at risk. If he was going to be the patron saint of the victims of the world, then so be it. He could live with that title.
“You’re not getting your pets back,” he told Badger. “That girl–”
“Fuck the girl,” Badger snarled. “She’s just the kill switch. Where’s Reese?”
Ghost shook his head. “No idea. I don’t have him on a leash like you did. Why would I? Has this whole stunt really been about one boy? You’d wreck your whole club just to get him back?”
“If you’d put him through his paces, you’d understand.”
Ghost said, “You started a war over a hit man?”
Badger coughed an ugly laugh. “Reese knows fifteen different ways to kill a man with his bare hands. He speaks fluent Spanish and French. He can break into any kind of lock. He’s not some thug with a sledgehammer” – derisive snort aimed at Mercy – “He’s James Bond and a trained sniper in a ninja’s body. The perfect operative.”
“Except for the part where instead of sniping terrorists, he does your dirty work.”
Badger took an aggressive step forward – collective tightening of the ranks on both sides in response – and leaned into his face. Ghost heard the rustles and clicks of guns being drawn.
“Get out of my face.”
A vein throbbed in Badger’s temple; his face colored. “I paid a hundred grand for that little monster. Give him back.”
“I don’t make deals with slaveowners,” Ghost said.
Badger nodded and stepped back. “Alright. Okay.” He exhaled loudly through his nose, shaking his head. “Remember this conversation. When this city – when every city – turns on you? Remember you had a chance to stop this.”
“Stop it? Like you aren’t trying to push my club out with your own?”
Badger grinned, manic, unhinged. “Yeah, well, I am the one with the hostage–”
The crack of a gunshot echoed across the parking lot. Just as it registered, Ghost heard a familiar pulpy thump.
The big man holding a gun on Alec tipped forward, boneless, and fell face-down on the asphalt like a tree, the side of his head blown out, watermelon-red.
A sniper.
There was a goddamn sniper.
Someone with training. Someone who’d cost Badger a hundred grand.
In the fraction of a second it took for the man to fall, Ghost made a snap decision he hoped he wouldn’t regret later. He hoped Reese was on their side, and that he would lay down cover. He needed him to, at this point.
Silence rang for one beat in the wake of the shot, everyone stunned. And then pandemonium.
Ghost dove for Alec, grabbed him by the front of the shirt and dragged him to the ground, shielding him with his own body. “Stay down.” He put a hand on top of his head; he’d fold him up and put him in his pocket if he could. He couldn’t stomach bystander casualties right now.
He cast a wild glance over his shoulder as more shots cracked across the lot. Some of the Saints had their guns drawn, but most were ducking behind vans and running for cover.
Ghost spotted Mercy at his back, firing at the corner of a van, providing cover.
He also spotted Badger making a break for it around the side of the building.
“Merc! Get Alec inside.” He was going after Badger himself.
~*~
Maggie shifted in her chair and tried to hide a wince. She’d pumped that morning, so Ava had bottles for Ash, but she was starting to feel full and tender. Whatever Ghost and the boys were doing, she hoped they got things wrapped up soon, or an armed escort was going to have to bring Ash to her.
As the minutes ticked by, Denise became more nervous, and therefore more short-tempered. She was pacing now, fanning her face with a heart surgery pamphlet. “Honestly, Margaret, this security detail business is ridiculous. Why don’t you send these clowns home?”
“No offense,” Maggie said to Harry and Roman. Both of them shrugged. “Mom, why don’t you let Harry go get you some coffee?” Secretly, she thought caffeine would only make things worse, but Denise couldn’t berate them all while she was drinking.
“I already told you, I–”
A loud crack of sound echoed from down the hall. Muffled by doors and walls, but nonetheless distinctive.
It sounded again. And then again.
Gunshots.
Maggie traded quick glances with Harry, Roman, and Kristin, all of them snapping to immediate attention. Kristin’s eyes widened and flooded with fear.
Maggie’s heart jumped up into her throat and she tried to swallow it back down. Panicking solved nothing.
The sound of screams reached them, uneven and faint.
Harry pulled his .45. “Time to go.”
“Yeah.” Maggie stood and reached into her purse to check her own gun. Guns – plural.
“What?” Denise asked, head whipping left and right. “What’s going on?” Color draining out of her face, hands shaking.
Maggie took her arm in a firm grip. “Mom, we have to go.”
“Go? What? We can’t leave your father? What are you talking about?”
“Dad’s still in the OR.” And he wasn’t the target anyway. “We’ve got to get out of the hospital for a little bit.” A thought occurred, one she didn’t like, but voiced anyway. “Well, I do. You could stay here. They’re not–”
“They’re after me,” Kris said, squeezing her eyes shut, taking a deep, gasping breath. “Oh God. I’m sorry. They’re after me, they need me to control Reese, and–”
“Stop,” Roman said, stepping up beside her, hand landing on her shoulder. “This is not your fault.” It was said with such feeling that Maggie wished – in a part of her brain that wasn’t in full emergency mode – that the two of them could take a moment to reassure one another, address the way they each cared so much about the other.
But she said, “Not important right now. Everybody, time to move. Stay close.” With her free hand, she reached for Kris. “Harry, lead the way.”
“Yes, ma’am.” He stepped out in the hall and did a scan, waved for them to follow.
The din was louder outside the waiting room, a tangle of crashes, shouts, and screams. Coming closer every second.
“Move,” Harry said, setting off at a jog in the opposite direction.
“Come on.” Maggie urged the other women, towing them along. Please, she prayed, unspecified begging. Just please.
Roman fell in behind them and they moved, Harry setting a fast pace.
Denise panted and gasped, shuffling along as fast as she could in her patent mules.
Kris chanted “Oh God, oh God” under her breath.
They passed a nurse’s station, and the nurse’s call of, “Excuse me, you can’t–” turned into a shocked yelp.
Maggie heard the slap of footsteps closing in behind them. “Take the stairs,” she called to Harry.
Behind them: the crashing of carts and gurneys overturning, angry guttural shouts of the attackers, more panicked yelling of hospital staff and patients.
A chunk of wall exploded above their heads.
“Shit!”
Denise screamed.
Kristin clutched Maggie’s arm hard enough to bruise it.
Maggie shook her off and glanced back over her shoulder, her vision unsteady as she ran. The man coming around the corner, who’d just shot at them, was wearing a ski mask…and a Lean Dogs cut. It was a crudely done counterfeit, obvious to her from a stolen glance, but the civilians around them wouldn’t know that. To them, it would appear like a bunch of Lean Dogs had come in and started shooting up the place.
Jesus.
It was the perfect plan to ruin their standing in the city…and maybe commit a murder in the process.
Roman raised his gun to return fire. Nurses shrieked.
“Not in here!” Maggie grabbed the back of his shirt and tugged, just as another shot tore out a fresh chunk of sheetrock. “Come on!”
They barreled into the stairwell and started down at a dead run.
Denise stumbled, gasping, crying.
“It’s okay,” Maggie lied, holding her around the waist, helping her along. “Just keep going. It’ll be fine.”
They rushed down one flight, two, three, were headed for the exit when she heard someone thundering down after them two flights up.
Shit, shit, shit, shit.
Harry punched through the door and they staggered into the blinding sunlight of the parking lot.
Maggie had the absurd out of place thought that it was a truly gorgeous day.
“Get to cover,” Harry said, he and Roman setting up at the end of a parked car, guns trained on the door.
Maggie spotted an ambulance parked at the curb and ducked around it, towing her mom and Kris with her. Denise was past the point of speaking, clinging to Maggie like a child.
Maggie pulled her phone out and her sweat-damp fingers fumbled across the screen, trying to call Ava so she could sound the alarm at home. She could hear sirens in the distance, approaching…and the clang of the door opening. Followed by a rapid barrage of shots.
Her brain tried to fly into full-on panic, a desperate, chemical reaction, nerves singing. Get away, get away. But years of self-control pulled her back on track. She could panic later. Right now, she slid her phone away, call not made, and listening as bullets pinged off cars and concrete. She had to figure out how many men they were dealing with, and if the boys were okay.
She dropped to her hands and knees, leaning low to peer under the ambulance. She saw five sets of boots: Harry and Roman behind the car, and three attackers.
Several more shots popped off, and then a body hit the ground. Harry, clutching his arm. Alive for the moment.
Maggie pulled her Glock from her bag as she stood, one smooth movement.
“No!” Denise hissed.
She waved for her mom to hold back and rounded the back of the ambulance. She saw one of the fake Dogs go down, shot by Roman. The remaining two appeared to be out of ammo, reaching for extra mags in their pockets.
In a flash of sudden movement, the one closest to Roman dropped his gun and charged.
Roman squeezed off a shot, but the attacker knocked his arm, sending the round up into the air. The momentum of the tackle knocked Roman to the ground. Maggie saw the flash of a knife.
The other attacker leveled his gun on Harry.
And Maggie put two neat rounds through his torso.
Textbook shots. He collapsed, spitting blood, both lungs punctured.
The man with the knife twisted to look toward the sound of gunshots.
Maggie stepped over the one she’d shot, pausing to shoot him again, right in the heart, and then aimed at the knife-wielder’s head.
“Drop it.”
He did.
She shot him anyway.
He went limp on top of Roman, landing with his head pillowed on Roman’s chest. Maggie would have laughed if circumstances were different.
She scanned the lot around them, searching for and not finding any additional threats. The sirens were on top of them now, patrol cars screeching into the parking lot up front. They’d be back here soon.
Harry sat up, still holding his arm. “I’m alright?” he said. “Just need a few stitches.”
She turned back to Roman, who was in the process of rolling the fake Dog off himself with a grimace.
“You okay?” she asked.
He patted down his t-shirt, hand coming away red. His face was pale, and going paler. “Yeah, not really.”
~*~
Ghost heard shouts, scuffles, and gunshots around him, but his world was narrowed down to one thing: getting to Badger. The bastard wasn’t going to live to make anyone’s life more difficult. Not a chance.
He thanked God he’d been working out more and laying off the smokes, because his body responded when he pushed it, sprinting for the side of the building, the narrow alley between the perimeter wall and the brick façade of the funeral home. Badger was a big man, and no doubt strong, but Ghost was leaner, faster. He caught him as Badger was trying to find hand- and toe-holds along the back of the wall, trapped at a dead end beside the dumpsters.
Ghost grabbed him by the jacket and dragged him back, threw him down on the pavement. He kicked him in the nuts, hard – Badger curled up and gagged – and pulled one of his Colts.
The urge to pull the trigger was staggering in its intensity. This man had was a threat to his family – his blood family and club family, all the men and women and children who relied on his leadership to keep them safe and financially stable. So it wasn’t guilt that stayed his hand, but doubt. A touch of fear. The lingering worry that he still didn’t understand this whole Dark Saints/Roman situation.
“Why do you want Reese so bad?” he asked. “You gonna take over a third world country or something?”
It was amazing how powerless a man looked when he was down on the ground. Badger had his legs drawn up, red-faced, panting. “Go to hell,” he gasped.
“Yeah, sure. Not yet though. What were you trying to do?”
“Fuck you,” Badger said. And then, like a dam breaking: “Fuck you, asshole! Like you don’t fucking know! You and your fucking empire. The rest of us don’t have uncles who leave us clubs. We scrap for every damn bit of real estate we have, and it’s still not enough. It’ll never be enough, because you fucking Dogs squeeze everyone else out!”
Ghost said, “What?”
“You don’t get to own the whole damn world, Ghost. I won’t let you.”
“That…is the stupidest damn shit I’ve ever heard.” He laughed. “What, you want a piece? You were gonna use your walking weapon to pick apart the Dogs so you can be the big bad outlaw boss? I gotta tell you, man, that plan was doomed from the start. And this? This is just sad.”
He felt a sudden sharp pain across his arm, like a bee sting. Snapped his head up and saw one of Badger’s men at the end of the alley, already lining up another shot.
Ghost dove for the ground.
And Badger rolled toward him.
Shit.
In a flurry of hands, and elbows, and knees, Ghost’s head cracked back against the pavement. His hand came open in the struggle, and his gun slid away – a terrifying clatter. Badger loomed over him, wicked edge of a knife catching the light.
He was right: Badger was strong, and heavier too.
Ghost threw a sharp right that connected with his jaw. Pain in his hand. Grunt from Badger. He listened for another shot, but it never came.
“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.