Page 4 of The Ghost of Rage's War

It had been five days since Ghost had been shot, and he was getting ready to move him to a safe house. Rage had held a funeral this morning for Ghost even though they didn’t have his body. Anderson believed Michaelson had assumed that Bulldog had stolen and buried it somewhere unknown. Anderson had claimed Ghost’s belongings, including the bike Ghost insisted on keeping.

The war was heating up between Bulldog and Michaelson, although further bodies had yet to fall. Drake was hunting down any leads he could find. Several snitches had disappeared, and Anderson felt that Rage had taken them. Michaelson was rabid for Bulldog’s blood, or so the word on the street said.

As much as Anderson understood Michaelson’s actions, a part of him was mollified that Michaelson was seeking vengeance for his sibling. Even though he couldn’t condone it.

Anderson had an SUV waiting for Ghost outside a side door. He was taking his younger brother to a safehouse near Hot Springs, SD, to recover.

Ghost was moving slowly, but the hospital had agreed he could leave. Ghost had stayed in a private room since the surgery, with a guard constantly posted. Only a select few had been allowed access in case Rage or someone else got wind Ghost was alive.

Ghost had to remain dead for the plan to work. Otherwise, it would be all for nothing. Anderson hadn’t even been able to tell his own partner. He didn’t know who the hell he could trust and who he couldn’t. Ghost needed to stay protected, and Anderson was the one to ensure that.

As much as he wanted Manticore brought down, Ghost was his little brother. Fuck their parents, Anderson had always looked out for Ghost and wasn’t about to stop. Ghost was dressing as he scoped out the hospital path they were taking. Assured it was safe, Anderson returned to Ghost, who was sitting on the bed looking grumpy.

“Is all this cloak and dagger shit necessary?” he demanded.

Anderson raised an eyebrow and threw a baseball cap at Ghost.

Ghost took one look at it and howled. “I’m not wearing that!” he hissed.

“Put it on!” Anderson taunted.

“Fuck no!”

“Put the damn cap on and keep it low,” Anderson repeated and crossed his arms.

“Put a bullet in me now!”

“Don’t tempt me.” Anderson shoved the hat on Ghost’s head.

Ghost’s hands immediately shot to tear it off. “I hate this fucking team,” Ghost snapped as Anderson smacked his hand away.

“Exactly. Everyone knows you loathe them, in fact, you would light them on fire if you could get away with it. So why would anyone believe you’d wear one?” Anderson retorted and helped Ghost into the wheelchair.

“That’s another thing. I can fuckin’ walk out of here,” Ghost snarled.

“Two to the chest, one to the shoulder, and a gut shot. You can’t even shit on your own, brother,” Anderson said glibly.

He handed Ghost a pillow to hug to his chest as Ghost went puce with anger, and Anderson grinned. Job done.

Before Ghost could kick off, Anderson wheeled him out into the corridor. The agent guarding the door fell in beside them, and they headed towards the SUV. As soon as he had got Ghost inside and settled, he hit the driver’s seat and pulled out.

Ghost was pale when they arrived at the safehouse. Anderson had tried to avoid potholes, but there were always some. He gave his baby brother his due;Ghost had barely whimpered, but his pallor proved how much pain he was in.

“Come on, Brock,” Anderson said gently. He knew Ghost was hurting when he didn’t argue about the name.

“Mom and Dad been told?” Ghost asked.

“That you are alive? No. They believe you’re dead. But they were told you died trying to save someone. I couldn’t let them bitch about you, bro,” Anderson answered as they trudged into the house. Only Anderson knew their location. He’d rented it for three months under an alias he had bought off the black market. And it was a damn good cover.

“I’m sure that warmed their hearts,” Ghost bitched as they headed for the sofa.

Anderson gently lowered Ghost down and handed him a bottle of water and some painkillers.

Ghost gulped two instantly. “Guess I don’t get the good shit anymore,” he complained.

“Yeah, you do. That was oral morphine you just swallowed, bro. I guessed you’d need it after having your chest cracked open,” Anderson said.

“Try coughing when you’ve had that done,” Ghost retorted.

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