Page 11 of American Hellhound
A hot, sudden surge of anger propelled Ghost forward. He tapped Mercy in the chest with two fingers as he passed. “Come with me, not-favorite son-in-law. You might have to bodily remove an officer from the premises.”
“That hurts,” Mercy said, but fell in behind him.
Fielding’s cruiser was parked beside Maggie’s car and Ava’s truck, like itbelongedthere or some shit. Ghost tried to tell himself that his anger was irrational – and it was, he knew that – but every time he blinked, he saw Maggie looking green and weak this morning. Seeing her sick felt likehis ownflank was wounded; like an integral part of his wall was damaged. She was his weak spot. And the thing about predators – they’d protect their weak spots to the death. Hehatedthe idea of Fielding being in the same room with her when she wasn’t at the top of her game. Even if Ava was there…and that was nothing to sneeze at. Mags was a rock. Ava was a loaded gun with the safety off.
The office door was open and through it Ghost could see Maggie and Ava sitting on opposite sides of the desk, Fielding standing over them with the end of his tie in his hands, head lowered.
“Vince,” Ghost said as he entered, and the man jerked, startled. “I’m assuming you’re here because you have answers.”
The man looked decidedly guilty as he turned to face him. “Well, that’s what I was just explaining to Maggie–”
“Right. Because you thought it was appropriate to talk club business with my old lady.”
Fielding drew his shoulders up, taking the comment for the veiled threat that it was. “I was just–”
“Merc, escort the good lieutenant outside, would you?”
With a scowl and a muttered curse, Fielding didn’t wait to be “escorted,” striding out of the office with his head down.
Mercy sighed. “I never get to have any fun.”
His boys spotted him with happy shouts of “Daddy!” and Ghost left him to it, following the cop out into the parking lot.
Fielding slouched against the side of his cruiser and dug into a pocket for a pack of smokes and a cheap gas station lighter. Ghost caught the faint tremor in his hand as he lit up and took his first drag, and some of his ire faded. The man was an absolute wreck of a human being these days, and Ghost knew it was his fault.
He propped a hip against the driver door of the cruiser. “You don’t look so hot, Vince. You getting enough sleep?”
Fielding snorted and didn’t answer. “Who’s after you this time, Ken?” he asked instead, taking another deep drag. He stared ahead, toward the clubhouse. Walsh was sitting out front, tapping on his laptop and having another cup of coffee, hair golden in the morning light. Ghost had no doubt he was trying to read their lips from a distance.
“If I knew who it was,” Ghost said, aiming for mild, “I’d already have done something about it. Don’t you think?”
“I think your whole life is one stupidass bar fight after the next.” His gaze came to Ghost’s face, tired and haunted. “I think you’re a worthless, self-inflated thug who’s gonna get this whole city killed one of these days. Don’t take this the wrong way, but I hate your fucking guts.”
Ghost felt a smile tugging at his mouth. “Believe me, I’m not a fan of yours either.”
Fielding sucked down the last of his cig and ground it out beneath the heel of his boot. “So who is it this time?”
“Dunno.” Ghost sighed. “Might be an old rival. Might be somebody new.”
Over at the picnic table, Walsh kept sneaking covert glances at them over his laptop screen.
“That’s the problem with being on top of the pile,” he continued. “Someone always wants to knock you off.”
“Yeah, well, PD doesn’t care if you get knocked off. They’re not gonna pursue this if they think it’s just another club war. They’ll let you guys tear yourselves to pieces, and just send the body bags when the dust settles.”
“Good to know.”
Four
“Okay, you can go ahead and sit up for me.”
Maggie pulled her feet out of the stirrups and sat up, smoothing the crinkly paper gown across her lap. Her stomach seemed to shiver, a deep inner chill that had nothing to do with the overeager air conditioning in the exam room.
“Well, doc?” she asked, and missed the joking tone she’d shot for.
She’d been seeing her gyno, Dr. Martin, since just after Ava was born, and never before had Maggie been nervous in the woman’s presence. Dr. Martin seemed to sense that, shooting Maggie a fast, but warm smile before she went back to the chart, scribbling notations. “Your at-home test was correct. Congratulations: you’re pregnant.”
Maggie let out a deep breath, shoulders sagging. “Okay.”
