Page 113 of American Hellhound
He let go of Justin and put his hand on the butt of the Colt in his waistband, hanging back from the light.
Roman, though, stepped right between the beams, blue-white all over, and swung his pack down. “Gentleman,” he said with a showman’s bow, “I come bearing narcotics.”
“You got the coke?” one of the four asked. Deep drawl, definitely a Ryder.
Ghost became aware of Neil standing behind him. He swore he could hear Roman roll his eyes.
“Uh, yeah, that would be the narcotics.”
The drag of the backpack’s zipper was too loud, echoing off the brick and concrete.
Ghost slowed his breathing andlistened, straining.
Shuffle of Roman’s hands in the bag.
Justin’s labored breathing as he fought his drunkenness.
Skitter of a rat on the floor above.
Rustle of fabric – behind him, Neil.
Click of a safety – in front of him. One of the men in front of Roman.
There was a chance these rednecks were quick on the draw. But they weren’t Army, and they weren’t Ghost Teague.
He had a fraction of a second to make a decision, and hesitation would kill a man in these scenarios. Ghost drew his Colt and threw himself on top of Roman. He grabbed him around the shoulders and rolled. They had to get out of the light, out of the light,out of the light. And just as they did, one of the men fired.
Crack of a gun, ping of the round hitting concrete. Justin yelled.
“Get down!” Ghost shouted toward James, and then he had to worry about himself – and Roman, grudgingly – because they were still too close for comfort.
Roman sputtering a protest, he shoved him between two stacks of plastic chairs and urged him on, foot sliding in grease on the floor, dust from the furniture filling his mouth as he sucked in a breath. Another shot cracked off behind them, and Ghost shoved Roman hard in the back. He hissed in response, but finally got his feet under him and moved on his own, ducked down low, a hump-backed shape in the gloom.
Ghost followed, gun in one hand, the other ahead of him, feeling for the edges of desks and tables so he didn’t crash into them. Johnson & Sons had produced handbags once upon a time; this must have been where all the office furniture from their various buildings had come to die. There were rolling chairs, more stacked chairs, file cabinets, massive desks with footwells beneath, and countless wooden tables. They skittered like rats, listening to irate shouts and shuffling footfalls somewhere behind them, gaining ground by the second. The Ryders weren’t smart, and now Ghost knew they weren’t fast either.
Finally, Roman stopped and Ghost ran into him. They were jumbled up behind a massive file cabinet. Ghost could smell the fear-sweat on his club brother.
“What the fuck is this?” Roman whispered.
In the dark, Ghost could just make out the wild shine of his eyes.
“Your goddamn buyers are trying to kill us,” Ghost whispered back. “That’s what.”
“They’re not mine! This was Duane.”
“Nice, Uncle, real nice. You always gotta get someone else to do your dirty work,” Ghost said to himself.
“What?”
“The part I don’t get is why he set this up with you here. He likesyou.”
“What are you talking about?”
Ghost ignored him, instead eased to his feet so he could peek around the edge of the cabinet. Five silhouettes stood in front of the flashlight setup. The Ryders weren’t chasing them because they had Justin, a sixth shadow slumped at their feet.
“Goddamnit.”
A laugh floated through the factory. “We got your friend!” one of them called. “And your drugs.”
