Page 14 of American Hellhound
The cigarette hit the pavement, a tiny shower of sparks.
“Okay, so,” Roman said. “You’ve got a shitstorm brewing.”
Ghost’s pulse accelerated. But he said, “And you know this how?”
“Just because you run the underworld doesn’t mean you hear all the gossip.” He reached into his back pocket and Ghost’s hand spasmed. He was fully prepared to shoot the man at this point. But Roman pulled out a folded and crumpled piece of paper, rather than a weapon of his own. “Here.” He held it out to Ghost. “This is an email I got a few weeks ago.”
A part of him didn’t want to take it; it felt like some kind of capitulation to entertain a request as simple as reading an email. It was childish, Ghost knew, his hatred of Roman, but it was the way he felt all the same. He couldn’t will it away.
There was just enough light to read what he quickly realized was a recruitment message. A club that fancied themselves the Dark Saints. They were searching for new members who had “experience with firearms,” were “accomplished riders,” and who “prided loyalty above everything else.” It was a shockingly well-written message given that it had been put out by an outlaw. Ghost hadn’t found a whole lot of literacy among clubs, other than his own.
“Never heard of these guys,” he said, trying to hand the email back.
Roman waved him off. “You keep that. Give the addresses to your tech guy.”
Ghost frowned. “Why should I care what some other club’s doing?”
Roman folded his arms and braced his feet apart in a pose that meant he intended to stay a while. “The Saints ain’t exactly new,” he started. “They’ve been around about five years now. Got their start in Denver and they’ve been expanding, slowly, one chapter at a time, making their way east.”
“How many chapters?”
“Seven. And they’re recruiting – obviously.”
“Recruitingwhere?”
“Anywhere that can support a chapter. But I happen to know they’re setting one up here.”
“There’s not another club in Knoxville, I’d know about it.”
“Not Knoxville. Spring City.”
“There ain’t shit in Spring City.”
“Yeah, well, now there’s a chapter of the Dark Saints there.”
Ghost felt a stab of betrayal. How had no one in his circle of brothers, dealers, and rats thought to tell him there was a new club setting up shop just beyond their borders?
Then a more frightening thought occurred: no one had known about it.
“What are they selling?” he asked, voice a snarl.
“Mostly prescription pain meds. Heavy duty shit.”
Something Ghost’s crew didn’t sell; there was a market. Scripts were the fastest-growing sector of the drug trade.
“They’re intentionally laying low,” he said. “Because either they don’t want any trouble from us…”
“Or they want to get their arsenal built up before the trouble starts,” Roman finished. “Good guesses, both.”
Ghost took a step back. “So let’s say any of what you just told me is true. Why would you come give me a heads-up?”
“Seemed like the friendly thing to do.”
“Try again.”
For the first time, Roman’s self-satisfied smile slipped a little. “I want back in.”
“In?”
