Page 165 of American Hellhound
His heart lurched. “Shit.”
True fear began to overtake her face. “Ghost, who is it?”
“A buncha inbred banjo players who” – and the thought occurred to him them, truly terrifying – “would probably like to take a turn on a Dog’s old lady. So get down and stay down. Don’t let them see you.”
“Ghost–”
He knelt down and pulled up the leg of his jeans, movements jerky and hasty. He carried a .22 in holster stashed down the shaft of his boot and he pulled it out. “Here.”
Her eyes were shadow-colored in this dim light, huge and wild. “I don’t know how to shoot.”
“It’s easy. Pull the hammer back with your thumb, hold with both hands, aim, pull the trigger.” He thrust the little revolver into her hands. “Don’t use it if you don’t have to, and let ‘em get right up on top of you. Six shots. Don’t miss.”
“Ghost,” she pleaded, eyes slick, hands trembling as she reluctantly took the gun.
“Stay low.” His heart was thundering in his ears, louder than the sound of the crowd below, than Collier shouting for him. “Roman, get out!” he called over the railing, then pointed to the dark doorway of a bedroom. “Mags, go, wait for me to come get you.”
She stared at him, chest heaving.
“Mags,please. Just do it. I can’t let something happen to you.”
The sound of his pleading seemed to snap her out of it. She managed a nod. “Yeah, yeah, okay. So don’t let it.” She slipped into the shadow.
It was a monstrous effort, leaving her up there, shifting gears, but he managed, pounding back down the stairs. He itched to pull his Colt, but waited. The last few kids were leaving, footfalls and voices fading down the back hallway.
“Roman?” he asked Collier.
“Gone.” Collier drew his piece. “Where do you want me?”
“There, that front room. Come in behind them when they get in and we’ll pull a pincher move on them.”
Collier tipped his head in acknowledgement. “Let’s try not to be Rommel in this scenario, yeah?”
“Yeah.”
His heartbeat was a kettle drum in his chest.Stay down, stay down, stay downhe willed Maggie upstairs. And he threw in a prayer to boot.
Six men entered through the front door, walking slowly, taking their time to spill into the ballroom and take up position across from Ghost. He recognized Neil. Noted the bulges of guns in Carhartt jacket pockets.
One was older than the others, heavyset, his square jaw gone to jowls. Like the others, he had a bad hairline and sunburn, dirty jeans and narrow pig eyes.
He spat on the floor and said, “Where’s Duane?”
“He sent me,” Ghost said. “I’m his nephew.”
“Yeah. Ghost. I know who you are.”
He had to be careful here. What he wanted to do was open fire on these assholes – surge of adrenaline and anger in his veins, the soldier’s instinct to eliminate the enemy before they could eliminate you – but he was outmanned. And his girl was upstairs, waiting for him. Giving him a reason to end this peaceably.
“And who are you?” he asked, as respectfully as he could manage.
The man grunted, and didn’t look like he would answer. His boys shifted, gazes moving around the room, the decorations, the abandoned beer keg. But he said, “Joe Ryder.”
“Alright, Joe. I take it you’re the man in charge, yeah?”
“What’s it to you? I ain’t here to talk.”
“Well, now, don’t be hasty.” He shot the group a smile and deliberately relaxed his posture. “I think talking could do us both some good.”
