Page 166 of American Hellhound
The man’s expression hardened. “Your crew dropped three of my boys. I ain’t got shit to say to you.”
“My condolences. I’m deeply sorry about the loss of your men. But now,” he said, when Joe started to interrupt, “you gotta see it from our perspective. We go out on two separate deals, making regular drug drops, and we get shot at. Out of the blue, no warning, we didn’t do anything, just.” He made a gun with his fingers. “What’s a guy supposed to do when someone opens fire on him? Get shot? Throw down the drugs and run? C’mon, Joe, you know that’s not how the Dogs operate. That’s not how any crew worth its salt reacts, including yours. The underworld is the Wild West, my friend, and anyone who shot at us knew that full well going into it, before he pulled the trigger. We shot back. Yeah. Okay. I’m sorry it had to be that way, but that’s how it works.
“Like I said: I’m sorry about your boys. Truly I am. But I don’t see why we have to add to the body count. Not when we could work something else out.”
Joe snorted. “The only reason you ain’t full of holes right now is because I already worked something out –with Duane.”
“I see.” He was starting to, at least.
“I want Roman,” he said. “I told Duane if you gave him up, I’ll let the rest of you walk.”
“How generous of you,” Ghost said. “Why Roman?”
Some of the boys shifted forward, restless, darting questioning looks to their boss. None of them had anticipated any backtalk.
“What?” Joe asked, scowling.
“You want Roman,” Ghost said, shooting for reasonable. “And sure, he’s a good choice. He’s a shitheel, and nobody’ll miss him. But why do you want him specifically?” When Ghost had been the one to kill at least two of the slain Ryders.
“Roman knows what he did,” Joe said.
“He had dealings with you, then?”
“Cut the shit, kid. Where is he?”
Ghost’s thoughts spun. Duane had talked about Roman going behind his back, trying to make bad deals with gangs, other clubs, but he hadn’t relayed any of the specifics.
“Roman promised you something,” he said, realization dawning. “And he didn’t deliver; he double-crossed you. That first night, out at that house in the woods – your boy was trying to take him out, wasn’t he?”
“I ain’t telling you shit. Hand him over.”
“Exactly what kind of deal have you got worked out with Duane?” He had no doubt it reached beyond Roman. Duane wasn’t even a little bit generous.
“Where is he?”
“Not here. He bolted when he heard your trucks pull up.”
“Son of a bitch,” Joe hissed. “Quit fucking around.”
Neil took an aggressive step toward Ghost.
“I wouldn’t try it,” Collier said, stepping into the hall, cutting them off. “We’ve got more guys in here, watching you,” he lied, “waiting on you to make a move.”
“You’re really starting to piss me off,” Joe said.
“I don’t doubt it,” Ghost said. “But since we’re here at a stalemate, let me float something by you.”
“Fuck you.”
“I can get you Roman. Hand-delivered and gift-wrapped.” At this point, he was betting on the fact that the Ryders really did want Roman, considering they hadn’t shot him yet. It wasn’t an eye-for-an-eye after all, but a vendetta. And vendettas could be exploited.
“In exchange for what?”
“You tell me what you’ve got cooked up with Duane.”
Joe grinned: it was tobacco-stained and nasty. “You boys don’t know what goes on in your own club. That it? The boss shut you out?” He let out a hoarse, creaky laugh. “That’s why you Dogs can’t get anywhere. Disorganized pieces of shit.”
“Yeah, yeah, we’re shit. But I’m asking, okay? You want Roman, I want info. Let’s make a swap.”
