Page 53 of American Hellhound
“Hi, sweetheart,” he said with a sigh, and sat down on the edge of her desk.
“Celebratory drink? Or pissed-off drink?”
He made a considering face. “Thinking drink.”
“Ah.” She started the shut-down sequence on her computer and turned to him, elbow braced on the desk. She wasn’t going to ask outright – some traditions lingered in the MC culture, and one of them was that of keeping old ladies in the dark about club business. At least, that’s what happened on paper. In reality, Ghost told her almost everything. But that was the trick, she thought: hetoldher. She didn’t badger him. Their relationship had always been built on a foundation of disclosure. When it came to bouncing ideas off walls, Ghost trusted no one but her with the most tumultuous of his inner thoughts.
That’s the way it had always been.
“Roman’s up to something,” he finally said, swirling the contents of his cup and staring down into it. “I canfeelit, I just can’t tell what it is yet.”
“When is Romannotup to something?”
“Fair point.”
“But why is he herenow?” she asked, and Ghost nodded.
“If he’s gone all these years wanting back in the club – stewing on it – and he’s back asking innow? He’s got something planned. Something he thinks will work.”
“The club war.” She had to swallow the sudden lump of fear in her throat. She swore she could feel her baby doing frightened somersaults whenever she thought that hated word:war.
“I don’t think it’s gonna come to that,” Ghost said. “I met with the president and VP of the Dark Saints today. It was…” He made a face. “They’re kids. Younger than Aidan. And scared shitless.”
Maggie felt her brows go up in surprise. “Really?”
“Greenbroke and way out of their depth,” he said with a nod, and sipped his whiskey. “I don’tgetit. Little clubs like this pop up all the time, but not right in our backyard. Knowingly.”
“Maybe they’re hoping for a friendship. They might like the idea of having the biggest club watching their backs.”
“Sure. But why does Roman have a stake in any of it?”
She spun her chair from side to side. “Do you think these kids killed the dog?”
“No,” he said, immediately. “They were spooked just talking to us.”
“Did Roman do it?” She didn’t like the man, but she hadn’t thought it his style: that kind of cruel, obvious statement.
“I think whoever’s got the Dark Saints scared did it. And that person may or may not be Roman.”
Twelve
Early autumn. Early enough for the chirruping of crickets and tree frogs, the rustle of leaves. Late enough for a chill that was almost a frost hanging in the night air. Dark night, black sky, no moon.
Perfect conditions.
He closed his eyes. For one heartbeat. Breathed in the scent of dew-damp foliage and river water. Opened his eyes to the concrete-and-steel landscape that lay before him, just on the other side of the chain length fence.
Dartmoor: headquarters and money-laundering legit operations base for the Lean Dogs MC. Run by: President Ghost Teague and his wife, Maggie. Maggie was the weak spot. The target.
He gathered a deep breath and hooked his fingers in the chain link. Climbed up, up, hands and toes finding purchase. Flex of his shoulders, his abdominals. Over – bite of barbed wire against his forearms, through his jacket. And then down. Free fall. Land. Absorb the shock through his muscles and spare his ankles and knees.
Standard OP.
It was late, after midnight. No one was here. A few customer cars and bikes were locked up outside the garage bays of the various shops. He avoided them, sticking to the shadows, and made his way to the small central office on cat’s feet.
“Make it obvious,”his boss – hisnewboss – had said.“Make it a statement.”
He kicked in the door. As predicted, the alarm went off.
