Page 92 of American Hellhound
Ghost and Michael had a silent conversation on the porch. A shrug, a few raised eyebrows, and they decided to pick the lock. Michael made quick work of it and sent the door gliding inward with a press of his fingers.
They stepped into the living room with the upper hand: Ghost could hear voices somewhere deeper in the cabin, but no one had heard them enter. Well,almostno one.
Amid the rough-hewn furniture, rope rugs, lamps, and mounted deer heads, Ghost spotted a girl. Or young woman, rather. Somewhere between twenty-five and thirty-five, he guessed. She leapt up from the sofa with a gasp. A pretty thing: slender, blue-eyed, with a bright banner of strawberry-blonde hair. She was dressed in jeans, scuffed boots, and a man’s flannel shirt. She put her back to the fireplace and faced off from them with panic in her eyes. She breathed like a racehorse, audible, jagged breaths; her gaze shifted between the two of them, again and again, frantic.
Ghost made acalm-downgesture. “Shh, hey, it’s alright.”
She sucked in a breath and screamed, “Roman!”
“Shit,” Michael said.
A wordless shout echoed from a back room, followed by the scrape of chairs and pounding of feet.
Michael pulled his gun.
The girl whimpered.
Ghost feigned relaxed as Roman and the four young, apparently-fake Dark Saints from the boat parlay burst into the room.
“Ghost,” Roman said, gratifyingly shocked to see them. His wild-eyed gaze moved from Ghost, to Michael, to Michael’s gun, and then to the girl. His expression changed, then, did something Ghost had never see it do before. “Kris!”
The girl darted to him. Roman caught her around the waist with one arm – a familiar, unconscious gesture – and pushed her back behind him. He was snarling when he turned to face Ghost. Boomer and his friends crowded around the girl, bowed up like cornered snakes.
“What are you doing here?” Roman said through clenched teeth.
Ghost was so glad to see the man off his game – spitting mad and shaking with adrenaline – that he smiled. “Oh no, Roman.Youdon’t get to askmethat question.” He took a step closer, hands going in his pockets, confident in Michael’s trigger finger behind him. “You come back to my city, come onto my lot, feed me some bullshit story about whoever the hell they are.” He nodded toward Boomer and the others. “And bring the entire Colorado chapter of theactualDark Saints to my doorstep.”
Roman didn’t react, still and tight, every muscle tensed.
“You knew they’d show up,” Ghost interpreted. “I’m guessing you hoped they would.”
Roman took a deep breath, nostrils flaring.
“Explain yourself. I won’t ask nicely a second time.”
The moment spun out. The men shifted, cutting glances toward Roman. The girl – Kris – curled her fingers into the back of his shirt.
Roman’s shoulders slumped a fraction. “I needed to buy us some time. And your favor.”
“Why?”
“I need your help. I –we’vegot nowhere else to go, and the Saints want us dead.”
“’Cause you stole half their stash, apparently.”
“No.” He reached back and captured Kris’s hand in his. “I stoleher.”
~*~
Ava’s house wasn’t made to hold this many people. It was no worse than a big Christmas gathering, but instead of seasonal joy, the whole affair was tainted with an undercurrent of worry. They all hid it well, smiling and laughing at the kids, drinking, passing around popcorn and cookies, but Maggie could detect the way smiles flickered and tried not to come unglued. Not the scariest night they’d ever had – not by a long shot – but not a peaceful one either.
She snagged a water bottle from the fridge and let herself out onto the patio. The sun burned orange along the treetops, the air blessedly cool.
Aidan stood at the grill, flipping burgers and chicken with one hand, holding a cigarette with the other. “Oh, hey,” he said, glancing over his shoulder toward the sound of the door closing. He ground his cig out on the plate that rested on the deck rail, its surface spattered with raw chicken juice.
“Hygienic on so many levels,” Maggie teased.
“I’ve got a clean plate, too.”
