Page 125 of American Hellhound
And that was it. Conversation over.
That’s what Duane wanted, anyway.
“It was one of their crew I shot that night Roman got hit.”
He got a noncommittal humming noise in return.
“Duane!” It came out a shout.
His uncle lifted his head, annoyed. “It’s too early in the morning for all that yelling bullshit.”
“We almost got killed last night.”
“But you didn’t. What’s your point?”
“Mypointis that I once saw you cut a guy’s ear off ‘cause he scratched your bike.” That had been a dark night: Nevada desert, blazing drum fires, peyote or some shit thick in the air. Screaming, blood on the sand. “But when the Ryder clan tries to kill us twice, you don’t give a shit. You oughtta be beating the war drums, and you’re not. Which means youknowwhat happened. In fact, youwantedit.”
He was panting by the end, chest heaving, side splitting. It was, without question, the most daring thing he’d ever said to the man. The most insubordination he’d ever displayed.
Duane cocked his head to the side, face impassive. “Is that what you want the story to be? That I tried to have three of my boys killed and make it look like a deal gone wrong?”
Ghost sucked in a breath, caught off guard. He and Maggie hadn’t discussed the possibility of the conversation taking this turn.
“The president who betrays his own club? His own family? Huh?”
“Just one,” Ghost said, faintly.
“What?”
“You weren’t trying to kill all of us. Just one, Ryder said. Blood-for-blood. Like in the Bible.”
Duane’s expression shifted, then. A tightening of his jaw, quick flash of something feral in his eyes, flared nostrils. “Sit down.”
Ghost did, heart pounding. Finally, it felt like something real was about to happen. Probably something irrevocable he didn’t want to witness. But.
Duane sat back in his chair with a deep sigh and drained his Scotch. Set the tumbler down with a soft thump and met Ghost’s gaze, his own the least guarded Ghost had seen it in a long time.
“Roman’s a weasel,” he started, shocking Ghost. “I know it, you know, everybody does. Suckup bastard’s got his head shoved so far up my ass I can taste the shit he puts in his hair. He’s ambitious, yeah? Real ambitious – got his eyes on my chair at the head of the table…and he’s already making plans for when he has it.”
“What do you mean?”
“He’s been reaching out into the underworld community. The Ryders. The Russians. The cartel. Been making long-distance calls to New York on the clubhouse phone, too stupid to think that I’ll see the damn phone bill and know it.”
Ghost wondered if he hadn’t been drinking after all, because the room seemed to spin. “I don’t…”
“He’s trying to set up alliances with other outlaws, going around me to make bigger deals and grow the club that way.” He snorted. “You’re always bugging me about a garage. Roman just went out and got himself some new friends.”
Ghost couldn’t rectify it in his mind – not the going around Duane part, that was almost expected; in his experience the brown-nosers of the world usually had something to hide. But the idea that Duane hadn’t put a stop to it the moment he figured out it was happening.
“How long has this been going on?”
“Six months, give or take. That guy you shot? He was a Ryder, yeah, got spooked, didn’t know who you guys were, acted like a dumbass and paid the cost for that.”
“When we walked into that warehouse last night…Roman knew they’d be pissed at us?”
Duane nodded.
“But you told them–”
