Page 197 of American Hellhound
“Here’s the thing, though. I don’t want you to explain.”
“You know how it works,” Walsh said in his “now, children” voice. “If you plan to ask a favor of a man, you don’t go ahead and do what you please before he agrees to it. You’ve forfeited all courtesy.”
“I…” Badger started, and his face fell. He knew he’d been backed into a corner with no way out.
“Knoxville belongs to us,” Ghost said, and Ian cleared his throat meaningfully. “I meant you too,” he hissed as an aside. “To us,” he repeated. There’s no future between the Dogs and the Saints – not one that isn’t bloody, at least. You fucked up, Badger, but I don’t want another war in my city. I’ll let you walk away with your tail between your legs.
“Iwould,” he amended. “If it was just the drugs and just you being an asshole. But–”
The sash creaked as one of the windows behind him was pushed open. A sequence of conflicting emotions passed across Badger’s face, and Ghost turned to catch a quick glimpse of Reese over his shoulder, the pale wraith gliding in through the window, eerie in all black, face blank.
“It’s the human trafficking I can’t forgive,” Ghost said. From the corner of his eye, he watched Ian’s already-pale face go white; he downed his wine in one swallow. “Keeping kids as pets? Yeah, no.”
“Ken?” a tired-sounding voice called from outside.
“In here.” To Badger: “We don’t tolerate that shit around here.”
Fielding ducked into the cabin, harassed-looking and droopy-eyed, cuffs in one hand. He surveyed the lot of them. Sighed.
“This is the one,” Ghost said, pointing to Badger.
Reese stared, unblinking, as the cuffs were clipped into place.
“Well,” Ian said, mildly, pouring more wine, “isn’t that terrifying?”
Thirty
Now
The clubhouse was in full celebration mode. Someone had cranked the music, and some else – RJ, Ghost had a feeling – had opened one of the bottles of champagne wedged in the back of the fridge.
He couldn’t begrudge them a party, though. They’d stopped a war without spilling a single drop of blood.
“You look pretty proud of yourself,” Maggie said, sliding into the chair beside his.
“Does it make me a shit if I am?”
“A little bit. But a cute shit, so it works out.”
He grinned, intent on flicking his cigarette into the ashtray and pulling her into his lap.
But Roman thumped down across from him, face serious. Fuck him. “Can we talk?”
“Don’t you wanna drink your champagne while it’s bubbly?”
“No.”
Ghost sighed and sent an apologetic glance to Maggie. “I’ll be right back.”
She had a glass of ginger ale and took a sip. “Take your time.” The sly grin she shot him elevated his blood pressure in a good way.
Fuck Roman, seriously.
They went into the kitchen, vacant for the moment, warm from the central heat and the still-cooling ovens. Ghost leaned back against the big industrial fridge, unbothered now. He wasn’t sure he could stir up any worry if he wanted to right now, how sweet was the knowledge of a recent victory.
Roman, though, seemed on edge, bracing both hands on the island, leaning over it. “What about my boys and me?”
“What about you?”
