Page 233 of American Hellhound
“I can’t see him doing that,” Michael said. “He hates those assholes for what they did to his sister. He’s got no reason to help them.”
“Stockholm Syndrome.” Ghost shrugged. “Or maybe he’s just a good actor. Who knows.”
Michael’s expression remained unconvinced in the rearview mirror.
“As of right now, we can’t assume we can trust him,” Ghost said. He didn’t say that he felt betrayed and vaguely sick.
His cellphone blared to life in the cup holder, Tango’s name flashing across the screen. “Yeah?” he answered.
“Someone was casing your house,” Tango said, voice betraying only a touch of nerves. “Four guys, black truck. They just left.”
“You followed them?”
“Yeah. They’re headed back into town.”
“Stay on them.” His call waiting beeped. “That’s somebody else, I gotta go.”
He switched over without checking the number, expecting one of his other guys. “Yeah?”
A pause. Then: “Good morning, Ghost.” Badger.
Ghost’s hands tightened, on the phone and on the strap of his seatbelt. He pulled the cell from his ear and thumbed it onto speaker. “Good morning,” he returned, and thought his voice sounded casual. “You’ve been on the news lately. What’s that like?”
Badger chuckled. “Oh, I expect you’ll find that out for yourself soon.”
“Yeah? You think?”
“I’m counting on it.” The line went dead.
The dial tone filled the truck as Walsh piloted through the next turn, the van still in sight two cars ahead of them.
“Okay,” Walsh said. “That sounds pretty terrible.”
“He’s got some stunt planned, and we’re probably about to drive right into it,” Rottie said. “Shit.”
“Call Hound,” Ghost ordered. “Tell him to get in touch with Fielding. Drunk or not, he needs to get his ass in gear.”
His phone rang again. “Jesus.” It was Ian this time. “What?”
“Hello,” the Englishman said pleasantly. “Have you heard from our friend Badger?”
“Right before you called. I’m following four of his guys to God knows where.”
“Ah, yes, well, I believe I know where. He’s leading you to me.”
“Toyou?”
“Yes, to my funeral home. He’s making quite the scene. Taking my people hostage and so forth.” And that was when Ghost realized that Ian’s polite veneer was just that – a glossy covering that attempted, not quite successfully, to cover extreme emotion.
Screw saving face in front of the guys – at the end of the day, this kid was one of Ghost’s, too, and he needed somebody in this scenario to worry about him. “Ian, are you okay?”
Walsh made a surprised sound in the next seat.
Tense, furious, desperate, through clenched teeth: “He’s holding a gun to Alec’s head. So no. I’m not even a little okay.”
“Jesus. Alright. Where is he? Where’s your security?” He thought of the hulking, silent, loyal Bruce; there was no way he wouldn’t throw himself in front of a bullet for Ian or anyone Ian cared about.
Ian took a shuddering breath. “They’re all in here with me, in the building. Alec was going to surprise me with lunch – the bloody idiot. Itold himto stay at home today. I–” He made a choked-off sound, a suppressed sob. “They’re in the parking lot, a dozen fucking biker cretins, and theyhave Alec. The second a member of my security team steps outside, they’ll paint his brains across the blacktop.”
