Page 242 of American Hellhound
“Jesus Christ, Maggie,” Vince said with a deep sigh as he dropped down onto the step beside her.
“Sorry about the mess,” she deadpanned, and took a much-needed sip of her coffee. A paramedic had handed it to her, and damn it, she needed the caffeine at this point. Not like she’d be nursing in the next hour anyway. “Here to arrest me?”
They were sitting in the back parking lot where she’d shot the Saints, seated on the top of the loading dock steps. Harry and Roman had been taken inside for medical attention. Kristin had offered to walk Denise inside to the waiting room, and Maggie had accepted; there was no need for her mother to see her get slapped into cuffs.
Now, techs milled around, roping the area off, getting out cameras and collection bags. The bodies were draped with sheets and Maggie didn’t have any guilt over the fact that she didn’t feel one shred of guilt about taking two of their lives. If that made her a monster, oh well. She’d do it again in a heartbeat.
“No,” Vince said on a sigh. “This was self-defense.”
She snorted. “You really believe that?”
“I do. Should I not?” He glanced her way, brows raised. He looked older than he should have, worn out and jaded. But there was still belief there – a belief in her that she’d probably never deserved.
She swallowed. “No, it was self-defense.” Defense of her mother, her friends, her club. She didn’t wear a patch on her back, but this club was every bit her family, just as it was Ghost’s.
He nodded and looked away, toward the crime scene. “These guys wanted everybody to think the Dogs were responsible for this.”
“Did they shoot anyone?”
“Not inside, no. Shot some equipment, some walls. Turned over a bunch of shit. I think they just wanted to terrorize everybody on their way to you. Make the Dogs look bad.”
“Mission accomplished, I guess.”
“Maybe. But when I do my press briefing, I’m gonna say this wasn’t the Dogs, that they were imposters.”
“You’d to that?” she asked, surprised.
Vince wouldn’t look at her, shrugging uncomfortably. “I don’t like what the Dogs do. But…I get it, I think. They’re not theenemy. Not like these guys were. I know Ghost and his crew would never try to scare civilians like this.”
Maggie smiled. “Thanks, Vince.”
“Yeah, well…” He ducked his head. “Don’t thank me until you hear about Ghost.”
Her stomach lurched. “What about Ghost?”
Thirty-Seven
Sometimes, when he was drunk or ungodly tired, in the short span of a night that would end too soon, Ghost dreamed of Duane. It was like the bastard wanted to torture him from the grave, waiting until he was off his game, exhausted and vulnerable. Those dreams were nightmares, really, and in them, Duane laughed at him, teeth flashing white like fangs through the dark. He called Ghost weak, and scared, and pussy-whipped. A disgrace to the Teague family name and the Lean Dogs cut.
He said all those things now, his laughter jeering, echoing across the decades that separated past from present.
Fuck you, Ghost thought, and his eyes opened.
Creaked open, rusty and heavy, a struggle he wasn’t expecting. His whole head felt heavy, actually, weighted-down in the back, packed with cotton. Morphine, he realized. And it was wearing off, his body coming alive with pain.
His vision was fuzzy, but he could see the white walls and ceiling of a hospital room. He heard the quiet beeping of a heart monitor – his – and a TV rumbling on low.
Then a warm hand touched his face, and everything came into focus. The pain was nothing compared to the immense relief of hearing Maggie’s voice, warm and sweet.
“There he is.”
She pushed his hair off his forehead and raked her nails back across his scalp.
“Mmm.” His mouth was dry, his tongue thick. But he could say, “That’s nice.”
Maggie’s face appeared above his, radiant as the sun, her golden hair framing her smile. Her eyes were shiny. “Hey there, tough guy. How’re you feeling?”
“Like shit,” he croaked. “But I ain’t dead.”
