Page 132 of Fearless

Jasper folded his arms, shook his head, puffed himself up like a little prince. “Word gets around. Everybody in Knoxville knows it was him.”

“Everybody you tipped off, you mean.”

No answer.

“Alright, Jasper,” Ghost said. The conversational tone, the assumed familiarity was grating on the younger man’s nerves, Mercy could see; Jasper’s jaw worked. “As much fun as this is, I didn’t come here for a social call. This” – Ghost circled a finger in the air, indicating the trip they’d all made to this side of town – “is your warning. Yourpolitewarning. I am not having some all-out war with your crew. I don’t have time to play Cowboys and Indians with you. If you make one more move toward that end, I will kill you. I will destroy you, in every way possible.”

It looked like it took every single scrap of his meager self-control for Jasper not to launch himself at the Lean Dogs president. He studied the other biker king a long moment, jaw so tight it looked like the skin might split. Finally, he said, “You’ve always thought you own this town.”

Ghost smirked. “The town’s the master; we’re the dogs. That’s something your father never figured out.”

At the mention of his father, Jasper’s gaze lifted, scanning the faces of the other Dogs. Mercy felt his jolt of recognition as his eyes landed on him.

“Who’s funneling you money?” Ghost asked, though all of them knew there’d be no answer. “You got brand new, matching bikes, you got muscle to take over businesses. Who’s lining your pockets?”

Jasper ignored him. “I’ll make you a deal,” he said, finally tearing his gaze from Mercy. “You give me Lécuyer, and our problems go away.”

Ghost laughed. “Oh, poor kid, you really don’t understand how any of this works.” He swung his leg back over his bike, forcing Jasper to step back. “We’ll be in touch,” he promised. “Remember what I said.”

His bike starting was the cue for the rest of them to follow suit. Mercy felt Jasper’s stare as they pulled out of the lot, the simmering hatred.

Larsen didn’t scare him – neither did his club, neither did anything, really. But Mercy wondered, deep down, if it came down to choosing peace and staying off the mayor’s hit list, whether Ghost would consider handing him over. That was an unthinkable sin among the brethren, betraying a brother, leaving anyone behind enemy lines. But Mercy had a feeling that the afternoon in the chapel five years ago, the day Ghost had threatened to ruin his daughter’s life just to get what he wanted, had remained somewhere in the back of his president’s mind. That resentment lingered, even if it was deeply buried.

They were a half mile down the tumbled-down business strip when Hound and Rottie pulled out of a side street and fell into place among their double row of bikes, a seamless joining into the back, like jets locking into formation in the clouds.

It was the entire chapter that rode through the heart of the city, the growl of tailpipes echoing off the brick facades, car alarms tripping, pedestrians snatching their heads around to look. It was a bold display, all of them on the move, in a double helix like this.

Mercy smiled to himself and knew his brothers were doing the same.

At the clubhouse, Ghost gathered them in a loose knot under the portico, and turned to his two trackers. “What’d you find?”

Hound cleared his throat and spat on the pavement before he said, “There’s a couple weak spots in the back fence, but they’ve got cameras, same as us.”

“They have cameras at the front and back, that pan about forty-five degrees,” Rottie said. “And they’re synchronized, so that gives you a window of a few seconds to get over the side of the fence and get up to the building. Their yard looks like a fucking episode ofHoarders, so there’s plenty of cover. And the scrap yard next door has some cars parked up against the fence, that could be your boost over. And the chain link’s easy enough to climb.”

Hound nodded, a look of pride smoothing across his wrinkled face. He had a deep, fatherly love for his protégé, without any sons of his own to follow in his footsteps. “After that, the back door’s the best way to get in, I’m thinking. My boy can pick the lock no problem.” He clapped Rottie on the back.

“If it’s locked,” Ghost said. “As cocky as these bastards are, I can’t see them taking too many precautions.”

“The cameras were provided for them,” Rottie agreed. “And it looks impressive to have them. But I don’t think they’re practical types.”

Ghost nodded, absorbing all the intel. “I don’t want too many. Rottie, you can lead the way, since you’ve scoped it out” –

Nod from the tracker.

“- and then I want Michael and Mercy carrying things out. This job needs muscle…and other skillsets.”

There were a few dark chuckles.

Mercy glanced over at Michael’s expressionless mask of a face. Boy, oh boy, wasn’t this going to be fun? He didn’t trust the guy, and that made for a dangerous situation going downright deadly.

“Eleven-thirty tonight,” Ghost said. “Now let’s head to the funeral home.”

Though Flanders was part of a street-facing strip of shops, and not the cream of the crop in the city, the owner did his fanciful best to make sure the place looked as elegant and soothing as possible. The lobby fed into a T-shaped hall; to the right were the offices and showrooms; straight ahead went out the back to the waiting hearses; to the left were the viewing and gathering rooms, the carpeted parlors with their dainty Victorian settees, heavy damask drapes, short maroon carpet, and pull-down projectors for families who’d compiled slideshows for their dearly departed loved ones.

Andre lay waxen and eerie, a certain life-like quality to his lips that made Ava think he was about to smile, in a mahogany coffin in viewing room two, carnation wreaths on easels around him, a tall spray of hothouse iris set up on a table behind.

The old ladies had outdone themselves: too many flowers; a guest book on a podium done up like a Doric column, a table full of framed photos and a stack of keepsake programs.

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