Page 134 of Price of Angels

Michael could imagine the picture they made, in black leather and denim, wet from the water on the road, grungy in every way possible.

An immaculate employee in suit and tie came out from behind the desk and toward them. “Good morning,” he greeted, and did a good job hiding his shock and disgust. “Can I help you gentlemen this morning? A tour of the facility perhaps? Some brochures? Here at Loving Embrace, we strive to serve the final care needs ofallour customers.” His gaze flicked across them with distress. He wanted them out of his lobby and back in the back looking at pamphlets, before a customer walked in and found them tracking motor oil on the carpet.

Ghost gave him a chilly smile. “We’re here to see Shaman.”

The man’s demeanor changed completely. He drew back, friendly smile vanishing, face going pale beneath his polished hair. “You’re acquainted with Mr. Shaman?”

“Yeah. Tell him the Lean Dogs want a little chat.”

The man drew in a breath, frowning. “I’m not sure – that is, Mr. Shaman is terribly busy–”

“That’s fine. We’ll just wait over here.” Ghost gestured to a row of dainty chairs along the front wall.

The employee blanched further. “No, no, that’s alright. Come with me.” He turned and gestured to the girl behind the desk, and she nodded, reaching for the phone. “Right this way, gentlemen,” he said, and led them around a corner and down a long, rose-carpeted hall, lined with more columns, more stupid drapes.

“It’s so fancy,” Mercy said, somewhere behind Michael. “I just wanna…lick my fingers and touch everything.”

“Don’t,” Ghost said.

“You lick it you buy it,” Tango said with a laugh.

“Children, please,” Walsh said. “We’re in a place of money-worship.”

A scattering of laughter at that.

The clerk with the stick up his ass led them to an elevator and pressed the UP arrow for them. He stepped back, as a hum issued from the shaft, the car descending. “You’ll have to give your names to the man at the desk,” he said, and then withdrew, leaving them.

Thankfully, they hadn’t brought Candyman, or Troy, or Hound, because it was a tight squeeze in the elevator even without them.

“Shit, sorry,” Rottie muttered as the doors closed on them.

“Admit it; you liked it,” RJ returned.

There was a shove.

Ghost said, “Knock it off.”

Then they were at the second floor, and the door was sweeping open. They were in a narrow hall flanked by doors, each with keyless passcard entry panels.

A desk stood at the end, beside a dark paneled door, another well-groomed suit-wearing associate waiting for them.

“You’re here to see Mr. Shaman?”

Ghost nodded. “Ghost Teague, Kingston Walsh, Michael McCall–”

“Aidan Teague, Kevin Estes, Robert Tallow, Ryan James Ford, and Felix Lécuyer,” the associate finished with a small grin. “Yes, he knows who you are. He’s been expecting you.”

His hand disappeared beneath his desk; there was a buzz, then a click as the door unlocked. “Go on in.”

Ghost stared at him, mildly astonished. “You’re not gonna pat us down for weapons?”

“No, sir. We assume you have them. And we assure you that they wouldn’t do you much good if you reached for them.”

Michael felt a sinking in his gut. This was bad. This was beyond bad. This was big league shit, and they were just outlaw mechanics, after all. The Lean Dogs empire paled in his mind, faced with this coy moneyed flexing of supreme power.

No time to dwell on it, though, because his president was at the door, and he had to go through it first, taking point as security. He shoved all his thoughts down low, and went into bodyguard mode. The sergeant at arms and nothing else, a vessel for violence and a watchful set of eyes.

They entered a large, hardwood-floored room, a sitting room of some kind. Plush white rugs, groupings of chrome and leather sofas and chairs. Shelves full of books, knick-knacks, potted plants. And a whole wall of windows, overlooking the street below.

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