Or why, he questioned himself, had it takenherof all people to wake the wrath inside him, after so many years of numbness?
He waged this war in his mind, and outwardly did nothing, rooted and blank-faced, as Ghost did the talking.
“Gentlemen,” Ghost said, squaring off from the Jessups. “Why is it we keep meeting when something’s wrong?”
“Ain’t nothin’ wrong,” one of them said. “Abe and I” – so this was Jacob speaking – “was tellin’ Fisher that we need some of his territory. We told him he didn’t need to get you stirred up about it. We coulda sorted it out.”
“Ah.” Ghost nodded. “Actually, no you couldn’t have. I draw up the territories. My guys stick to them” – fast snatch of a cold smile – “or they’re not my guys for very long.”
“I told them that,” Fisher said, staring at Ghost with a deferential tilt to his head, hands clasped together in front of him. “They wouldn’t listen. I told ‘em you wouldn’t be happy.”
“I’m not,” Ghost said. “So what’s the problem with the territory?”
“We need more,” Abraham said. “We’ve got more product than we can move in our district. There’s not enough buyers where you put us. What we’re selling is better than what Fisher’s got, so I didn’t figure it’d be a problem.”
“Better? Where’s it come from then? Who’s your supplier?”
The Jessup brothers traded a look, some silent communication of shrugs and eyebrow lifts.
When they faced Ghost again, Abraham said, “Shaman.”
Jacob grinned and said, “But you already knew that, I’m guessing.”
Ghost frowned, his poker frown, unreadable beyond a general discontent.
Walsh was totally dead-faced – of all his Knoxville brethren, Walsh was the one Michael most respected, on account of his calm, cool façade, the way he gave away nothing, and kept a level head in any crisis – but his narrow blues eyes were riveted to the men, sliding to touch Ghost, then Michael, then riveting again. Silent questions, wonders, drawing of his own conclusions.
He didn’t like this, Michael could tell. But he probably wasn’t ready to rip throats out with his bare hands the way Michael was.
“Fisher,” Ghost said, tone polite, “why don’t you step out and have a smoke while we talk to these gentlemen.”
Fisher nodded and flitted out the front door, the wind catching it with a slam behind him.
The brothers stiffened, visibly distressed. They probably thought they were about to get pistol-whipped.
That would have been too kind for them.
Ghost sent a stack of greasy pizza boxes tumbling out of a chair with a flick of one hand, and then sat, managing to look regal in a tattered recliner spotted with dried-on pepperoni.
“Alright, boys,” he said with a deep sigh. “Let’s be straight here. What does your boss want? Why did he send you here to sell coke for me?”
Relaxing some, Abraham shrugged. “Shaman doesn’t tell us his business. He has an interest in you – your club – is all we know. He told us to come work for you. He said he ‘wanted to see what happened.’ ”
Ghost looked troubled.
Walsh said, “He’s some kinda big shot, huh? He wants to take over an MC, make it his own. He’s gotten tired of dealers and thugs – he wants to own a piece of one of the biggest motorcycle clubs in the western hemisphere.”
Michael felt the jolt of shock, saw it reflected in Ghost’s sharp glance. None of them had ever considered such a thing.
Walsh’s expression was grim. “He wants to acquire us, boss,” he said to Ghost. “Another prize in his collection.” The statement felt dire delivered in Walsh’s London accent. Sharper and more sinister.
Ghost pinned the brothers with a look. “Is that true?”
They shrugged.
“We know what you know,” Abraham said. “I just want to sell what I was given to sell.”
“You want to push your luck,” Ghost said, getting to his feet. “Take heed, boys: So long as you sell in one of my districts, you will followallof my rules. You’ll leave Fisher alone and stick to your territory, and you won’t cause me any grief. Otherwise, this guy” – he gestured to Michael – “is gonna come give you a kiss in the middle of the night, and trust me, you won’t like it.”