Page 110 of The Wild Charge

“Three. But I’m going to pull more from my New York office.”

“Good. When you get off the phone with me, call them. I’m calling Mav.”

“Who?”

“Maverick – the New York chapter president. He can have Dogs there in three hours.”

“I hardly think–”

“No,” Ghost said, almost gentle. “I’m telling him to send them. The meanest, canniest bastards he’s got. These Abacus assholes blew up their clubhouse a few months ago: they’ll want a chance for revenge.”

“Oh. Right.” He’d forgotten all about that, in his adrenaline rush.

“I need all of you to stay put at the hotel for now,” Ghost went on. “They meant to spook you and drive you out. They won’t strike now, not in a hotel full of people; but if you leave, and get out on the road…” He let it hang, but Ian shuddered.

“Yes. You’re right.”

“Y’all sit tight, call your people, I’ll send my people. I’ll talk to Fox and Walsh when they get back, and see what they want to do about the girls.”

“Yes. Fine.” He frowned to himself. “WhereareCharlie and Kingston?”

Ghost sighed. “Hopefully not getting themselves killed.”

~*~

Clouds had rolled in from the west as the sun set, and night had faded in dark and moonless. It was black out on the water, the banks visible as smudges that served as poor guide marks. Walsh wished it was Mercy at the helm of the club’s small bass boat, rather than himself. Mercy could have navigated any waterway blindfolded.

But Marshall Hunter had said for Fox to come alone, and there could be no risk of two silhouettes sitting in the boat when it pulled up.

Too bad it wasn’t even Fox.

Walsh had shaved his chin smooth earlier, and reached now to tug his beanie down lower over his forehead, trying to conceal his wheat-gold hair. He wasn’t convinced that, even with his hair covered, he could pass for his brother, but Emmie had always said he had a “foxy” look about him. She’d inspected them both before they left, made a face, but then nodded. “You’ll do in the dark.”

“Thank you, love.”

“You know what I mean!” She’d laughed, expression bright a moment, before she stepped in to kiss him, and squeeze him tight around the neck, and tell him he’dbetter be careful, damn it.

He’d promised that he would be, rubbing soothing circles on her back.

But if Hunter had two trained little toy soldiers anything like Reese, all the care in the world wouldn’t get him far. Walsh was a damn good shot, and he knew how to brawl properly. But, much as it pained him to admit, dealing with boys who’d been trained like attack dogs was Fox’s area, not his.

He piloted the boat around a slow bend in the river, and the lights of the Gay Street Bridge shone like beacons, reflected down on the water in unsteady ripples. He took a measured breath, and was grateful his face never betrayed his nerves.

The note hadn’t said upon which bank Hunter would be waiting, but a small light flicked on, then off, then on and off again over to Walsh’s left, on a small, sandy bank bordered by scrub trees in need of cutting: a natural screen to keep anyone up the hill from seeing anything untoward in the dark. Like a murder.

Walsh steered over toward the signal, killed the engine, and let the current lap him up onto the beach, until he was close enough to step out into the ankle-deep water and haul the boat partway up onto the sand.

He couldn’t see a damn thing, but he could sense a presence in front of him: a prickle up the neck, the sensation ofnot being alone.

He took a few steps, boots scuffing over dry sand, and then paused, bolstered by the knowledge that whoever he was meeting was at a similar disadvantage. He lacked Fox’s repertoire of voices and accents, but he could mimic his brother well enough; before Emmie and Violet, his own voice had held something of that lazy self-assurance. Now, every time he blinked, he saw his family dead.

He pushed all such thoughts away and tapped into his old bachelor nonchalance. “Alright, I’m here. What do you want?”

Water lapped at the side of the boat, soft shushing sounds. Distantly, he heard the low hum of a much larger boat engine: one of those Neyland boat-tailgating luxury numbers. Someone laughed up the hill, the sound carrying down to the water; there were restaurants and parking lots up there, civilization. They felt miles away, now, as he waited in the inky dark, pulse throbbing unsteadily at the base of his throat.

“Do you talk?” he pressed. “Or are you one of the little automatons?”

Finally, a low, flat voice filtered out of the blackness ahead. “You’re not him.”

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