Page 61 of Lord Have Mercy Part Four: Big Son

Blood dripped from the ruin of Hames’s head onto the floor, obscenely loud counterpoint to their panted breathing.

Ghost turned to Mike. “Was this your people or a private contractor?”

“How the hell should I know?” Mike pressed a hand to his chest, not over his heart, but on the right side, and his next rattling breath said his lungs – surely the source of his killing cancer – were hurting. “You want me to go out there and ask the guy who he works for?”

Slowly, keeping clear of the windows, Fox got to his feet. “We are going to have to get out of here. If they’re going to kill us, they’re going to kill us, whether we go or stay, and we’vegotto go.”

“Yeah, no shit.” Ghost stood, too, frowning at the way his knees trembled. He looked at the body, head bent back on a limp neck, reeking of urine, so freshly dead it still radiated heat and fear sweat. They would have to dispose of it; mop the blood off the floor. Ditch the Mercedes. Burn the clothes they were currently wearing. Tasks that seemed Herculean in the moment, pinned beneath the scope of a sniper rifle.

Ghost looked at Fox, at Mike, and back at Fox. “What? Do we just walk out?”

Fox’s expression was grim, but he nodded. “That’s all we can do.”

“Well. Alright. Shit.”

A phone started to ring.

~*~

The first time Ian’s phone buzzed in his interior jacket pocket, he ignored it. Aidan was doing a splendid job with his sales pitch, and Ian was content to sit, and listen, and would then be ready, once the Parkers inevitably agreed, shook hands, and left, to reassure Aidan that he’d done well, and that he’d made a smart decision his father could only approve of.

(And wasn’tthatgoing to be an unpleasant revelation? Ian had planned on keeping his lips tightly sealed as to Ghost’s little fake-out death, but sitting with Aidan, speaking with him, was making that very difficult. He wanted to blurt it out: your father’s alive! He’d always been good with secrets, but this one wanted to come out.)

The second time his phone buzzed, he slipped it from his jacket and checked the screen. He had a missed call from an unknown number, and a text from Alec.

Take the next call. It’s important.

A prickling of uneasiness moved down his arms, raising the hairs there. Alec knew what his meeting was about tonight, and he never interrupted unless there was an urgent matter at hand. “Let me know when you’re done,” he’d said, earlier, and kissed him quick and sweet before Ian went out the door with Bruce.

He glanced now across the interior of Bell Bar, and made eye contact with Bruce, where he stood unobtrusively against a section of wall just inside the door. When Ian lifted his phoneand then his brows in silent question, Bruce shook his head and frowned. He didn’t know what it was about either.

Tango leaned in and said, “What?”

“Nothing.”

Ian’s phone buzzed again, and he said, “If you’ll excuse me, I’m afraid I’ll need to take this.”

Mr. Parker – who still hadn’t offered his first name in some show of distrust or stubbornness or both – shot him a suspicious, dark look, and Ian smiled in response.

“I’ll only be a moment.”

Tango slid out of the booth to let him past, and Ian answered while he was still striding toward the back of the bar, toward the staircase that led up to the second floor. Ghost wouldn’t begrudge him the use of his office.

“Good evening, this is Shaman,” he greeted, low and smooth. A shadow behind him proved that Bruce was following. “What can I do for you?”

“Mr. Shaman.” The voice on the other end of the line was smooth as well, and accented, too, though not British. Ian faltered halfway up the steps, then continued, Bruce’s footfalls heavy behind him. “I’ve just gotten off the phone with your lovely husband.”

The prickling on Ian’s arms shivered into gooseflesh, and a cold sweat broke out between his shoulder blades. He envisioned Alec as he’d left him: casual lounge pants and t-shirt, soft from countless washings, glass of wine at his elbow, book open in his hands. A quiet evening in, and he’d be waiting, sweet and welcoming, when Ian got home. He thought of him like that, and thought of his phone ringing, and of this silken voice filling his ear, and his stomach flopped wildly.

Ian had been a shot-caller, string-puller, man-manipulator, and drug dealer long enough to know that he wore a loud, red target on his back. But someone knowing Alec’sidentity, knowing hisphone number, filled him with clammy dread.

His voice was light, though, as he reached the landing and said, “Heislovely, isn’t he? There’s lots of lovely boys in the world, but he’s just soamenable, I haven’t had the impatience to move on to someone new yet.”

“Hm. I imagine an opportunity will present itself,” the voice said. “After all: amenability can be bought, and word has it you’re a wealthy man.”

What word?Ian’s heart raced. He reached to tug at the already-open collar of his shirt as he rounded the corner into the office. The rug that Big Jonny had bled all over had already been replaced, as had the chairs and photo frames that Boyle had destroyed during his search. The computer on the desk was so new no one had bothered to peel the protective film off the monitor screen yet.

“Oh, I don’t like to boast,” Ian said, pushing a smile into his voice as he crossed the room to lean a hip against the edge of the desk. There was a new paperweight there, a black marble base with a bronze eagle in flight atop it; he traced the wings with a fingertip to give his nervous hand something to do. “But I’d say I’m comfortable.”

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