Page 13 of Ghost's Revenge
The red haze slams back into my vision, so sudden and complete that for a moment I can't see anything except the image of Tyler's smile, of Debbie standing on that porch trusting me to keep them safe. I can’t think about anything except getting back to the shelter, getting back to them, making sure they're protected.
"Ghost." Reaper's voice cuts through the static in my head. "We need to move. I need to check on Evelyn, make sure the clubhouse is secure."
"What about him?" I gesture to the wounded Russian.
Before Reaper can respond, Blade raises his sidearm and puts two rounds in the Russian's chest. The sound echoes through the empty house like thunder, and I feel the ringing start in my ears immediately.
"Jesus fucking Christ, Blade!" Reaper shouts, pressing his palms against his ears. "A little warning next time?"
Blade shrugs, holstering his weapon with ease. "He'd find a way to warn Charles. Better not to leave witnesses."
"That doesn't mean you couldn't have given us a heads up first. My ears are ringing like a goddamn church bell."
I watch the exchange with grim amusement despite the circumstances. Reaper and Blade have been having variations of this argument since their Army days. Blade's tendency to shootfirst and explain later versus Reaper's preference for tactical communication. Some things never change, even when the stakes get higher.
"Could've stepped outside," Blade says reasonably, like he hadn't just executed a man in cold blood without warning.
"Could've used your words like a functioning adult," Reaper fires back, but there's no real heat in it. He's known Blade too long to expect different behavior at this point.
I'm already moving toward the door, my mind racing ahead to everything that needs to happen next. "I'm heading out. Gonna check on the shelter before going home."
"Good. I need to get back to Evelyn, make sure the clubhouse is locked down tight." Reaper follows me outside, where the pre-dawn air feels clean after the stench of death and mold. "Keep your comm on. If Charles's planning something big—"
"I'll be ready."
The ride back through Pine Haven's empty streets gives me time to think, time to let the adrenaline fade and focus on what matters now. The Vultures MC in that house were just a distraction, cannon fodder meant to keep us busy while Charles sets up whatever he's really planning. But they served their purpose. We're scattered, reactive, playing defense instead of offense.
That ends now.
By the time I reach the shelter, the sun is starting to creep over the horizon, painting the sky in shades of orange and pink that seem obscene after the violence I just left behind. The yellow house looks peaceful in the early morning light, curtains drawn against the world, everyone inside still asleep and safe.
Exactly the way it should be.
I park across the street in my usual spot and kill the engine, letting the quiet settle around me. In a few hours, Tyler will wake up and ask his mother if we can play baseball again. Debbie will make him breakfast and help him get dressed and probably worry about a hundred things I can't even imagine. Normal things. Safe things.
Things worth protecting.
I'm reaching for my phone to text Reaper that everything looks secure when I hear it. Raised voices from the direction of the shelter. Male voice, angry and demanding. Female voice, scared and pleading.
The blood in my veins turns to ice.
I'm off the bike and moving before my conscious mind catches up, muscle memory from two decades of combat taking over. The voices are coming from the front porch, and as I get closer, I can make out words.
"—told you I'd find you, didn't I? Did you really think you could just take my son and disappear?"
"David, please. Tyler's sleeping. Don't wake him up."
Debbie's voice, trembling with fear but trying to stay calm. Trying to protect her son even when she's terrified.
"Don't tell me what to do with my own kid. You've got five minutes to get him up and pack whatever shit you brought here. We're going home."
"We're not going anywhere with you."
I round the corner of the house and see them on the front porch. Debbie is pressed back against the door in pajama pants and an oversized t-shirt, her dark hair loose around her shoulders. His hands are clenched into fists at his sides, and every line of his body screams barely controlled violence.
David Wilson. The man who hit his wife and tried to hit his son. The reason Debbie fled desperate and hoping for something better.
My phone buzzes with a text, but I ignore it. Nothing else matters except the scene playing out in front of me.
