Page 112 of American Hellhound
She touched her lip, brows going up like she was surprised to find it damaged. “Nothing.”
Ghost took a reluctant step toward her, lowering his voice. “Was it Duane?”
She didn’t answer.
“Damn it.” He didn’t have time for this. Looking after one underage blonde was all he could manage at a time. He continued on to the office, opened the safe, pulled out the pre-packed bundles he’d be delivering tonight.
The scrape of a shoe on the hardwood signaled Duane’s presence before he said, “The blue bags.”
“I got ‘em.” Ghost stowed them in his bag.
“Roman has the address and the password for the buyer. Follow his lead.”
“Just like always,” Ghost muttered.
“Hey,” Duane said, and his tone demanded a response.
Ghost glanced over his shoulder and met his uncle’s gaze.
“Roman’s here. He’s committed.”
“I’m about to walk out of here with a bunch of coke strapped to my back. You don’t call that committed?”
“You were late, he wasn’t. He wants to do this, you don’t. Your head’s not in the game, nephew. And Roman’s is. He’s all in. I gotta reward that.”
Ghost turned back to the safe. He gripped the next bundle so tight he thought he might have punctured the plastic. “Yeah, well…” He had no argument. He knew it, Duane knew it.
“This is an important deal tonight,” Duane said, thumping his fist against the doorjamb in farewell. “Don’t fuck it up.”
~*~
Knoxville wasn’t a seedy city – it was downright idyllic in most spots – but it did have its seedy areas, like all cities. Roman’s address sent them into the heart of one, a fringe neighborhood full of aging Victorian cottages and Craftsman single-stories, the paint peeling, the sidewalks crumbling, the yards all ringed by rusted chain link. Lots of half-dead cars on the curbs, echoes of barking dogs, shady guys in hoods standing beneath streetlights – the whole nine. Their destination proved to be an old factory on a corner lot, flanked by dreary, boarded-up houses. Grass and tree roots had shattered the pavement of the parking lot. The building was red brick, its windows glinting like eyes in the glow of a security light. Some of the original lettering remained on the façade: JOH S N & S NS. Two cars were parked by the door: a Jeep and a fairly new Cadillac.
Roman took a long moment staring up at the shattered second floor windows – the victims of bored teenagers with bricks and rocks – tugging off his gloves, breath pluming in the cold. Ghost was struck by the sight of him: Roman wasafraid, he realized. And maybe because a potential customer had shot at them recently, but maybe it went deeper than that. Maybe Ghost should be a little bit afraid too.
“What?” Ghost asked.
“Nothing. Try to keep up, Teague.”
There were no lights on in the place, and that was just one of many things tripping the alarms in Ghost’s head. Another was the prestige tag on the Caddy: RYDRDIE. Knoxville wasn’t a seedy city, no, but it had its seedy characters. The Ryder family fashioned itself a hillbilly mafia. Ghost had seen them around, had even had a few classes with Neil Ryder, a grandson of the family’s patriarch. They usually wanted nothing to do with the Dogs, not after Leo Ryder was denied prospect status and booted on his ass. They didn’t have many teeth between them, but they had their pride, and the Dogs were on their enemies list.
Roman knocked three times on the factory door, and a moment later it creaked open to reveal a pale face. Awkward features, colorless hair. The ten years since Ghost had seen him last hadn’t done Neil Ryder any favors.
“What’s the word?” Roman asked.
Neil said, “Jaded,” and Roman nodded. He stepped back and opened the door wide.
Ghost put a hand on Justin’s elbow as they walked in. He had no idea how the guy had stayed on his bike on the way over.
“I’m okay,” he said, voice thick, and let out a soft burp.
“Yeah. Real asset you are,” Ghost complained. “Try and stay on your feet, okay?”
Justin mumbled something unintelligible.
Inside, two large flashlights had been set up on tables facing one another, creating a pocket of cool light. Four men stood at its edges, half in shadow, faces indistinct. Ambient light filtered in through the windows, illuminating the shapes of dusty furniture, bits of trash. But otherwise the first floor was largely in shadow, so thick it seemed solid. Like you could grab it by the handful.
It hit Ghost as wrong straight off. A buzzing up the back of his neck, a tightness at the base of his throat. Like the exercises he’d been put through in basic: you knew something was wrong, and your job was to react quickly when it blew up – sometimes literally.
