Page 91 of American Hellhound
“Doesn’t seem like it, no.” Screw “seem” – this was definitely Roman’s doing. Currently-running-from-another-club Roman. Jesus.
“Come stay over with me tonight,” Ava said, and it wasn’t exactly a suggestion. “Hol, you and Lucy are welcome, too. We’ll have a big slumber party.”
“Oh, well…” Holly said, clearly considering.
“The guys will worry less if we’re together.”
The front door squealed open – once, years ago, Maggie had offered to oil the hinges, or volunteer one of the prospects to do it, and Ghost had said you should never waste a squeaky door; it let you know someone was coming – and Mercy strode in, bringing the scents of river and early autumn.
“Ladies,” he greeted, his smile and his whole face warm. Maggie just loved him to death. She couldn’t have hand-picked a man to love her baby girl better. Ghost saw the extractor; Maggie saw the sad boy who worshipped Ava.
“Hi, baby.” Ava threw him a wave over the back of her chair.
Mercy came to kiss her lips, and Millie’s head, who baby-smiled up at her daddy. He murmured something in French Maggie knew she wasn’t meant to hear. When he lifted his head, his expression was impossibly tender, laid-bare, vulnerable as an open wound. He was Felix in that moment, the sad boy who’d been hurt and become hopelessly attached. Then his friendly, Cajun-boy mask slid into place and he was Mercy again, rather than a man whose beating heart sat in the chair beside him.
“Y’all going to talk with Roman?” Maggie asked when he was securely himself once more.
He nodded. “Rottie’s out sniffing around now. Ghost wants Michael and me with him when he goes.” He grinned. “Don’t worry, Mags. We’ll watch out for your baby daddy.”
She made a face and he laughed.
“And,” he continued, “I think he wants you girls to hang out tonight. Let Aidan and Tango keep watch.”
Maggie rolled her eyes and saw Ava do the same.
“I feel so safe already,” Ava said.
~*~
Ghost was half-convinced Rottie was part actual black dog, what with his superhuman ability to find and follow the kinds of trails no one else could have detected. He called at six with a location – a run-down collection of rental cabins favored by hunters during the various game seasons, deep in the woods and thirty minutes away from Dartmoor. Ghost found it suspicious – why not hit up one of the inexpensive motels in town? Because the asshole was hiding something, that was why.
They took one of the trucks in the interest of blending in, crammed three-across in the single cab, Michael behind the wheel.
“I worked a hunt up here once,” Michael offered as they turned off the main road and the tires bit into gravel.
Ghost exchanged a quick glace with Mercy. Mercy looked both amused and proud.Look at little Mikey sharing!
“Brought the dogs,” he continued. “The whole damn mob could hide here if they wanted. It’s a rabbit warren.”
“Roman’s never been good at laying low,” Ghost said, and hoped that, cabin or not, he was still too conspicuous for his own good. If they couldn’t find him, hopefully someone had seen something.
The gravel track was just wide enough for two regular-size pickup trucks to pass one another, washed-out on the edges, deeply rutted and in need of grading. Sapling pines stood in the shade of vast hickories, crowded shoulder-to-shoulder along the roadside. The hill grew steeper as they went. Rich golden slices of evening sun peeked through trunks and between branches, dizzying stripes across the windshield. Idyllic.
After what felt like a half-hour of climbing, the hill topped out and the campground appeared. Ghost immediately saw what Michael had meant by “rabbit warren.” The hill had never been cleared, the cabins lodged in the natural gaps between trees, the result a labyrinth of footpaths, driveways, fire pits, RV hookup areas, and dozens of small log cabins with screen doors, stone chimneys, and rusted tin roofs. The whole place had a charming absurdity to it. Thomas Kinkade meets Dr. Seuss illustrations. Trucks and ATVs were parked all over; chimneys and charcoal grills puffed smoke into the gilded air, turning it hazy; dogs on temporary tie-out cables barked as they drove past.
“Did Rottie get a cabin number?” Mercy asked.
“Fifteen,” Ghost said. “But I can’t read the numbers.”
“I know it,” Michael said. “It’s up that way.” He pointed through the windshield, up a narrow offshoot of the main drive.
A flock of small birds wheeled overhead, swooping low past the windows. A distant gunshot echoed through the trees. Ghost felt his nerves wind slowly tighter and tighter.
Fifteen was a long and low structure with a peaked roof nestled in a copse of cypresses. Two ratty trucks and a utility trailer were parked in front. A Weber grill was set up on the porch beside stacked cases of water. Something rested under a blue tarp, and Ghost would have bet money it was a bike.
They left the truck fifty feet back and approached on foot. With the sun going down fast, it was obvious there were lights on in the windows. Throw in the vehicles, and there was someone home.
Ghost motioned to Mercy and he headed toward the back of the cabin with a nod. If anyone tried to run, they’d hit a six-five Cajun wall.
