Page 198 of Fearless

He pulled her into his arms and kissed the top of her head. When he pulled back, he pressed something cool into her hand. “An extra clip,” he explained. “For the nine mil I put in your bag.”

His eyes said he loved her, and she swallowed the lump in her throat, nodding, hand curling around the magazine.

She glanced back, once, her hand on Mercy’s shoulder as they pulled out of the drive, and watched her mother lean against her father’s shoulder, Ghost’s arm going around Maggie, the early, early sunlight catching the gleam of tears in their eyes.

There was steam rising off the grass of the practice fields in the early wash of first light. Buses rumbled past, belching dark exhaust, the windows filled with hands and faces and bright jackets. At the top of the hill, overlooking a PE para-pro who was setting out orange cones for the day’s walking and jogging tests between the sprayed-on lines of the field, Aidan lit a cigarette and passed his lighter to Tango.

Greg had come in a car this time, a rattletrap Volvo from the early nineties. He wore the dark hood of his sweatshirt pulled up, and worked his hands into fists over and over again that he then forced to relax.

“The mayor isn’t the one backing the club,” he said, eyes downcast, the shame in him obvious. He felt shitty about ratting, but not shitty enough to keep his mouth shut. “But they’re related. He came by the clubhouse yesterday; some drama going on or something. I overheard him talking to Jasper. He’s a real rich fucker, from Georgia, and from here, first, I think. He kept talking about his cousin. I think he’s the mayor’s cousin.”

Aidan traded a flat, orchestrated look with Tango and then leveled his gaze on Greg, working a note of apology into his voice. “That’s great and all, but we already knew that.”

Naked panic streaked across Greg’s face. He raised his voice, as another bus lurched past behind him. “Five years ago,” he said, desperately, “that’s when you guys had that problem with the designer drugs, yeah?”

Aidan felt his brows want to go up and let them. “Yeah. So?”

“William. The guy, his name’s William, that’s what Jasper called him. Those drugs – Wild Bill? – they were talking about them.Wild Bill–William. Our backer is the guy who brought those drugs into Knoxville. He’s been trying to take you guys down for years.”

Aidan felt true surprise. This time, when he looked to his friend, Tango wore a similar expression of curiosity.

“You know this for a fact?” Tango asked. “William Archer was the source of the Wild Bill?”

“I don’t have physical evidence, no, but I heard him and Jasper talking. He’s your guy. I promise you. You get hold of him, and he’ll admit it.” Fast, darting glance between them. He wet his lips. “I hear you guys have a way with…getting confessions outta people.”

Not with Mercy out of town, they didn’t, but Greg didn’t know that. And who knew: maybe Michael could step up for this special occasion.

“Greg,” Aidan said, sighing, “why are you telling me all this?”

“Because…” Doubt firing in his eyes. “You wanted me to tell you.”

“Yeah, but you’re a Carpathian.” Long, slow drag on his smoke. “I didn’t think you’d really rat them out; I was just pushing.”

Greg’s face closed up, eyes and mouth and brows tightening. It looked like a supreme effort, but he stowed away his visible emotions, got hold of himself, drew up to his full, unimpressive height. “I’m not ratting,” he said. “I’m defecting. I don’t want to be a Carpathian. I want to prospect your club.”

Aidan contemplated the smoldering end of his cigarette a long moment. Opportunity, there it was, shining in front of him. Another chance to prove himself, to grow from the teenager who lived in his father’s eyes into the man he wanted to project to the rest of the club. “Well…let’s see what we can do about that.”

“There’s something else,” Greg said. “Something I can give you.” He was sweating, the slanted sun glinting off his forehead. “I was there the night of the party.” He went white. “I was in the boat you guys found. I didn’t kill Andre, though. But I saw who did.”

Ghost had left the note himself in the wee hours, as they’d walked out of Mason Stephens Junior’s back door in the transitional neighborhood of tidy bungalows. He’d taped it to the sidelight, right beside the doorknob, so it wouldn’t be missed.

My favorite table at eight, it had read. No names, nothing to give him away, no hint of what had happened in the darkened bungalow. Nothing to see now, anyway. Ratchet had come behind them, once the cousins had been bound and gagged, wiping up droplets of nose blood with bleach.

Still, there was some risk involved. The risk that either of the fathers would find the note first. Or that whoever found it wouldn’t be smart enough to figure out the message.

But as Ghost sat in the bath of early sunlight, watching morning rush hour through the tinted window, coffee and Stella’s cinnamon rolls steaming in front of him, his phone chimed with a text alert.

Incoming, Michael alerted him.JL.

His note had worked like a charm.

Jasper Larsen came into Stella’s Café with entirely too much nervous energy pulsing through his movements, his hands half-curled into fists, his steps too large, his expression one of clamped-down aggression.

Ghost gave him a disinterested wave and sipped his coffee, wondering if Stella would come whack him across the back of the hand with a wooden spoon if he lit a smoke indoors.

Jasper slid into the booth across from him and folded both arms across the table in an aggressive way, pitching his weight forward, light eyes sparking.

“What’d you do with him?”

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