Page 286 of Fearless

The door eased open and Ghost Teague leaned in, taking in the scene before him with a small, smug smile. “Am I interrupting? You did say twelve-thirty, right?”

Vince wished for an earthquake, a big fault line to open up beneath him and swallow him, desk and all. No such luck.

He nodded. “Yeah. Give me five minutes.”

He wouldn’t need them, though. Stephens pushed unsteadily to his feet. “You,” he said through his teeth, turning toward Ghost. “You son of a–”

“Don’t go insulting my mama now,” Ghost said, and pushed the door wide, so they had a view of the bullpen…and so the officers in the bullpen could see, and hear, everything that transpired within. “You say whatever you want about my dickhead dad, but Mama’s off limits.” He grinned. He knew he had them in a trap, the bastard.

“Mister Mayor,” Vince said with a sigh, “why don’t you and I continue our conversation later?”

Stephens spared him one scowl before he left, glaring a hole through Ghost that was received with another smile.

When he was gone, Ghost heeled the door shut and dropped into the chair Stephens had abandoned, hands clasped loosely, relaxed and in good spirits. He looked younger when he wasn’t pissed off. The resemblance to his son became even stronger.

“You two ladies having a tea party?” he asked.

“Bite my ass,” Vince muttered. “Stephens knows your boy Collier didn’t kill Ronnie or Mason.”

Ghost shrugged. “He says he killed them. What more do you want?”

“The truth would be nice.”

“Oh, you mean like the truth of you turning my guys into rats?”

Vince tried not to flinch.

“You fucked with me. With my club,” Ghost continued. “I may hate your sorry guts, but I don’t come into your precinct and try to turn your uniforms over to my side.” He snorted. “Who’s the real outlaw here, Vince?”

“Andre and Jace knew what they were risking when they came to me,” he defended.

“Came to you?” Ghost made a disbelieving face. “Those two couldn’t take a shit without consulting an instruction manual. No, you went to them.”

“You seem awful comfortable with them being dead.”

Ghost shrugged. “What use have I got with rats? My VP agrees, apparently.”

“What do you want, Ken?”

Ghost sat back and folded his arms, made a thoughtful face. “For starters, I want my daughter to find the drive to go back to grad school in the winter. I want my son-in-law to not be crippled. I want my real son to take more initiative. But right now, I want you to agree to do your job tomorrow. Because when the paper hits your desk in the morning, you’re gonna have grounds for launching a full-scale investigation into Mason Stephens and his cousin, William Archer. What they’ve done to this city is unforgivable, and I want you to do something about it.”

The junior reporter who’d been tipped off about the murder at Dartmoor weeks before – Donald Malory – was in a not-subtle state of awe to have been invited into the Dogs’ clubhouse like this. He sank slowly down onto one of the couches and let his gaze wander around the common room, drinking in every detail, mouth falling open as he became absorbed in his inspection.

“Whenever you’re ready,” Ghost said dryly, and the kid snapped to, fumbling his notepad out of his hands in his haste to pay attention.

“Sorry. Yeah. Just…” He shook his head. “Nevermind.”

Aidan and Tango were grinning.

“No, what?” Ghost said with a sigh.

Malory hitched up his thin shoulders – dwarfed inside his too-large corduroy jacket – and said, chewing on his lip, “It’s just that…when I was a kid I used to wonder what it looked like in here. I kinda had a thing for motorcycles. And you guys are local legends.”

Aidan beamed.

“There’s worse things to be called,” Ghost said with a consenting sigh. “But, let’s keep this strictly business.”

“Absolutely.” Malory nudged his glasses up his nose and said, “You said over the phone that you had a scoop on the mayor?”

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