Page 101 of Lord Have Mercy Part Four: Big Son

Mercy’s brows lifted.

“You for him.”

In the silence that followed, the droning of flies and cicadas, inside and outside the house, pressed in tight around them, filling the gaps between bodies and breath. The moment stretched out molasses-slow, sticky contrast to the fluttering of Harlan’s pulse in his throat, his ears, behind hiseyes. He didn’t breathe, and thought, in the split-second between Mercy taking a breath and opening his mouth, that he might pass out. A split-second in which he recognized that he was about to die, and screamed internally at the injustice of it, of Mercy getting the last laugh, the last say.

But then Mercy kicked his head back, and smiled again, small and infuriating. The cat that got the cream – though in his case, the cat was a tiger, and the cream was the whole damn cow. “Alright,” he drawled, dragging the word out. “Me for Remy. Deal.”

The British man started laughing, low and delighted. “What’re you gonna do with him, lad? Put a bit in his teeth and a saddle on his back? I’d like to see that.”

“When and where?” Mercy asked.

“TBD.” Harlan’s pulse was flying, all his skin rippling and shivering. “There’s a phone in Baker’s pocket.” He nodded to the man, where he lay like dropped cordwood, brains smeared across the linoleum. He was already starting to draw flies. “Take that. I’ll call you.”

Mercy nodded, stepped back, and retrieved the phone from Baker’s pocket. Slipped it into his own. “Go on, then.” He motioned to the front door. “Off you go.”

He went, waiting for a bullet in the back the whole way. But he moved through the front room, and across the porch, and down the steps, and all the way across the weed-choked yard, cicadas sawing at his ears, and to his car.

His hands were shaking so badly it took three tries to start the engine, and when he glanced up through the windshield, he saw Felix standing on the porch, watching him go, smiling.

Twenty-Six

Evening piled thick, muggy, and orange-smeared between the high-rises of Manhattan. Ghost had expected it to be cooler than home, but it wasn’t, and instead of the familiar algal bloom of the river, it was the choking reek of exhaust and garbage that slipped through the cracked window. He rolled it back up, and had never wished to be on the back of his bike more.

In the seat beside him, Ian sat still in a rigid way that spoke of nerves, hands pressed flat to his thighs, head tipped back on the headrest, eyes closed. His nostrils flared on every breath.

Buck up, kid, Ghost wanted to say.You’ve got this. You’ve gotme. But that wasn’t what he would have said to Aidan in this situation.

Christ, Aidan…

No, no, not now. He’d think about him later, once this was done. And the kid who needed him now – who needed his unloving brand of love – was beside him, dressed in black on black with a blood red pocket square, hair brushed to new-penny brilliance.

“What’s the matter?” he asked. “You’re not seriously afraid this guy’s gonna be better dressed than you, are you?”

A slow, slight smile touched Ian’s mouth. He slitted his eyes open and glanced over at Ghost without turning his head. “Little chance of that.” He closed his eyes, and resettled, but the ramrod tension of his shoulders had eased. “Hardly. I suppose…” He frowned, and sat up, eyes open and scanning out the window. “I suppose I’m just wondering how we got to this place. All of us,” he added, turning back to Ghost, looking at him properly this time. “When I’m sure none of us could have predicted it ten years ago.”

Ghost checked his initial agreement, and gave the comment its due consideration. He tugged at the cuff of his suit – God, he was sick of suits, and it had only been a few days – and reflected back on the day he’d first met Ian. The funeral home, and Tango going pale, and shaky, and having to leave the room. Ian with his hands in a Mr. Burns steeple, his slow turn in the chair, the portrait of a movie villain, but chilling all the same.

Back then, Ghost had been high off a victory against the Carpathians – small fucking potatoes by comparison. And Ian had been backing local lowlifes like Holly’s family.

They’d come a long way; the question was: in the right direction? Current circumstances pointed to no, with everything upside down, with all of them scattered, and lying to each other, hiding things, running off and skipping out onflights to London, Mags, Jesus. But…

He took a deep breath, and smoothed his cuff one last time. He’d accomplished nothing but pulling a thread loose. “Let me ask you something. When you set up shop in Knoxville, were you planning to become involved with the Dogs?”

Ian’s gaze narrowed, and his lips thinned.

“We’re way past playing coy, Dr. Evil. I was the witness at your courthouse wedding.”

As quickly as suspicion had crossed his features, it melted into a quiet sort of warmth, and Ghost realized it hadn’t been suspicion at all; had perhaps been a breed of regret. Wanting to go back and do things differently. He could relate.

“Were you just trying to get under Tango’s skin? Or was the plan to align with us all along?”

Ian smirked. “Align. I’d say it was more like I intended to put you well under my thumb.”

Ghost cocked a single brow.

“Obviously, meeting you and yours altered my perception of what was possible. But I would have been a fool not to become involved with the Lean Dogs, given my business ambitions.”

“See? Ambitions. I took over as president with a helluva lot of those.”

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