Page 2 of Ghost

I wasn't home when the hitman found my property and made his way into my home, but Amber was. She died when it should have been my life taken. And on a rainy day, as I watched my wife's white casket, covered in wildflowers, lower into the cold ground, a part of me died too.

I had a new mission: kill the sons of bitches responsible for the death of my wife, starting with Angel Sanchez.

Two months later, I would get my first taste of vengeance after learning the location of Sanchez's compound in western Massachusetts. It was also my first-time meeting Salem and his men.

Now, I let my mind take me back to that day.

I blink a few times, refocusing my eyes, which burn from lack of sleep. I gaze through the binoculars for a moment longer, then let out a heavy sigh and place the equipment back into my pack.

I've sat in this dilapidated house across from Sanchez's property since before the break of dawn, watching and waiting for the right time to make my move. The old home smells of mold and vermin excrement. Above my head, the night sky is visible due to the collapsed roof. I turn my attention to a rustling noise to see a rat snake slithering across the dirt and debris on the floor. Knowing he's harmless, I reach over, pull a snack from my bag, rip open another protein bar, then chow down on my dinner.

I turn my attention to the substantially large, picture-perfect white farmhouse-style home. From the outside, you would never suspect a ruthless criminal resides there, living what looks to be an everyday, carefree life with a wife and two young daughters. How can the bastard watch his kids grow and sleep at night knowing he's why many young women will never see their families again? It makes me sick to my stomach, and my gut churns with disgust. Several yards away from the main home is a smaller guest house where I've watched Sanchez and a couple of his men spend most of the day. I refocus my anger. Killing Sanchez tonight is the first step toward vindicating my wife.

The temperature outside changes, followed by the roll of thunder off in the distance. I look back at the main house, where most lights are off. With it being nearly 2:00 a.m., I'm confident the people inside are sound asleep. I ready myself and stand just as the first drops of rain fall from the sky. The heavy rain pelts at my back and quickly begins soaking my clothes as I trek over the tree-lined landscape leading toward my destination. The front porch light is on but dim. Almost to the side of the guest house, I see the screen door swing open, and one of the two men who’s always with Sanchez, steps outside. I drop to my belly, making myself unseen. The moment the man walks to the darker side of the porch, turns his back, and shields himself from the wind to light a cigarette, I make my move.

The storm intensifies. Thunder and lightning are the perfect cloaks as I pull a blade from the sheath strapped against my thigh and hop onto the porch. Sanchez's man never sees me coming. I cover his mouth with one hand, plunge the serrated hunting knife into his neck, then swiftly drag his heavy weight backward off the side of the porch. I rip the blade from his neck and restrain the man as he fights to break free. His strength quickly fades as life bleeds from his body. Once his body goes lax, I release my hold, letting him fall to the soggy ground at my feet.

I stand there momentarily, allowing the rain to wash his blood from my hand and the blade I'm holding.

"Joe." I hear the screen door slam shut, and press against the side of the house, then look down at the man, lying face down a few feet away. Little does the other guy know Joe is dead. Heavy footsteps become louder, echoing off the wooden porch planks. "Yo, dipshit. Boss says it's time to go!" the guy shouts as lightning flashes across the sky, which allows him to spot his dead friend. "What the—"

The unlucky son of a bitch doesn't get to finish his shocked words as I reach out and yank him off the porch to the ground. I drive the knife's blade into the man's side, but it doesn't instantly affect him. Instead, the bastard knees me in the balls, which gives him enough opportunity to roll. Now his heavy ass is on top of me, with one meaty hand pressed against my neck and the other going for the weapon holstered at his side. Like his buddy before him, I bury my blade in the side of his neck and then rip it out. The big bastard falls backward, holding the gaping wound and gasping for air. I get to my feet. With no time to waste, I wipe and sheath my weapon and replace it with my handgun. Leaving Sanchez's second man to die, I stroll onto the porch and open the screen door. Inside, I find the man lounging on an oversized brown leather chair, with a cigar resting between his two fingers while holding a glass of whiskey. He stares at me, unfazed by the gun I have pointed in his direction.

"Who the fuck are you?" he growls, showing no fear.

"The man who killed your son." Hate grows in Sanchez's eyes at my declaration, and his nostrils flare. I continue to make my way across the room, water dripping from my soaked clothes onto the wood floor. "You had to have known this day would come."

Sanchez glares at me. "Ah, yes. I remember you. Your woman's life was a small price for killing my boy." He lifts his chin with an air of defiance and righteousness. He leans further back into his seat. "You'll be dead before you can pull the trigger." He smirks.

"Your men are dead," I tell him, wiping the condescending smile from his face. The realization that he's about to die flashes across his smug face.

"Go to hell," he sneers.

"I'm already there, motherfucker." Thunder rattles the windows of the house as I pull the trigger, then the power goes out.

"You just cost me a lot of money." The disembodied voice has me ready to kill again. A cigarette tip glows in the darkness, giving me a glimpse of the man behind the deep voice.

I aim my weapon at him. "I have no problem adding to tonight's body count."

He blows out a puff of smoke. "I believe it." He pauses, and the lights flicker back on. Several more men enter the room from various corners of the house. "But, if I wanted to stop you from killin' my paycheck, I would have already done it." He cocks his head like we're having a casual conversation. "My men and I watched you take out both men outside, and then I overheard why you were here to kill Sanchez." The man, wearing a biker cut with the name Salem, waits to see if I will speak. I choose to keep quiet. My business here is none of his concern, and I sure as shit don't feel like talking it out with a fucking stranger. "A man's business is his own. Your retribution far outweighed the price on the sick bastard's head."

Sensing no threat from him and his men, I holster my weapon, take one final look at Sanchez's lifeless body, then turn and walk out the door.

It wouldn't be the last time I ran into Salem and the men of Fallen Ravens MC. Over time we became allies.

2

BEATRIX

Do you ever dream about abandoning your current life and starting over somewhere else, hundreds of miles away, where nobody knows you? I do. I think about doing that every day. I honestly don't know what's holding me back. I have no ties to Boston, no real roots. I lost the only thing anchoring me to this place when Dad died last year. Thinking about my father and how much I miss him causes a bone-chilling ache to settle in my chest, making it hard to breathe.

Taking a deep breath, I rub my thumb over the spot on my right wrist where a tattoo of a small bumblebee sits. Looking at the bumblebee grounds me, and I can't help smiling. My father gave me the name Beatrix Lou Owens. My dad's name was Lou, and though not many fathers would name their daughter after them, I never minded. I loved my dad, and I am proud to carry his name.

To most people, I'm Bea, but I was always Bumble Bea to my dad. I was twelve when I learned that my mother had abandoned me. Dad said he and my mom didn't know each other well. She was someone he’d gone on a couple of dates with, and then one day, he never heard from her again. Nine months later, he got a phone call from her saying she was in the hospital and she'd just had his baby. Dad told me he'd been thrown for a loop at the news but didn't question my mom or think twice about dropping everything and hightailing it to the hospital to be by her side. My mom's name was Lynn, and he stayed in that hospital room for two days. He hung on every word the doctors said and didn't miss a detail when the nurses explained feedings and how to change my diaper. Dad said he fell in love when the nurse placed me in his arms. He told me Lynn had agreed to come to live with him even though he only had a one-bedroom apartment.

Dad had just started a new construction job, but he was determined to do whatever it took to support the three of us. When Mom was scheduled for discharge from the hospital, my dad came to the hospital straight from work with a brand-new car seat in hand to find my mom had left. It was the nurses who had to break the news. That was the day we became Lou and Bea. Just him and me. It was us against the world. And because I’d never known my mother, I never felt I was missing out on anything. My father adored me, and even though, at times, we didn't have much, I never wanted for anything.

I've lived in Boston my whole life. Dad and I stayed in that tiny one-bedroom apartment until I was five, and then we moved into a two-bedroom, one-bath house in a nice neighborhood. He worked so hard for that house, and he was so proud. I still live here to this day. My home holds so many good memories. It's probably the only thing keeping me in Boston. When my dad got sick with pancreatic cancer, he told me to sell the house and move out of the city as I've always wanted. He knew I struggled with the idea because of how much our home meant to me, but he said our memories are not rooted in things or places but our hearts. Just because I move away doesn't mean I move on from the life we shared, and it doesn't mean I forget.

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