Ava cast a glance into the next room, at Ronnie massaging his scalp from his slump on the sofa. Why? she wondered. Why am I not allowed to have what my parents have? Why do I have – Ronnie dug his phone from under his pillow and checked it –this?
That was a dangerous way to think.
The stopwatch inside hertick-tick-ticked.
It was always all-black on a funeral day; respect for the deceased, a nice set-off for their black and white center patches. And given their current errand, Mercy thought it was a nice touch of drama.
There was an abandoned gas station a quarter mile down the street from the Carpathians’ clubhouse, and that was where they sat, leaning on their bikes between the derelict pumps and the thick tangles of weeds growing from the deep pavement cracks. The sun fell on them, full-force through the tattered remains of the canopy, and gleamed dully on the muted black tanks and fenders of their bikes, catching the lenses of their sunglasses in bright flares.
“No, we won’t knock on their door,” Ghost had said with his back to the rising sun that morning, mist lifting up off the river behind him. “We won’t have to.”
And here they sat, waiting.
And here came the approaching rumble of bike engines.
“Fifteen minutes,” Walsh said, marking the time they’d spent sitting.
“I won the pool on that one,” Dublin said.
From behind the screen of the neighboring property’s chain link fence, four bikes appeared, turning in at the driveway and settling to a halt some ten yards off from their own loose knot of Harleys.
Theirs were new bikes, Mercy noted. Brand new, fresh off the assembly line. All four were current year model Fat Boys, all a shiny black, sparkling chrome pipes and handlebars, each fuel tank airbrushed with the snarling wolf head insignia in full-color, dripping saliva and everything. Flashy, uniform, tasteless, all of it. And bought with a whole damn lot of someone’s money.
“Fucking jokers,” RJ muttered, just low enough that the four approaching Carpathians might have been able to hear.
Aidan and Tango chuckled before Ghost snapped his fingers and earned their silence.
The officers had come out to be the welcoming party: young little Larsen with the president patch sitting heavy over his breast pocket; an elderly, bow-legged guy who might have been another uncle was VP; the sergeant at arms had shoulders like a Spanish bull and no neck to speak off, some brainless thug with more muscle than sense; and a bird-faced middle-aged secretary rounded out the leaders of this white trash pack.
“Jasper,” Ghost said, tone almost cordial. “It’s been a long time.”
“Too long,” Jasper said. He didn’t have the same control over his voice, that deep well of calm and gravitas.
Ghost smiled. “Well, a boy’s got to do some growing up before he’s big enough to fill his daddy’s shoes.”
Mercy heard a low, dark laugh from one of his brothers. The four Carpathians stood stone-faced.
Jasper couldn’t have been any older than Aidan. Medium build and height, the girls probably thought he was hot with his blonde hair and blue eyes and that massive chip he carried on his shoulder. There was an aura of extreme anger about him, the young, stupid kind of anger that led to snap decisions and excessive violence. The only son of Erik Larsen, his father had called himself “president” of the Carpathians fourteen years ago, before they’d ever been a legit club. Erik and his brother Peter had seen fit to crawl through Ava’s bedroom window when she was eight, deciding that assassination of one of the Dogs’ royal families would gain them a toehold, some leverage, bragging rights, if nothing else. Erik and Peter had drowned in each other’s blood that night, and Mercy had smeared sticky red streaks across Ava’s face when he’d tucked her into the crook of his arm and wiped the tears from under her eyes with his thumb. Mercy himself had dumped the bodies on the Larsens’ front lawn. The family knew his face. Knew he was to blame. Knew what he was capable of.
And now here was Jasper, ready to battle for supremacy, avenge his father’s death, take the place he’d always wanted for himself.
“James stepped down?” Jasper asked, voice hostile, chin jutting toward the president patch Ghost wore.
Ghost shrugged. “Nobody ever asks to be king, huh? It just gets handed to you. You know that.” Little nod in return. Then a slow smile. “Just like you already knew James gave up his seat, seeing as you, or at least one of your boys was at his party the other night.”
Jasper’s smile was cruel. “Do I look stupid enough to send my guys onto Dogs’ property?”
“I don’t give a damn what you look like; I’m saying you were there.”
“You got me on camera?” Jasper shot back. “Prove it. Who the fuck would waste time killing a coke-head waste of space like Andre, anyway?”
“Collier,” Ghost said, in a stage aside to his VP. “Did you hear me say ‘Andre’ just now?”
“No, boss, that I did not.”
Jasper’s face blanked over.
“I also managed to keep his name out of the papers,” Ghost said, his smile wide now. “So how’d you know it was Andre who got stabbed, Jasper? We’d all” – broad gesture to the group of them – “love to know.”
