“Oh, Jasper,” Ghost said, shaking his head, prying a cinnamon roll loose from the frosted snarl of them on the plate, the rich smells of cinnamon and warm sugar flooding across the table. “You’ve gotta be cooler, man. That’s no way to start this conversation.”
Jasper grunted. “I ain’t got time for your smartass games, old man.”
“Busy day, then?”
“Where the hell is Mason Stephens?” he hissed.
Ghost sighed and scraped frosting off his lip with his teeth. “I’m gonna give you some advice, because I’ve been dealing with these goddamn Stephens longer than you have, and I’ve learned something about them. For them, there’s no measure too illegal when it comes to gaining a political reputation. Mason Senior almost got his kid killed five years ago trying to flood the streets with tainted X in an effort to make my club look bad. He would murder his own mother if he thought he could stage the crime scene to make it look like I did it.
“They’re the worst kind of predators, him and his kind. All smiles and Ralph Lauren and knives behind their backs.” He smiled. “Golden boys. All-American monsters, looking for a town to torture.”
Jasper made an impatient gesture with his eyebrows. “Yeah. Lots of people hate you.” Tight smile. “I get that.”
“Apparently not, or you’d realize you’re being used.” Ghost kept his voice at an unsuspicious volume, low, but not whispering, the meter of his words light and conversational. It was an art, really, having private discussions in public. “This whole Carpathians versus Dogs thing? That’s been orchestrated by Stephens and his cousin. He’s using you to do his dirty work in getting rid of us. And when we’re gone, he’ll get rid of you, without even blinking.”
Jasper’s jaw firmed up, eyes hardening. “He–”
“I know he bought you that clubhouse, those bikes, all that stupid fucking neon. It was his idea to torch the mattress store, wasn’t it?”
No answer.
“Look, kid, I’m gonna give you some good advice. Walk away. Take your matching bikes, your boys, take all the money he gave you, and go back to wherever you came from. There’s nothing in this fight for you.”
Something dark and fierce stole across his face, a shadow passing between him and the sunlight that struck his profile. “There’s revenge,” he said, voice low and fierce. “That isn’t nothing.”
Ghost made a dismissive gesture and sipped coffee. “Your old man and your uncle were stupid. It got them killed. Let it go.”
“I want Lécuyer,” Jasper said, not backing down. He sat up straight. “Tell you what. You give me him, and we’ll back off. That’s more than a fair trade: peace for one man’s life.” He leaned forward again. “Only an idiot would refuse that.”
“Call me a moron, then. I’d never sell out one of my boys. You want Mercy, you’ll have to get him the old fashioned way.”
“Oh, I plan to,” Jasper snarled, “I just thought I’d give you the chance to make things easy for yourself.” He pushed to his feet, looming over the side of the table. “You’ve really fucked up this time, Teague. Both those boys disappearing – someone’s going to notice that.”
Ghost shrugged. “I figure.”
Jasper’s smile was thin and vicious. “Seems like I’m not the one who needs the advice.” He stole a roll off the plate. “I’ll be in touch,” he said, stepping back, “but you won’t like what I have to say.”
Ghost watched him leave, the sanctimonious set of his shoulders as he pushed through the front door.
When Jasper was out of sight, lost down the sidewalk somewhere, Michael appeared from nowhere and took his seat, sliding into the booth across from Ghost.
“I should follow him,” he said in his perfect, modulated voice. “And cut his throat in the next alley.”
“Not yet,” Ghost said, pushing the plate toward his sergeant at arms. “Soon, yeah, but not now.”
He let the hot coffee flood his mouth, watched the flow of traffic, and wondered how far down the road Ava and Mercy were, how much fear was cycling through her bloodstream.
Michael passed a finger through the globbed icing on the plate and stared at it, like the stuff confused him. “War,” he said, without context, like he’d plucked the word from Ghost’s mind.
Yes, there would be war.
Vince Fielding took his office phone off the hook and let the receiver sit balanced over the stapler, the dial tone droning softly to itself. He massaged his face, the back of his neck, working fruitlessly at the all-over tension that had gripped him for days. If he had to field one more call from some hysterical soccer mom wanting to know when he’d get those “demons” off the street, he’d become one of those cops who drank on the job.
The city was in an uproar over the Dogs. A group of parents had arranged a protest on the courthouse lawn for later in the week, and it was expected to draw a crowd. Kids were getting pulled out of any afterschool activities that would put them on the roads at night. The grocery stores and gas stations were running out of bread and milk; people were stocking up and staying home behind locked doors like it was a fucking blizzard or something. He was being called out to look at doorknobs homeowners swore had been tampered with, missing bicycles and stolen newspapers. Everything from shoplifted gum to the common cold was being blamed on the Lean Dogs.
Add to that Mason Stephens’ unrelenting pressure, and the only thing Vince wanted to buy in bulk was vodka. He received no less than three phone calls from the man a day, and always at least one in-person visit. “I want those Dogs locked up, all of them. They’ve ruined this city for too long.”
It was Stephens who’d hooked Fielding up with his two informants, one of which was now dead, which stood to reason the other was in danger of ending up that way.
