“Big Son,” Mercy called, keeping his voice low. In went the second rock. “Come and get it, you big son of a bitch.”
Third rock.
“There,” Ava breathed, pointing. Something was stirring the water, a great sweeping motion back and forth beneath the surface.
Mercy’s grin was a flash of white teeth in the dark. “Oh yeah. That’s him.” He reached into the open tarp they’d lined the bottom of the bateau with and hefted up the dead man. A sequence of easy moves for him, like he was picking up groceries, a sack of garbage, rather than a full grown man.
“Son,” he called again. “I got something real good for you.” And he deftly slid the body over the side, into the welcoming dark water.
Ava watched the disturbance move closer, that pendulous motion that had to be his massive tail propelling him forward. She imagined she saw the scaly ridges of his back, the knobs of his eyes.
And then there he was, fully realized in the flashlight, right at the top of the water, breathtaking in all aspects. Ava glimpsed his stubby front foot, the one Mercy had told her about, and then all her attention was on his huge head, as he opened his jaws in a flash and grabbed hold of the dead man.
“Oh, God,” she whispered.
“Turn the light out, baby,” Mercy said. “You don’t want to watch him go into his roll.”
“No,” she agreed. “I don’t.”
It was bad enough she could hear the splashing and snapping as Mercy poled the bateau out of Son’s pool. Other gators passed them, gliding through the water, headed toward the feast. A chill went up her spine to hear the deep, guttural groaning sounds the reptiles made, the hissing as others challenged the big gator for a piece of meat.
When they were safely away, and the noise had faded, Ava twisted around. Mercy was a dark ghost in the stern of the boat, like a gondolier from hell.
“He’s real,” she said. “Big Son.”
He chuckled. “Of course he is. I may tell stories, but they’re always true.”
“Pathetic losers, the lot of them,” Walsh said, which amounted to a big speech from him, as he toed one lifeless corpse with obvious contempt. A speech, and a facial expression. A big show for the Englishman.
Twelve Carpathians lay like dominos, lined up on the floor one beside the next, all shot cleanly and expeditiously. Dead. They’d never suspected an ambush at their own clubhouse. None had been armed, none ready. The girls had all made a break for the doors, screaming, and the Dogs, faces covered by masks, colors safely left at home, had managed to let them escape without losing any of the Carpathians.
“Yeah,” Ghost agreed. “Poor stupid bastards.” He surveyed the dead with his hands on his hips. “One problem, though.” He glanced up to scan all their faces. “Where are the officers?”
“We’re missing the VP, secretary, sergeant, and Larsen,” Collier confirmed, walking down the line of bodies. “Were any of them part of the four you took out last night?” he asked Michael.
Michael shook his head. “They were just kids.”
Ghost scowled. “That’s not a coincidence. They knew we’d come, after the drive-by. And they’re not here.”
A thought struck Aidan. “The drive-by was a distraction.”
Ghost gave him a sharp look.
“Larsen’s got something planned, and the drive-by was to keep us busy.”
“The drive-by’s their MO,” Ghost argued.
“Yeah, but last time, they were trying to kill your wife and kid.”
Ghost frowned, muscle in his jaw twitching. “We need to find him.” He gestured to the bodies. “You’ve got this?” he asked RJ and Rottie.
Both looking exhausted, they nodded.
“I’ll go with them,” Briscoe offered.
“Me too,” Dublin said. “That’s too much digging for two boys.”
Carter could see his face in the coat of varnish on the bar top. He’d polished until his elbow ached. His reflection looked droopy-eyed. One final scrape of his thumbnail at a mystery fleck, and he literally threw in the towel, tossing his rag into the bucket under the taproom sink and slumping sideways onto a stool.
