“Thank you,” he said, not knowing who he was talking to. God, maybe. “Thank you. Thank God.”
~*~
“Well hell, it got stuck,” Mercy said, sounding incredulous. As Ghost watched, he braced a foot on the fallen henchman’s shoulder and gave the sledge a good yank; the hammer head came loose of the caved-in skull with a sticky sound.
Ghost’s stomach grabbed, but he smiled, too, turning away from his son-in-law to survey what was left of Ellison’s top of the line kitchen. Four dead here, and many more beyond, out on the lawn, by the pool, in other rooms.
Men had come pouring out of the pool and guest houses, when they realized what was going on, guns at the ready. At one point, two SUVs had pulled up out front with reinforcements, but the effort was wasted. The Lean Dogs mowed them all down.
The kitchen looked like a war zone now, smashed up by the hammers, sprayed with blood like an impressionist painter’s canvas.
“I think that’s the last of them,” Mercy said, coming around the wide marble island to join him.
Colin was breathing hard through his mouth, chest heaving – whether from exertion or disgust, Ghost didn’t know. He looked a little green and dazed as he gazed around at the carnage.
“Col, you alright?” Ghost asked, sharply.
The guy nodded, swallowed, and shook his head. “Yeah. Fine.”
Mercy rolled his eyes, but a little smile lurked at the corners of his lips. Proud big brother moment? Maybe.
Ghost unclipped the walkie-talkie from his belt and spoke into it. “Walsh, what’s the status upstairs?”
“Secure,” the VP answered. “But we got one live one, and he wants to talk to you.”
He sighed. “Yeah. On my way.” He gestured to Mercy as he left the room. “You two round up the others and start cleaning house. I want this place smoking in ten minutes, no more.”
A solid “yes, sir” from both of them.
As he crossed through the sitting room and hit the curved marble staircase – Harry falling into step behind him as sentry – he made a mental note to never decorate his evil bad guy lair in white. There was red everywhere. The copper tang of blood burned in his nose as he took a deep breath and climbed.
The upstairs was laid out like a hotel hallway, thick carpeting, potted plants, little window nooks that overlooked the grounds. Walsh waited for him in the open doorway of a bedroom that turned out to be an office. The man who wanted an audience was trussed up like a turkey on the rug in front of the desk, Fox’s gun trained on him. He was a plain-featured man, nothing distinct about him at all, not the slight build, nor the indistinct nose, nor the flat brown eyes.
Everyone else they’d killed tonight had been either a thug or a slack-jawed lackey kid. But this man was different.
‘Lemme guess,” Ghost said, “Bill?”
The man nodded and tipped his head back, revealing a trickle of blood on his chin, evidence of a split lip.
“Which one of my boys hit you?”
Bill darted a glance toward Fox.
“Hit him again, Foxy.”
Fox obliged, stepping behind him and kicking him in the kidneys. A hard kick, and from a motorcycle boot no less.
Bill grunted and arched away from the pain, breathing heavily through his nose. But he didn’t scream. When he’d subsided onto the carpet, Ghost crouched down in front of him.
“What’d you want to talk to me about?”
When the man opened his mouth, a loud gasp escaped his lips. He drew in a ragged breath and said, “Ellison knows this is happening. He’s been alerted.”
“Right. Right. Where is he, then? Was that the best he’s got? The idiots he sent? The ones my crew painted across the walls?”
Bill closed his eyes and swallowed hard.
“You weren’t hoping to bargain for your life, were you, Bill?”
