He sighed deeply, and the tension bled out of his body, leaving him exhausted.
“Because the total fucking mess I’ve made of my entire life is catching up to me now. Because I’m tired – tired of getting everything wrong, tired of chicks using me, tired of everything stupid and shallow and fake. I want something real, and Sam’s the realest thing I’ve ever run across.”
Ava smiled. “Welcome to the land of adults, bro. I’m glad you finally made it.”
He rolled his eyes.
“But,” she added, “Sam doesn’t deserve to be dragged into the mess if she’s just a balm. If you’re just hoping she’ll be sweet to you and make you feel better.”
He started to respond –
“I won’t say anything to her, I promise. And really, I think she’d be good for you. Maybe help get your head on straight. But make sure it’s really about Sam, Aidan, please. She deserves to be loved. Make sure you can love her before you break her heart.”
He…nodded. That was all he could do.
Eight
The thing about gut instincts: they were never wrong. Not in Ghost’s personal experience, anyway. Right now, his gut instincts were screaming that a bunch of dead dealers went beyond a message: this was a total wipe-out, and he had a feeling he knew who was behind it.
“New construction,” he told his trackers. “Inside or just outside the city. Find it.”
Rottie called him just after lunch. “New doctor’s office suite going in just down the street from the hospital.”
So that’s where he headed, his VP and sergeant in tow.
The new building was in its infancy: the sandy soil scraped clean, black erosion fabric staked up, the footers going in as orange-vested work crews moved across the property. A trailer was parked at one end, its small windows covered from the inside with blinds, a sign tacked up beside the door. It read:
Gannon & Gannon Development, Inc.
Lance Gannon: Project Manager
“Bloody hell,” Walsh said, conversationally, as they parked and stripped off their helmets.
Some of the crew had stopped working and glanced toward them with the usual local blend of curiosity and trepidation. The men didn’t like to show it openly, not the way women did, but they still had that low spark of fear in their eyes, just visible if you looked close enough. It was a threat to their staid and steady lives, their beer guts and quiet Sunday evenings at home – seeing others of their species who’d chosen to live off the map. They saw the leather and heard the pipes, and didn’t think about the inevitable utility bills, kids, wives, grocery store runs and bouts of the common cold. They didn’t see the humans inside the cuts.
“When did they break ground?” Ghost asked.
“Two weeks ago,” Walsh supplied.
Eyes followed them as they walked to the trailer. The curiosity had a low buzzing sound, like the droning of flies.
Michael hit the stairs first, hand hovering close to his gun, taking protective point as always. He didn’t knock, but tested the knob and then pushed the door wide, sweeping in with all the grace of a military man, though he’d never been in the service.
Shame.
Ghost followed closely, Walsh bringing up the rear in tight formation, and they were rewarded with a sharp gasp of shock from the man at the desk.
As with most site offices, this one was set up as both a break room – water cooler, coffee maker, card table and chairs – and a workstation. The man at the big drafting desk poring over blueprints had the sleeves of a crisp blue shirt folded back, dark hair combed and styled neatly. Clean-shaven, Ghost saw, as the man turned to them, and sporting a fat Rolex on one wrist.
“What are you…” The man’s eyes skipped across them, resting on their chests, their assorted patches of rank and merit. That same streak of fear from outside stole through his gaze, and that was all Ghost needed to see. Yes, this man might be working with the enemy, and he might have been bold enough to break ground here, but he was scared. You could always work with scared.
“Mr. Gannon,” Ghost said, leaving it to his officers to keep an eye on their surroundings. “It’s nice to finally put a face to the name.” When the man worked his mouth soundlessly, Ghost said, “You are Lance Gannon, I’m assuming. Since your name’s by the door.”
A second of brittle silence, hesitation – then the man swallowed visibly and said, “Yes, I’m Lance. What business is it of yours?”
“Close the door,” Ghost said, and Walsh obliged.
Gannon swallowed again, another hot flash of trepidation moving through his expression.
