The responding silence was as good as acquiescence.
~*~
The bikes were heard out on Industrial just before nightfall. It was dark enough for the headlamps to flare like glowing eyes, light enough for the riders in their black cuts, helmets and shades to be visible and distinct as they swooped in at the gates and cruised up to the clubhouse.
Aidan sat on a picnic table with Tango and Mercy, smoking, waiting.
“Welcome home, boys,” Ghost said, stepping forward as engines died and helmets were taken off.
“Home?” Candy said with a laugh, swinging off his bike and rising up to his full, formidable height. “You still trying to get me to transfer, old man?”
“Always worth a shot.”
The Knoxville president and Texas VP shared a back-slapping man-hug, and then they were all on their feet, greeting their brethren. Aidan embraced Candy, Jinx, and Walsh’s brother Fox. Then he realized who the fourth Texan was, and stepped back to watch the show, eyes going to Mercy.
There was nothing “half” about the resemblance between the two brothers. Colin was a big man, but he lacked the finely-honed edge of complete and total insanity that lurked beneath Mercy’s affable surface. Still, he was impressive and intimidating in his own right, black hair cropped short, ropy arms bare despite the cold. His prospect cut did little to diminish his aura.
The two sized one another up a long, tense second, and no one else spoke, waiting.
Finally, Mercy was the one to initiate contact. He extended one huge hand for a shake, and Colin accepted it a second later.
“How’s the family?” Colin asked stiffly.
“Good. Ava says to come by the house sometime.”
They let go of one another at the same time, as though it was scripted.
“I need a drink,” Candy announced, and it broke up the last of the awkwardness, and sent them all inside.
~*~
“I expected to ride in and find the city on fire, the way you talked over the phone,” Candy said as he commandeered the bottle of Scotch from the groupie who’d offered it and poured his own drink. He sat at the bar, holding court as was his way, brows lifted as he glanced over at Ghost.
“Not yet,” Ghost said, and gestured to Ratchet.
The secretary was sitting at one of the round bar tables with Rottie, Hound, and RJ, and pushed up like he’d been waiting for this summons on the edge of his chair. It was the first time that evening Aidan noticed the file folder tucked under his arm. He walked to the bar, handed Ghost the file, and then waited, hands linked behind his back.
“Chapel,” Ghost said, and they all headed that way.
It was a tighter fit than normal, with four extra guys, and Ghost waited until they were all settled before he laid the folder out on the massive dining table and spread out its contents, angling them so Candy had a good view.
The Texas VP studied the paperwork a moment, then sat back and said, “Shit.”
Aidan felt a prickling like fingernails at the back of his neck. “What?” he asked.
Ghost looked toward him, and it might have been their first moment of eye contact since that morning in the Teague kitchen a few weeks ago. “Names.”
“Yeah?”
“Our names. Our old ladies’ names. I’m pretty sure it’s some kinda hit list.”
“What?” Several voices asked the question along with him.
“Our little Ratchet’s been busy,” Ghost explained, “hacking into accounts and intercepting emails. This was sent to Ellison himself from one of his top underthugs.” From the printout, he read, “Kenneth and Margaret Teague. Kenneth a.k.a. Ghost. President. 2254 Chastain Street. Kingston and Emmaline Walsh…” And on it went. Michael and Holly. Mercy and Ava…all of them. Names, addresses, club names, and club ranks.
“How long have you been sitting on this?” Mercy asked, voice scary-quiet.
“Two days.” Ghost’s tone said he didn’t expect a bunch of arguing. “I wanted to wait until we were all together.”
