Ghost slipped his phone away and turned to Michael, who gave him a tight nod of understanding and drew his gun; held it down low along his thigh. To Briscoe and Dublin, he said, “Meet him at the door. Pat him down.”
“Right.” They headed that way.
Ghost rolled his head side to side, popping the vertebrae in his neck. “Mags?”
She was already on her feet, Ash on her hip. Kris had hold of Millie. “Come on, babies,” she said, and Cal and Remy followed her. Holly took her daughter Lucy’s hand and Mina herded the older kids along. They all trooped down the back hallway, and Ghost could breathe a little easier. Could crack his knuckles and brace himself.
He heard the scuffle at the front door. “Let go – fuck you –get off me!”
Dave Connors was not a brave, blustering sort of man, but he burst into the room like a charging bull: red-faced, veins standing out in his temples and throat, hands curled somewhere between fists and claws. His gaze was wild, glazed; he looked drunk. And in a way he was: drunk on grief.
His gaze landed on Ghost, and his snarl deepened. “You.”
Dublin came in after him, huffing for breath. “He’s not armed, but he’s out of his goddamn mind, boss.”
Ghost nodded. “I’ll handle it.”
If he’d heard their exchange, Connors didn’t acknowledge it. “You.You,” he repeated, chest heaving. “You killed my boy!” He charged.
From the corner of his eye, Ghost was aware of Michael readying himself, but Ghost was ready, too, and Dave Connors didn’t scare him. When Connors reached him – breathing ragged and open-mouthed, growling like a wounded animal – Ghost caught him by the wrists, braced his feet, and held him back.
Connors roared. His hands curled and flexed; tried to get loose; tried to claw at Ghost’s throat. He wasn’t the strongest man Ghost had ever faced, but this kind of sudden, shocking grief lent an adrenaline boost.
“I didn’t kill him,” Ghost said, his tone low and soothing, for all the good it did. “Dave, listen, I didn’t – we didn’t. Why would we? But I’m trying to find out who did.”
“You killed him! You killed my boy!” Tears ran down a face going purple. Spit flecked Ghost’s face on the man’s next exhale. He couldn’t be reasoned with you. “Fuck you,I’ll kill you!”
“Ghost,” Michael said, warningly.
“I know.” Ghost shoved Connors backward; he caught him off guard, and managed to torque his own body, twist Connors around so that he could slam him up against the edge of the table. Connors’ eyes widened in shock as he lost his balance, and then it didn’t take much to slam him back across the table. He yelled.
Ghost pinned his wrists, and leaned all his weight into it. Connors kicked and thrashed, but his feet weren’t on the ground, and he had no leverage, and not enough athleticism to twist loose some other way.
Michael, Dublin, and Briscoe moved in around the table, close enough to lend a hand if need be, but not crowding.
Ghost shoved his face into the other man’s, and roared, “Shut up!”
Someone dropped a dish in the kitchen, and he heard Jazz’s low “damn!” of startlement.
Connors gasped a moment, his eyes wide and still leaking tears.
“I didn’t kill your son,” Ghost said, enunciating with extra emphasis. “My club didn’t kill your son. Jimmy got involved with some really bad guys who’re trying to take the club down and using kids to do it. It’s sick, and it’s awful, and we’re going to stop them, but what you’re doing isn’t helping. Get hold of yourself.”
Connors dragged in a ragged breath. “He was in your bar.” Another protest, but all the force had drained out of his voice. His body went limp beneath Ghost. “He was…”
“Do you honestly believe I would kill your son and put his body on display in my own bar?”
“…On…display…?”
Shit, he shouldn’t have said it that way.
Ghost gave him a little shake. “I’ve got every one of my guys working on this. We’ll catch the bastards – if you get out of the way and stop trying to start fights you can’t finish.”
The front door must have been left open, because Ghost heard the squeal of tires, the slam of a door, the slap of feet. “Kenny,” Fielding’s breathless voice said, and then: “oh, shit.”
“Dave,” Ghost said. “Let’s work together. Help me find the guys, and we’ll get justice for your son.”
Connors stared at him a moment, searching his face with a blind, withdrawn gaze. Then his eyes closed, and his face screwed up, and the ugly, broken sobs came.
