The Wild Charge (Dartmoor Book 9)

Forty-Two

Mercy had lived alone only a scant handful of years in his forty on earth. First it had been the tar-paper shack with Daddy and Gram. Then the NOLA clubhouse with all of Bob's rowdy boys. He'd bought his little apartment above the bakery when he first moved to Knoxville. But then it had been back to NOLA, tail between his legs, heart in pieces. Then Knoxville's clubhouse. Then Ava. Ava, Ava, Ava. And then the babies. And the little white house where they were on top of each other all the time and happy, so happy.

He was no stranger to living shoulder-to-shoulder with his club brothers in the dorms. To doing all the things that one did in said dorms. But he'd never had to live five to a room, his whole family crammed into one dorm like this. With the boys in sleeping bags on the floor (a campout! Cal had exclaimed with glee) and Millie sleeping in the too-small bed between them, tossing and turning while she clutched her stuffed bear. That kid was nothing but knees at night, a fact that wasn't as noticeable in their king bed at home.

Cooped up in lockdown, with the shops all closed, and no heads to bash, with the feds sniffing around...Mercy was restless. And he and Ava couldn't even have sex to take the edge off.

He still smiled and joked, and had a drink with the boys, all of them pretending their whole operation wasn't about to go to shit. But he felt like the gators he'd hunted, long ago: a writhing threat beneath a still surface.

He knocked lightly on Ghost's half-open office door and eased it the rest of the way without waiting for a response. Ghost was at his desk – had he left it at all today? – and didn't register Mercy's appearance. He sat with his elbows braced on the blotter, forehead resting against the knuckles of one hand, phone pressed to his ear with the other.

"No," he said, head shaking a fraction. His face looked ten years older than it had a week ago. "No, I don't – yeah. No. That's the priority. You think you can – well, if anyone could, guess it's you." He let out a deep breath and sat back, finally catching sight of Mercy. "Nah, do it. I trust you. Good luck." He paused, dark gazed fixed on Mercy. "We'll take care of that on our end."

He hung up, set the phone down on the desk, and said, "Shut the door."

A frisson tightened Mercy's spine. He felt his whole inner monster perk up. Ooh, something's wrong, something to do. Probably the worst thing about him was that he'd never questioned his penchant for violence.

The best thing about Ava was that she never had either.

He didn't feel like sitting, but shut the door and stood in front of it, hands going in his back pockets to hide the way his fingers wanted to drum.

"That was Fox," Ghost said, in the hard, flat tone of a man who was past his limit on bad news. "Marshall Hunter" –

All the fine hairs lifted on Mercy's arms. He envisioned his hammer, that big twelve-pounder. His tacklebox...

"Was waiting for them at the gallery," Ghost continued, above the steady, eager throb of Mercy's pulse in his ears. "Hunter shot Reese. And abducted him."

Reese. Reese of the sharp stares and the blank faces; who moved like a ninja and killed without remorse...and who was starting to smile. Starting to understand jokes. Who followed Tenny around like a puppy – and yanked him back on his chain like a trainer.

Reese, who'd wanted Mercy to give him orders, because he was adrift without them.

Their little robot boy who was finally becoming a person.

He had to pull his hands out of his pockets then to crack his knuckles, anticipation a snapping whipcord inside him. He wanted to do something. Wanted to do it now.