The Wild Charge (Dartmoor Book 9)

Twenty-Seven

Tenny sighed, and slumped down to lean an elbow on the table, temple propped on his fist. "It's a figure of speech, you stupid tit," he murmured, without any heat.

"Oh." Reese reached over and attempted to smooth Tenny's rumpled hair for him. Tenny allowed it a moment, and then batted him away. Reese withdrew easily.

It was the most intimacy they'd ever displayed in front of him, and Fox felt like an interloper. A sideways glance at Evan proved he was slack-jawed, until he caught Fox's dark look and pulled himself together.

He cleared his throat. "Yeah, so, what's the deal with that Fielding guy?"

"Keep your voice down."

Softer: "He's a cop, but he's on our side? I never really got the whole story there."

If Fox were the sort of person who felt sorry for others, he might have spared a thought for poor Evan, who they'd brought in and set to scrubbing toilets and never really bothered to walk through club lore. He hadn't done so, at least. He'd hoped that Mercy would take him in-hand, just as he'd done with Reese, but Mercy had played Big Dog for Carter, and then Reese, and maybe three ducklings was one too many.

Maybe, he reflected with a touch of horror, everyone had thought it was his place, seeing as Evan was an assassin of sorts – though a bumbling one.

He fortified himself with a big bite of hashbrowns and a long swallow of coffee. "Fielding's always been a bit – lenient with the Dogs. He's an annoying sod, but he's smart enough to know that the Dogs do their part in keeping the city stable. Also: Ghost caught him in a compromising position and more or less owns him, now. If Ghost went running to the press, forget losing his badge, he'd be in prison."

"Ah," Evan said, calm, but his eyes widened.

How a sniper was still so naïve about the way of the world, Fox would never know.

Billie arrived with the boys' food, and it was silent save eating for a while. For all that Tenny still looked half-dead, he tucked into his burger with determination: not enthusiasm, but an operative's determination to refuel his body.

He checked the time on his phone. "We'll give them a few hours," he decided.

Which meant he had a few hours to decide if he wanted to tell Ghost about the note in his pocket.

~*~

Fielding was in uniform, so when Maddox knocked and stepped into Ghost's office, his gaze went right to Vince seated in the chair across from Ghost's desk, and his face paled. "Shit."

"Shut the door and sit down," Ghost said. "We don't have long."

He hesitated a beat, though, expression stricken.

He was dressed in jeans and boots and a ratty flannel shirt, and his face wasn't so remarkable that Vince would have remembered it even if he'd seen him before, which he hadn't.

"Sit the fuck down," Ghost barked, and Maddox dropped down into the chair beside Fielding.

Vince gave him a cursory once-over before turning to Ghost. "This is him?"

"Yeah. Doesn't look like much, does he?"

The chair was an old overly ornate, velvet-seated affair Maggie had found at an estate sale, and Maddox gripped its arms with white knuckles, scared as a horse about to bolt. His voice was firm, though, when he said, "What's going on? Are you collecting law enforcement?"

"Maybe," Ghost said with a shrug, and lit a fresh cigarette – his third of the morning; sorry, Mags. "Your friends are coming," he said, without preamble. "They're at the crime scene now, and Fielding says they'll be headed this way next."