Free Price of Angels by Lauren Gilley Page B

smiled wryly, an expression reflected by some of the others.
                  They all knew what the cops had found when they’d dragged the river: nothing. Mason Stephens and Ronnie Archer’s bodies weren’t there, not even in little pieces, because Collier hadn’t been the one to kill them and dump them.
                  “They haven’t been knocking around here anymore,” Ghost continued, “and that’s a good thing.” He cast a look down the table. “Ratchet, what else have we got?”
                  The secretary flipped through his notes, tapping a handwritten line with a finger. The sun was blinding where it struck the shiny lotioned sides of his shaved head. “A dealer reached out a couple days ago, called in on the hotline” – the prepaid cellphone Ratchet kept to manage all their drug business – “and wants to move the area. He heard he’d have to set that up with us, so this was just a reaching out. Wants to meet, sometime soon. Thought I’d handle the initial before I bring him to sit down with you,” he offered, helpfully.
                  Ghost nodded. “That’s fine. When you doing it?”
                  “Today. This afternoon at two.”
                  Another nod. “Take Merc for backup.”
                  At the foot of the table, Ghost’s son-in-law gave a little salute of acknowledgement.
                  Michael felt his stomach sour just at the sight of the guy. Mercy Lécuyer was a big man, and rather than compensate for that by serving his president with grace and dignity, he allowed himself to become the center of attention. He put his own wants and needs above those of the club – his specific want being Ghost’s twenty-two-year-old daughter. Mercy had stirred up too much drama. He was too cocky. Twice he’d caused his president grief of a variety that Michael would have died before bringing to the club table. He had no discretion, that’s what it was. Mercy liked what he did – the torturing; it was fun for him. He was loud and Cajun and long-haired and just…annoying.
                  “Anything else?” Ghost asked, and Ratchet shook his head.
                  “Just the usual maintenance stuff.”
                  “Okay, then. I’m all about keeping the burden light for right now. The longer we can lay low, the faster the shit will blow over. I don’t want to start anything or stir shit up. Nice and quiet, for the time being. Everybody good with that?”
                  There were choruses of “yes.”
                  Ghost nodded, smacking a hand down on the tabletop before he pushed his chair back. “Good. I’ll let everyone know what Collier says.”
                  As the rest of the Dogs got to their feet, small conversations broke out, mundane little inquiries and bits of gossip. Ghost’s son, Aidan, and his best friend, Tango, dove right back into their pre-church discussion about what to do with a difficult bike they had over at the shop. RJ called something to Mercy that made him laugh. Rottie helped the aging Hound up from his chair with a quick, deft touch under the arm that everyone else probably missed.
                  The club had gone back to normal. With the war with the Carpathians at a rest, the rats in the ground, and Collier in jail and trying, willingly, to take the fall for four murders to keep the heat off the club, the Dogs were returning to a calmer routine, the energy at a sustainable, everyday level.
                  And just like normal, there wasn’t any chitchat aimed Michael’s way as church broke up. What did he need any of that for? If he wanted to chew the fat, he’d make a trip out to see Uncle Wynn. It wasn’t in his nature to be talkative. People never really cared what he had to say; so why try? He’d spent too many years learning