Page 96

Jackhammer nodded. “Agreed.”

“You don't get to lock me in the clubhouse every time something dangerous happens,” she insisted.

Ghost frowned. “We're negotiating that one.”

“No, we’re not,” she said.

“Fine,” Ghost griped.

“You're lying,” she said, narrowing her eyes at him.

“Probably,” he admitted.

Angel sighed. “And nobody puts a tracker on my car without telling me.”

Monster shouted from downstairs. “That wasn't them!”

Angel looked toward the door. “I'm adding Monster to the rules.” Jackhammer laughed, but it was short-lived as an alarm sounded. It wasn’t loud. It sounded more like sharp electronic beeps from downstairs. Ghost's expression changed instantly.

“What is that?” she asked.

“Perimeter sensor,” Ghost growled. The warmth disappeared from the room as Jackhammer reached for his gun. Ghost already had his.

Angel closed her eyes. “You have got to be kidding me.”

Boots thundered downstairs, and Monster shouted. “GHOST!”

They ran, and Angel followed. Jackhammer turned. “Stay—” Her expression stopped him, and he corrected himself. “Stay behind us?”

“Better,” she said.

They reached the main room. Monster stood at the security monitors. “North fence.”

Ghost looked the monitors over. “What is it?”

“Motion of some sort,” Monster said. Jackhammer looked at the screen and saw nothing out of the ordinary. The trees were still, and the morning light almost made the entire yard look peaceful. But then he was it—a figure in a black jacket and helmet moving along the outside fence.

“The rider from the barn,” Ghost said. Jackhammer's pulse kicked. The unknown man from the farm was showing up at the Toxic Monster’s yard. That couldn’t be a coincidence.

Monster reached for the radio. “Gate, north perimeter. We've got company.”

Angel moved closer to the monitor, and Jackhammer caught her arm. “What?” he asked.

She stared at the screen. “Zoom in.” Monster did, and the image pixelated. The man stopped, and he looked directly toward the camera and then removed his helmet.

Angel gasped. “No.”

Jackhammer looked at her. “You know him?”

She backed away. “No, it can’t be him.”

“Angel?” Hammer said.

“That isn't possible,” she whispered.

Ghost turned to face her. “Who is he?” Angel's face had gone white as the man on the monitor smiled. Then he held something toward the camera—a Nomad Knights cut. It was old and weathered. The patch beneath the club name read: VICE PRESIDENT

Angel whispered, “That's my uncle.”