Ghost Hold: The PSS Chronicles Book 2

Chapter 3, A Strange Exchange

The illegal arms deal that preceded our departure was a fairly casual affair. At least at first. Marcus showed Shotgun his fake ID and a gun permit, though that seemed to be a mere formality. Money exchanged hands, a pretty significant wad of it, and then the two purse guns, several other hand guns, a Remington shotgun, and the AR15 were stuffed back into the army bag, along with a large and varied array of ammunition. Then Shotgun's men, Nose and Jason in tow, lugged the heavy bag out the door and headed to the van.

"And one more thing," Shotgun said, reaching into his coverall pocket and pulling out a minus meter.

I didn't even think about it. One second I was standing next to Marcus, the next I was between him and the meter, my ghost hand extended through my glove and wound around Shotgun's neck like a boa constrictor.

"You turn that on and you die," I told him. A minus meter had killed Marcus's sister Danielle by draining her PSS. Marcus had been tortured with one in Greenfield. And I'd had a small taste of that agony myself when Dr. Fineman had turned his on me. I wasn't taking any chances with this one.

"Olivia," Marcus whispered in my ear, his arms reaching gently around me to take hold of the meter. "He's giving it to us. I bought it from him."

After Greenfield, we'd talked about trying to get our hands on one to see if we could figure out how it worked, maybe even find a way to defend against it. But dammit, Marcus could have told me we were getting one here. And what was Shotgun doing with a minus meter anyway?

The eyes of the man I was choking were fixed on my wrist, watching my PSS swirl and writhe. He didn't look angry, or afraid. If anything, his look was one of awe and admiration as he let go of the minus meter, releasing it to Marcus.

But I didn't let go of him. Didn't want to. I could sense something inside of him, and my hand wanted it. And Marcus wanted it too. I could feel him, pressed against my back, hoping, anticipating. I hadn't used my hand like that since the night I'd pulled the cube out of the Dr. Fineman. In fact, I hadn't used my ghost hand at all, except for little things like picking locks, because I could feel the ability lurking there, waiting for the chance to reach into someone. Marcus had wanted me to experiment. He'd wanted me to pull something out of Nose, who had apparently volunteered out of the misguided notion that it would make up for tying me up in Mike Palmer's And Marcus didn't seem to understand that I was terrified of what my hand could do, of the things it brought forth, of the way I could feel, even now, something inside this man calling to me, begging my hand to sink into him. But I would not do that again.

Slowly, I retracted my PSS, slipping it from around his neck and letting it coalesce back into my glove.

"Oh, you two are perfect for each other," Shotgun said, rubbing his neck and smirking at me and Marcus. Then he made some sort of weird little salute and said, "Long live The Hold."

"It's not like that," Marcus snapped, pushing me to the side and right out of his arms.

"Does she know it's not like that?" Shotgun glanced at me, raising his eyebrows.

What the fuck were they talking about? Not like what? And what the hell was The Hold?

"We came here to do business. That's all," Marcus said, shoving the minus meter into his pocket and holding out his hand to Shotgun. "I paid you. We shake hands like business men. And then this transaction is over."

Shotgun stared down at Marcus's hand like it was an insult. Like it had just slapped him. Maybe in Indiana they didn't shake on business deals.

Marcus kept his hand out, waiting.

Finally, Shotgun reached for it, but at the last second he changed the position of his grip, forcing Marcus into an arm-wrestle hold very much like the insignia on his coveralls.

They stood for a moment locked in place, their faces close, their arms bulging as Marcus tried to pull away and Shotgun held him there. It was such a ridiculous display of testosterone, I didn't know whether to laugh or try to break it up, so instead I just stood there watching.

"I knew your mother," Shotgun said, staring intently at Marcus.

It was the last thing on earth I'd expected him to say, and Marcus looked as surprised as I was. He seemed torn between bolting, which he obviously couldn't do, and punching Shotgun in the face with his free hand, which was now balled into a fist.

"My mother is dead," Marcus practically spat, "thanks to The Hold."

"You don't know what you're talking about," Shotgun insisted.

"Neither do you, Fleshman," Marcus said.

I'd never heard the term spoken aloud before, but I'd read about it and I knew what it meant. Fleshman. Fleshy. Slang for someone without PSS. I had never thought of it as particularly insulting, but Marcus might as well have punched Shotgun in the face the way he dropped Marcus's hand and staggered back, eyeing him like a wounded animal.

"The Hold could use you," Shotgun said, looking from Marcus to me. "Both of you. That's all I was saying."

"We're not interested in being used," Marcus said, turning and walking out of the gun club leaving me there alone and gawking at Shotgun.

"That there is a very bitter young man," Shotgun said softly, staring after him.

"Wait. You knew his mother? How? When?" I couldn't resist asking.

Shotgun glanced at me, and his face hardened. "That's none of your business," he said. "Now go on."

As I walked out, Shotgun's two henchmen were coming in, but they moved aside and let me pass.

I ran to catch up with Marcus, who was already halfway back to the van. "What the hell was that about?" I demanded, my shorter legs racing to keep up with him. "And thanks for leaving me back there with that guy in a room full of guns."

"Shit," he stopped, turning to me. "I'm sorry. He just—I didn't—I was going to hurt him, or at least try to, and that wasn't going to help anything."

I'd never seen Marcus like this. His whole body was shaking, and he didn't seem to know what to do with himself.

I took his hands in mine, trying to hold him together. "Do you think he really knew your mother? And why was he trying to arm wrestle you?"

"It's a long story," Marcus said, glancing toward the van and then looking back at me. "One I promise to tell you when we get to Indy. We got what we came for. That's the important thing."

"Okay," I nodded. Marcus had a dark past and a lot of secrets. I knew that. I also knew that whatever had just happened was not a topic for casual conversation in front of the others. Knowing Marcus, really knowing him, was not for the faint of heart. I'd learned that the hard way. I'd also learned not to push him before he was ready. If we needed to be settled in and alone before he could tell me what this all meant, I could give him that.

"Thank you," he said, twining his fingers in mine as we resumed our walk to the van. "Thanks for trusting me."

When we got there, he opened the passenger side door for me and I climbed in.

"What took you guys so long?" Nose asked from the back.

"We got a minus meter," I said, glancing back and catching a glimpse of Passion's right hand heavily wrapped in gauze and medical tape. Had she hurt it that badly? She was sitting in the middle seat next to Yale, his face sullen but resigned. He and Marcus would work out their differences. They always did.

Marcus slid into the driver's seat, slammed his door, and handed me the minus meter. "Put this in the glove box for now," he said. Then he started the van, slammed it into drive, and pulled a wide U-turn in the dirt drive, peeling out a little at the end just for emphasis.

I put the minus meter away, glad to see the Warren Gun Club receding in a cloud of dust behind us. But I also couldn't help noticing, as we whizzed past the sign, the painted insignia of a circle with two clasped hands inside it showing faintly under the club's name.

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And be sure to check out GHOST HOPE, the fourth and final book of the series releasing June 15th.