Page 11 of Monster Mania

“Calling someone who does know how to find someone,” Ghost admitted. He pulled out his phone. There were advantages to spending twenty years in an MC. You collected contacts, had cops who owed you favors, and knew bartenders who heard things. You also knew mechanics who noticed things, women who remembered faces, and criminals who knew other criminals. And occasionally, a computer nerd who could find damn near anyone. Ghost scrolled through his contacts until he found the number.

Hammer leaned over his shoulder. “Who the hell is Mouse?”

“Guy out of my old club in Pennsylvania,” Ghost said.

“What club?” Jackhammer asked.

“None of your business,” Ghost grumbled.

“You trust him?” Hammer asked.

“Not really,” Ghost admitted.

“That's reassuring,” Hammer mumbled as he sat down next to Ghost.

“But I trust that he’ll do the damn job for the right amount of money,” Ghost said. He hit the call button, and Mouse answered on the fifth ring.

“This better involve either cash or a naked woman,” Mouse shouted.

Ghost smiled. “Morning to you too.”

There was a pause. “Ghost? You’re still alive?”

“Unfortunately,” Ghost said. “Listen, I need something.”

“Of course you do,” Mouse griped.

“I need information on a woman,” Ghost continued, ignoring his old friend's wisecracks.

Hammer dragged his chair closer to Ghost. Mouse sighed. “Name?”

“Angel Sanchez,” Ghost said.

“That's all you have for me?” Mouse asked.

“She’s got dark hair and is probably in her mid-thirties,” Ghost said.

“Wow. That narrows it down to half the fucking country,” Mouse grumbled.

“She drives a black SUV,” Ghost said. Mouse was silent, and Ghost frowned. “You still there?”

“I'm trying to decide if you're fucking with me,” Mouse said. Hammer laughed, and Ghost flipped him off.

“I'll get you more information as soon as I can,” Ghost promised. “Will you take the fucking job or not?”

“For the right price, sure,” Mouse agreed. “Text me the details, and I’ll text you how much I’m charging you.” Mouse disconnected the call.

Hammer leaned back. “That went well.”

“Shut up,” Ghost mumbled.

“We don't know shit about her,” Hammer said.

“We know enough,” Ghost assured.

“Such as?” Jackhammer asked.

Ghost counted on his fingers. “Her name is Angel Sanchez. She’s in her mid-thirties and most likely grew up around an MC. I’m betting that her father was a Prez. And I’m also going out on a limb here and saying that both her father and her man are dead.”