Authors: Jackie Keswick
“Go.”
Jack moved like a striking snake. He shot forward, grabbed Ricky around the middle, and slung him over his shoulder, holding him in place with an arm across the back of the kid’s knees. His other hand pulled a knife from his boot. Then he was up and sprinting toward the doors, dodging the milling throng.
Gareth was right behind Jack. A part of him kept an eye on the crowd and potential threats while another part of him observed Jack’s work, the way he used to do back when Jack was one of his.
And Jack did him proud.
He soothed the boy’s startled shout with a brief comment and steadied him while he ran. He didn’t look over his shoulder to check on the man he needed to avoid. He didn’t confirm that Gareth was with him. Jack just stayed focused on his task. He wove through the surging crowd, aiming straight for the small gap of clear air the bouncers had created, trusting Gareth to watch his back.
Unlike Jack, Gareth wasn’t armed when they reached the club’s entrance and the bouncers stationed there. It mattered little. They owed him for laying hands on Jack, and Gareth was determined to collect. Given the chaos around them, it wouldn’t even be tricky.
Behind him, shouts grew louder as if someone had finally noticed that this was more than a panicked escape. The tone changed from surprised to determined to demanding. One of the bouncers straightened, just as Jack drew level with him.
“What the fuck you think you—”
Gareth’s fist landed with a wet thud, and the man’s head smacked into the wall behind him.
Jack was clear and sprinting up the street, the boy still slung over his shoulder. Barely anyone took notice of the two while the sounds of approaching sirens rent the air, attracting clubbers and spectators, the way disasters often do. They milled aimlessly in the night, faces and clothes bleached of color in the light of the street lamps, only intent on the scene before them.
The second bouncer loomed, fist moving back to strike as Gareth turned.
Gareth danced to the side, grabbed the flying fist, and yanked.
The man went sailing into the crowd of spectators.
Gareth didn’t wait around to see him land. He was past the bouncer nursing a headache and back inside the club in a heartbeat.
Strobe lights still flashed around the dance floor, guiding his steps through the smoke. The crowd had thinned, and Gareth made it to the bar without incident.
The pimp was gone.
But the pimp wasn’t Gareth’s target.
He found the two boys Jack had pointed out to him earlier still huddled in their corner on the far side of the bar. How they could ignore the wailing alarms eluded Gareth—nobody could be
that
oblivious! He watched for a few moments, seeing nothing but misery in the way the two clung to each other. Misery, confusion—and a hefty dose of fear.
He stepped close, opened his mouth to speak… and had to move fast to restrain them as both jumped up and tried to run.
“Cut it out!” he snapped as the blond tried to bite his hand. “I’m here to get you out.”
Two pairs of startled, suspicious eyes met his gaze. “You were buying. You talked to Ricky and the new guy.”
Not as oblivious as he’d thought. Was that what Jack had seen? Why he had pointed the two out? Gareth heaved a frustrated sigh, wishing once more that there had been time to prepare this impromptu mission properly. As it was, Jack knew what he was doing while Gareth only wished he did.
“I was
pretending
to buy,” Gareth disagreed, voice as calm as he could make it. “The new guy’s my friend. He works with the Met. He got Ricky out. I came back for you two.”
“Why?”
A good question. Shame that Gareth was lost for an answer.
He’d come back because he thought the boys needed help.
Because they reminded him too much of Jack in his disguise.
Because they clung to each other with so much despair that something deep inside him burned.
Because Gareth rescued people who needed it.
In the end, none of his reasons mattered in this dark, smoke-filled club. None of his answers mattered.
“Don’t you
want
to get out?”
The two looked at each other, and that’s when he saw it: crippling fear, confusion, mistrust… and a tiny spark of hope. Jack might hit him if he ever found out, but Gareth flashed his biggest grin and leaned closer.
“I can knock you both out and carry you,” he offered. “It will look good, I promise.”
“Where?”
“Across the square. Jack’s there with Ricky and the police.”
They didn’t like the idea of the police, but after a moment, Gareth got a tiny nod. “You can really carry us both? At the same time?”
Without another word Gareth grabbed both boys and hoisted them to his shoulders, much as Jack had done with Ricky earlier. “Don’t worry about falling. I’ve got you,” he said as he adjusted the slight weights. “Pretend to be unconscious. Just let your hands hang down.”
He felt two bodies relax against his and nodded. “That’s it.”
Three long strides took him to the kitchen door, four more through the empty room. He pushed the back door open with a foot and scrutinized the small delivery area beside the club. It was empty, though a couple of fresh oil stains on the concrete suggested that a car had parked there earlier.
Gareth let the door swing open and closed a couple of times.
Then he eased outside and jogged to the mouth of the alley.
More spectators had accumulated outside the club, intent on watching black smoke billow out the doors and drooling over the firefighters who got ready to enter the building. Gareth and his two charges were soundly ignored. He skirted the back of the largest group of rubberneckers, turned the corner, and ran toward Baxter’s car.
“Inside, quick!” he instructed as he set the boys on their feet and opened the back door.
They balked, eyes wide with fear. “You lied. This isn’t a police car!”
Gareth bodily stopped the boys from running. “Detective—your badge, please.”
He praised creation that Baxter didn’t need an explanation. The detective held his warrant card out to the two boys, who examined it before finally getting into the unmarked car.
“Keep your heads down, and nobody will know where you are,” Gareth said, taking the front seat.
Baxter watched the boys watch him replace his warrant card in the inside of his jacket. “I’ll stay with you until our protection team gets here,” he said in a much calmer voice than Gareth could muster even on a good day. “Is that okay?”
“Where is Ricky?”
That’s what Gareth wanted to know too. He’d been craning his head in every direction looking for Jack and the brown-haired youngster he’d rescued. There were a number of official-looking cars in the small square now, and the same number of unmarked ones. Maybe Baxter had pulled in a few favors.
“Did Jack go with the ambulance?”
Baxter turned a confused gaze his way. “I haven’t seen Jack yet.”
“But—” Gareth bit off what he meant to say and shoved the door open. “Call for an ambulance,” he instructed. “The kid with him is injured. Possibly in shock.”
Then he was out of the car and running up the street.
“S
ET
ME
down!”
A weak fist pounded on his back to enforce the demand. Jack ducked into a covered driveway and carefully lifted Ricky from his shoulder. The boy swayed, clutching at the wall for support.
“Sorry about that,” Jack steadied Ricky, careful to avoid touching his injured back. “It would have taken too long to explain what I wanted you to do.”
“But you carried me!”
“So?” He flashed a smile at the incredulous youngster. “You weigh less than the packs I carry while training.”
“You train carrying things?”
“I train running too.” Another shiver wracked Ricky’s slim frame, and Jack frowned. “You need a hospital. Come on.”
Ricky stretched out a hand to hold him back. The fingers shook. “Can we just… stop a moment?” he asked in a small voice. “I haven’t been outside in weeks. I’m not allowed. I just wanna…. Please?”
The sudden pause was painful. Jack couldn’t catch his breath fast enough to stop Ricky from ducking his head and flinching away from him, expecting reprisals.
“Sure. There’s a garden the next street over. With benches. We can wait for the doctor there.” Jack tried to keep his voice calm and his body relaxed, though there was a fist-sized lump in his throat, and his insides boiled with fury at the thought of what had been done to the kid. There would be time for fury later. For now, he closed his eyes and drew a deep breath, then another. And if his vision was still a bit blurry when he opened his eyes, he blamed it on the belladonna.
He recalled Clive Baxter’s near desperation when Jack suggested they call off the job and wondered if this was the reason, that the pimp kept his string of boys locked up. But why was Clive keeping this a secret? It wasn’t as if Jack was reluctant to help when asked. If the detective had shared what he knew beyond calling the pimp a gorilla….
Sirens wailed, close by now, and Jack wanted to scoop Ricky up and drag him into the nearest ambulance, but he just… couldn’t. Not after hearing that Ricky had been held prisoner. “Do you want to walk the last bit or do you want me to carry—”
“I thought you were too fucking good to be true,” a rough voice interrupted.
“You clearly know jack shit about it.” Jack stepped in front of Ricky, using his body to shield him from the man standing in the mouth of the driveway. One of the pimp’s men, but not the one with the wandering hands who’d made such a poor job of searching him for weapons. “I could be waiting for a client.” Jack folded his arms across his chest. “Or maybe I wanted a bit of playtime of my own.”
“And maybe you’re full of shit. Hand the little whore over, and
maybe
I’ll leave you in one piece.”
Jack didn’t waste his breath on an answer. Bullies never listened. They were too drunk on the rubbish they spouted. This one was practically legless. The question was could he back it up? He was about Jack’s height, but broader and heavier, and all that swagger could be an act.
Jack watched the man’s feet, noted that he had his weight on the heels, and launched himself forward.
An arm came up in defense—Jack grabbed the wrist and spun.
A crack, followed by a groan and a slew of curses.
A quick chop to the neck.
A thud.
Jack bent and placed two fingers under the downed man’s jaw, satisfied when he found a pulse. Killing the bastard would have been too easy. Not to mention frowned upon.
The boot to his ribs knocked him sideways. He curled, hit the road with a grunt, and rolled. Breath left his body in a rush.
That’s what you get for your Samaritan attitude
, his subconscious mind admonished helpfully. He recovered his footing but was taken off guard when—
“No!”
Like a small blur, Ricky appeared right in front of Jack.
He saw the knife an instant later—saw the move in slow motion—a straight stab aimed at his gut. Before Jack could raise a hand to push him aside, Ricky cried out and fell to his knees, knife embedded in his shoulder. Jack reached and missed, and Ricky pitched forward to lie motionless in a slowly spreading puddle of blood.
“You fucking son of a bitch!”
Jack forgot where he was. He forgot that police and paramedics and God knew who else were just a few hundred yards away. He even forgot that he was armed. He only remembered Ricky’s face, the shape of the man who’d stabbed the kid, and endless hours of training hand-to-hand combat.
Rage turned him into a blur of kicks and punches, a wall of flying fists and feet, intent on inflicting as much pain and damage as possible.
He could have knocked the man unconscious more than once, but he was careful. Despite the rage, his kicks and punches were precise. They raised bruises and welts. They broke bones and split skin.
But they never allowed oblivion.
“That’s enough!”
Strong arms wrapped around Jack’s torso, immobilizing his fists. He squirmed and kicked until he registered the scent of Gareth’s cologne. His body reacted to Gareth’s warmth, the command in his voice. Jack’s struggling slowed, but he wasn’t done.
“Let me go! He killed the kid.”
“Did not.”
Jack twisted, saw Ricky slumped on his knees on the pavement, swaying in place and using a wall for support.
He tore himself from Gareth’s grasp.
Three steps took him to Ricky’s side. The shivering teen was even paler now and held a hand to the wound in his shoulder. Blood seeped through his fingers and trickled down his wrist, the color vivid against Ricky’s pale skin.
“Let me see.” Jack pushed Ricky’s hand aside. The knife had pierced the upper part of Ricky’s shoulder. The gash wasn’t long but seemed deep and was still bleeding.
“Gods, you’re a mess,” Jack sighed, his habitual calm slowly returning. “Has nobody ever taught you not to run in on a fight?”
A tiny smile curved the corners of Ricky’s bloodless lips. It made Jack’s insides churn with dread, made him lean down and place a gentle kiss on the boy’s forehead. “Thank you for saving my life.” He rose and held out a hand. “Let’s get you patched up before you pass out.”
Ricky’s hand was ice-cold, the skin clammy. Once upright, he swayed like a blade of grass in a hurricane. But when Gareth reached to lift the boy, Jack’s hand stopped him. With the injuries to his back, carrying Ricky bridal-style was out. The shoulder wound was still bleeding. And Ricky clearly needed to walk.
They settled for Jack keeping pressure on the bleeding shoulder and supporting one side, while Gareth took most of Ricky’s weight on the other. They made it to the corner of the square before Ricky lost consciousness.
The dash to the waiting ambulance took a bare moment.
“Fresh stab wound to the shoulder,” Jack said as he climbed into the ambulance and placed Ricky’s still form on the waiting gurney. “But he was already hurt. Wouldn’t let me touch his back. Weak pulse, clammy skin. He was lucid until he passed out a minute ago.”