Broken Protocol

by A. R. Barley

  The paint might be fading, but someone cared about the place.

  Luke knocked twice. No one answered. He peered through the front window. Inside everything looked more than a little drab. He knocked some more.

  Maybe they were out. He checked the time on his cell phone. It was almost midnight. Maybe they were asleep.

  Luke flattened out his hand and slammed it against the door. Thud. One more time. Thud. Again. Thud.

  The door opened and Tim peered out sleepily. He looked exactly the way Luke remembered him except for the plaid pajama bottoms, black eye, and a white cast on his arm. His good hand was clutching a baseball bat.

  “Damn it, Carl—” He stopped short when he spotted Luke. “You’re not Carl.”

  “Nope.” Luke cleared his throat, suddenly aware of exactly how much noise they were making on the silent street. He probably could have waited until the morning to track Tim down.

  Tim’s eyes darted back and forth, never quite connecting with Luke’s. “You should probably leave.”

  “I will. I promise. I just have a quick question.”

  “Where did you get my address?”

  “The bartender at Toro.”

  “Arthur?” Tim relaxed his grip on his baseball bat just a little bit. He blinked twice. “Do you want to buy something?”

  Did the man not recognize him? Luke took half a step forward. He held out a hand. “My name’s Luke Parsons. We met at a concert—”

  “I know who you are,” Tim cut him off before he could finish reintroducing himself. “That’s why you should go. Carl’s not home and—” He cleared his throat. “Look, I know we had a good time talking, but sometimes it can look like I’m flirting when I don’t mean it.”

  “Is that what Carl says?” A pit opened up in the bottom of Luke’s stomach. Whatever was going on in the house, it wasn’t good.

  He’d once gone to a training in domestic violence and how to identify the signs. Alex carried cards in the ambulance with lists of shelters and phone numbers for people who could help. None of the information seemed to have stuck because Luke couldn’t think of what to say next.

  He took another little half step forward and Tim flinched away. Shit. This was all going wrong.

  “Look, I’m not here to talk about Carl.” That was a conversation for another day, preferably when he had backup in the form of a bouncy blond EMT with a stack of preprinted cards. “The night we went out, we were attacked. I want to know if you saw who did it.”

  “No, duh,” Tim huffed.

  “Right. I guess he gave you the broken arm?”

  “Something like that.”

  “Shit, I’m sorry.” Luke felt bad about that. Really. He hadn’t noticed a broken arm at the time, but Tim must have been more busted up than he thought. “I should have taken you to the hospital.”

  He’d offered. He remembered that much.

  After the attack, Tim had been curled up in a tiny ball on the ground. Luke had helped him back up onto his feet. He’d dusted off the dirt. He’d told Tim they needed to call the police. Tim had turned a truly intense shade of green at that point and insisted that he’d be fine as soon as he got home.

  Then he’d left without giving Luke any of his contact information.

  It really hadn’t been one of his better dates.

  “Did you recognize any of his clothes?” Luke asked. “Only, you and I aren’t the only people who’ve been mugged recently. We think—” He corrected himself. “I think that it’s the same guy. I don’t know whether he started with us and it worked so well he kept going, or if we were just one in a long line of victims.”

  “It’s not like he’s hurting anyone.”

  “He hurt you,” Luke said. “He almost killed a kid over in Manhattan, some teenager who was walking home with his boyfriend.”

  Tim’s eyes flickered shut. It looked like he was going to cry, but then he dropped his hands down by his side. The end of his baseball bat thunked against the ground. When he took a step forward, the hunk of wood dragged on the floor. “He didn’t.”

  “He really did.” Luke’s head was pounding. He explained quickly, his voice creaking and cracking as he picked his way carefully around the parts of the story that involved Dante. That part he didn’t need to explain. It belonged to him.

  No one else.

  But he did tell Tim the parts about the violent attacks and the thefts. He even told him about his missing St. Cristopher metal and Ryan’s silver signet ring.

  “A Celtic knot?” Tim said. “With a clock face in it?”

  “Right.” Luke nodded. “A police officer I know has been checking pawn shops for the missing items, but he hasn’t found anything. I don’t think he will. Our theory—” He wasn’t working with anyone anymore. He was alone. “My theory is that the guy’s keeping them as trophies. It’s disgusting.”

  “Awful,” Tim agreed.

  “So, did you see him?”

  Tim coughed and something jingled around his neck. It was a thin golden chain. “Are you sure you don’t want to buy some shoes?”

  Everyone had a golden chain. They weren’t unusual, but they were highly breakable. Luke had gone through three of the damn things before finding one to use with Dante’s pendant. It was woven and round.

  Practically unique.

  Tim was still prattling on about shoes. “Someone dropped off a fresh batch of sneakers last week. They’re kind of awesome.”

  “It’s not you,” Luke said. Tim had been attacked. He’d been hurt. There was no way he could possibly be the mugger. “Your arm’s broken. You’re too short.” Still—“You’re wearing my necklace.”

  “This is mine.” Tim reached up to wrap his fingers around the chain. “My boyfriend gave it to me.”

  The same boyfriend he’d been told to watch out for.

  The one who had Tim running scared.

  “It was Carl,” Luke said.

  “What was Carl?” someone asked from behind Luke. The voice was deep and crackling. It was the same voice that haunted Luke’s dreams.

  Luke grinned. He’d solved the puzzle and found the bad guy. Now he just needed to get off the front porch alive.

  Tim was still holding the baseball bat loosely in one hand. As far as Luke could tell it was the only weapon on the porch, but he hadn’t turned around.

  Luke did so, slowly.

  Carl was...ordinary-looking. He was wearing a sweatshirt and ugly red shoes, but even with the hood down it wasn’t like he’d be easy to pick out in a crowd. His hair was dark, a non-color somewhere between black and brown, his eyebrows were just a little too thin, and his nose was crooked but other than that he was completely ordinary.

  It was almost disappointing.

  The only thing memorable about him was the gun in his hand.

  The gun was small and slim, nothing like the big steel revolver Luke had learned to shoot with or the standard-issue Glock 19 carried by Dante and half the NYPD. Luke finished turning so he was facing Carl straight-on. He balanced carefully on the balls of his feet, his arms stretched wide.

  There was maybe six feet of old plank flooring between them. If he was fast enough, if his reflexes were good enough, then he might be able to close the distance before Carl could get a shot off.

  If he wasn’t fast enough then he’d be dead before he hit the ground.

  He didn’t like those odds.

  “Carl.” Luke held out a hand. “My name’s Luke. I’m here to buy a pair of sneakers. My buddy says Tim’s the only one who can get the ones I’m looking for.”

  “He’s got a gift.” Carl smiled for approximately thirty-two seconds. Then he frowned. “Have I met you before?”

  “I don’t think so.”

  “You got a name?” Carl asked.

  “He’s no one,” Tim interrupted. “He�
��s not important. You want to come inside? I made fried chicken.”

  “What’s your name?”

  “Luke Green,” Luke lied happily.

  “Where the fuck have I seen you before?” Carl glanced from Luke to Tim and back again. His grip shifted on his gun. He lifted it up and pointed it directly at Luke’s chest. “You’re the asshole.”

  “He’s nobody,” Tim said a little louder. No one was listening to him now.

  “It was a setup,” Luke said. His mind was going a hundred miles a minute. “You send Timmy here in as a lure. He flirts at the bar, finds someone with a nice phone and a stack of bills in his wallet, and brings them out on the street for you to mug. Am I missing anything?”

  Tim had the good sense to duck his head in shame. Of course, that just made the bruising around his eyes all the more obvious.

  “Right,” Luke said. “I missed the part where you beat Tim up afterwards. Kind of wrecks the whole golden goose thing you had going on.”

  “It’s his own fucking fault.” Carl waved the gun like a maniac. “Little slut didn’t follow the plan—”

  “He’s a firefighter,” Tim interjected. “He works for the city.” He took a few nervous steps toward Carl like he was trying to calm the man down. His shoulders looked so damn narrow in the reflected glow from the street lights. The first time they’d met Luke had put his age at twenty-five, but in his pajamas he looked closer to fourteen. “I didn’t want you to get in trouble.”

  “You just wanted to fuck someone new,” Carl said. “You deserved everything you got.” He spat on the ground between them. “You should just be grateful I kept you around after you stopped being useful.”

  Creepy.

  Also crazy.

  A shiver ran down Luke’s spine. The gun was dangerous. It definitely had his attention, but it was the words coming out of Carl’s mouth that had him scared. Crazy couldn’t be negotiated with. It was its own kind of erratic superpower.

  And it meant that the gun could go off at any moment.

  The way Carl was waving it around, he could hit Luke, Tim, or one of the other houses nearby. It wasn’t the greatest neighborhood in the world but there were kids’ bikes in the yard next door.

  Everyone was in danger.

  Luke swallowed hard. He needed to keep Carl talking. He needed to take any chance at survival. He needed—

  “Hey, honey.” A buttery purr sounded from the darkness. For a moment Luke thought he was hearing things and then Dante materialized from the darkness with a Cheshire-cat smile on his face. He must have come straight from work because he was still wearing his ugly black slacks, but he’d spiked his hair and ditched his jacket for a heather gray Henley.

  With his tattooed wings poking out from his shirt’s short sleeves, he looked like an avenging angel and all-around badass. There was no badge on his belt or gun on his hip, just his trademark smile and a hard look in his eyes. It was a side of Dante Luke had never seen before. The persona he wore when he was undercover taking down mob bosses and fighting uber criminals.

  All eyes were on him as he walked up the stairs and planted himself firmly between Luke and Carl’s gun.

  “Is this the dude you were going to buy the sneakers from?” Dante asked, clearly intent on cultivating his “don’t give a fuck” attitude. “You didn’t tell me he’d be armed. I’d have brought the boys.”

  Dante must have gotten the address from Finn, but how had he known that the mugger would be there? More importantly, how had he known to show up ready to throw down? Luke didn’t spend too much time thinking about it.

  “I didn’t know,” Luke explained. “I was just coming to see my buddy Tim.”

  “Yeah, well, good thing I showed up.” Dante took another step toward Carl, and Luke caught the glint of metal where his shirt separated from the back of his pants. His gun might not be as shiny as the one Carl was waving around, but it would get the job done.

  Any other cop would have come onto the porch with his gun in his hand, but Dante wasn’t the shoot-first-and-ask-questions-later type. How many years had he spent undercover? He was used to walking into tense situations with just a smile on his face and talking down the worst sort of men. He’d done all of that without flinching, but he’d been afraid to tell Luke his feelings. It was kind of adorable.

  Damn, he loved him.

  “Put the gun down,” Dante said, and there was nothing adorable about the command in his voice. He moved like a predator and spoke like a general. “You understand me, dickhead?”

  For a moment Luke actually thought that it might work. Carl’s eyes were wide. His mouth was half open in disbelief. He couldn’t believe his little intimidation game wasn’t working on someone. Another step—maybe two—and Dante would be able to take the gun away from him.

  Then his finger squeezed the trigger.

  Boom.

  The first shot went wide and Dante lunged forward to slam into him. Boom. The second shot sounded.

  Blood spattered across the porch’s wide plank floor. Luke’s heart seized. All he could see was red. He couldn’t tell who it was coming from. Grunts sounded as Carl and Dante tore into each other.

  The gun in Dante’s waistband clattered to the ground. Luke lunged forward to grab it. Unlike Dante he hadn’t been taught how to talk down criminals, and his mouth felt like it was full of cotton, but this he could do. He took a stance that dynamite couldn’t shake, took the safety off the weapon, and pointed it straight at Carl’s head.

  One warning, that was what his father had always told him. If he got into a live shooter situation, he needed to give one warning.

  “Stop or I’ll shoot,” he said.

  Blood was blooming across Dante’s shirt sleeve. He was the one who’d been injured, and when he turned slightly he gave Luke a straight shot.

  “One warning.” He’d learned the lesson at his father’s knee. “If it really matters, you give one warning and then you shoot the asshole.”

  Dante mattered.

  Bang. Luke shot and he didn’t miss. The bullet slammed into Carl’s shoulder and sent him stumbling backward.

  Crack. Tim’s baseball bat connected with the back of Carl’s head. “That’s for breaking my arm,” he shouted. Another swing. This one connected with Carl’s side. “And that’s for making me help you.” He pulled back and wound up for the home run.

  “Easy, slugger.” Dante grabbed the end of Tim’s baseball bat before he could do anything else. His face was gray, but he was still standing. “I think he got the message.”

  “Call the cops,” Luke ordered as he slid the safety back on the gun and rushed forward to put pressure on Dante’s wound. He wasn’t going to let his medical training go to waste. He needed to make a tourniquet. Maybe if he had a belt—but he didn’t have a belt. Warm blood seeped between his fingers. Why didn’t he have a belt? “You’re going to the hospital.”

  “You’ll come to the hospital with me?” Dante asked. “And then we’ll go home together.”

  “You couldn’t keep me away. I love you.”

  “That the truth?”

  “God’s honest.”

  “Good. I was a jerk.” Light flared in Dante’s mismatched eyes. “I just didn’t want you to get hurt. I never want you to get hurt. That doesn’t mean I think you’re a kid. It means I love you right back.”

  Bells chimed in the distance or maybe that was just sirens. Someone must have finally called the cops, but it was already over. They were safe. Luke’s heart beat triple-time as Dante’s head tilted to meet his in a heart-stopping kiss.

  Chapter Twenty-Three

  Ten years of retirement and Charlie Parsons still looked like a cop from the battered tips of his shoes to the serviceable cut of his hair. At the moment, he was leaning against the exterior wall of Smoke & Bullets sucking on a cigarette. His eyes were glazed from
cheap whiskey, good beer, and excitement. He put a hand on Dante’s arm to steady himself. “I ever catch you smoking, I’ll beat your ass.”

  Dante rolled his eyes. He had six inches and a good sixty pounds of muscle on his foster father. Even with a hole in his arm and a prescription for hard-core antibiotics, he could take him. “And a happy birthday to you too.”

  “Sixty-fucking-eight.” Charlie laughed. “It’s not a birthday. It’s a wake. I wouldn’t have even celebrated, except the kid made a fuss. He’s the one who invited everybody.”

  “Yeah, he’s thoughtful like that.” If Dante tilted his head just right he could see Luke through the window, spreading around pizza slices and laughing with a group of good old boys that included Captain Grady. “It’s got to be genetic, because I know he didn’t get it from you.”

  Charlie held perfectly still for a long moment. Blood flooded his face, turning his cheeks a bright candy-apple red. For a moment it looked like he might explode. Then he laughed. “Guess he finally told you about that. Used to pretend it was his origin story. Like he was a freaking superhero.”

  “He’s pretty super.” Dante hunched his shoulders forward against the cold and gave a tug on his knitted hat. Over the past week Luke’s possessions had started materializing in his house as he picked them up from dry cleaners and borrowed closets all over town. There was now a box of knit caps by the front door, all different colors and patterns, but the cabled gray one was still his favorite. “Did you like his present?”

  “Half a sweater?”

  “He’ll finish it eventually.” Luke had picked the mosaic pattern to match the intricate tile work Charlie had installed in the Parsons family kitchen. Dante had helped pick out the wool. It was long-wearing, comfortable, and expensive.

  “And I’ll wear it.” Charlie smiled around his cigarette. “It’s beautiful. Your present wasn’t too shabby either. I needed a new speaker system, ever since some teenager put his boot through my old one.”

  “I’m pretty sure Luke apologized about that. Anyway, the new one’s better. It’s portable. You can take it with you when you move.”

  There was a long pause. “You figured that out.”