by Karen Ball
Tonight.
Madness, Lord. This is madness. These young men we’ll be fighting, they belong to You too. But they don’t know it. Don’t know You. Are we right to do this?
“I’m with you, Asadi.”
This time Rafe looked at his friend, met the steady gaze. Eyes of iron, yet glowing with trust. Loyalty.
“They made this call, sir. Gave us no choice. You’ve done all you can to make sure no one gets hurt, but these men? They don’t care. Life means nothing to them. They’ve proven that. So what you’re doing here? It’s the only thing a man could do.”
“You’re a good man, Thales. Thanks for being here.”
Emotion flickered in those steady eyes. “Honored to stand at your side, sir.”
“So are we.”
For the second time that night, Rafe almost jumped out of his skin. He and Thales spun, weapons at the ready, then halted at the sight that met their eyes.
Fredrik and the elders stood there, feet planted, arms crossed, determination gleaming in their ancient eyes. Right beside them was Tarik, who Rafe had told, in no uncertain terms, to stay home. Apparently he’d neglected to tell Fredrik that. Just as Fredrik had ignored Rafe’s request that the elders stay safe at home.
Why didn’t anyone ever listen to him?
“What do you think you’re doing?”
Rafe’s outrage didn’t faze them. They closed ranks, and Fredrik stood tall, white hair a gleaming halo in the darkening night. “We’re here to stand with you.”
Rafe pulled in calm. “Look, I don’t have time to say this nice. You men are too old to fight these punks.” He’d deal with Tarik in a minute. But he had to get Fredrik and the others out of harm’s way. Now.
“Of course we are.”
Rafe stared at Fredrik. “You are?”
“Old we may be, stupid we aren’t. Fighting we shouldn’t do. But prayer, my boy. That we can do. That we will do. We will uphold you and your warriors with prayer.”
A cry split the air, stilling Rafe’s response in his throat. Every nerve sharpened, and he and Thales moved as one, hunkering down, going back to back, weapons trained on the distance as they scanned the perimeter.
More yelling. Hoots and jeers assaulted the night. The sound of footsteps pulled Rafe’s attention just behind the elders, and his blood ran cold when he saw Kyla step out into the night.
What was this? A party?
“Go back inside!” His order came out angry, which he didn’t intend. For once Kyla didn’t meet anger with anger.
Of course, she didn’t obey him either.
“I’m not going anywhere.”
“Child, listen to him—”
She halted Fredrik’s wisdom with a hand in the air. “You and the elders go inside.” She fixed a hard stare at Tarik. “And you go with them. The last thing we need is for you to get hurt.”
Rafe arched a brow. Good. He didn’t have to be the heavy for once.
Tarik’s eyes narrowed. “I’m not afraid.”
Kyla placed her palm over the boy’s heart, and her voice, though still firm, softened. “I know that, Tarik. But we need you to stay safe. King K isn’t working against us any more. That will change if you’re hurt here.”
Emotions played across the boy’s features, then he looked down. “What about you?”
“I’m staying here.”
Her words lit a fire in Rafe’s chest. “You are not!”
“Rafe—”
He turned on her. “I can’t focus when you’re here, Kyla. Unless you want to get me or one of my men killed, get back inside.”
Before she could launch the argument he knew was perched on her lips, another voice spoke up.
“Do what the man says, Builder Lady.”
Rafe couldn’t believe his ears—or his eyes. King K and his gang were suddenly just there. Like they’d slipped in on the darkness and materialized right in the midst of them. Rafe tensed, and King met his narrowed gaze without flinching. “We’re not here for you.” He jerked his head toward the darkness. “We’re here for them. Nobody tries to take our turf.”
Rafe took in King’s stance, then relaxed. “Stand down, Thales.”
Ever a Marine, Thales lowered his weapon.
“Who’s coming?”
King came to stand beside Rafe. “The Nortes.”
“The Nortes? Why?” The predominantly black gang usually stayed on their side of Alberta Street, too busy running a successful drug business to mess with a smaller gang like the 22s. As long as the Brotherhood stayed out of their business.
“Ballat. He got them all worked up about us moving in on their turf. Told ’em the youth center was really a front for the Man, so’s cops could infiltrate the neighborhood.”
“They bought all that?”
King shrugged. “Ballat knows how to make his case.” He tossed a glance over his shoulder to Kyla. “This ain’t no place for you, Builder Lady. You better get inside.”
Kyla opened her mouth, most likely to argue, but King’s hand flicked out a signal, and a hulking gang member came from behind to pluck her off her feet. Tossing her over his shoulder—obviously too stunned to express her outrage—the kid carried her back toward the church. “Perhaps we should go with them.” Fredrik was trying to restrain a grin. “To calm troubled waters.”
Wise, as always. Rafe squeezed his old friend’s shoulder. “Thanks. I won’t worry about her if you’re in there.”
When Fredrik and the elders were inside, Rafe turned back to King, who tensed the moment Rafe’s eyes were on him. Rafe had the distinct impression the gang leader expected Rafe to come after him. Rafe just smiled.
“She’s a fighter, your woman.”
Truer words were never spoken. Rafe rested his hands on his weapon. “Yes, that she is.”
“But she better off inside.”
No arguing with the truth of King’s assertion. “Yes, she is.”
King looked over his shoulder, and his lips twitched. “Good thing Dancer come at her from behind. She saw him comin’, I think she could take him.”
Rafe’s soft laughter echoed in the night.
Kyla roamed from one window to the next, peering out into the darkness, fuming. Her “jailer” stood guard, aided, apparently, by Fredrik and the elders.
A movement in the darkness caught her eye. Apprehension surged to life. “There’s someone out there! I think they’re coming.”
Sheamus stepped back, away from the circle of elders. “We should call the police.”
Fredrik waved his agreement. “Go, use the phone in the office, if they haven’t cut the lines.” Then he held his hand out to Kyla. “Come, bubele. The best thing we can do now is pray.”
She tore herself from the window, taking his hand on one side, Don’s on the other.
Shouts and loud, popping sounds drifted inside. Gunfire! Kyla started to pull away from Fredrik, but the old man’s grip was solid.
“No, child.”
“Please—”
He tugged on her hand, forcing her to look at him. “You must not. Rafe needs you in here, safe, to do what he must. Don’t worry, child. God will protect.”
Kyla grabbed onto that promise. As she held it fast in her terrified heart, Fredrik and the others bowed their heads—and lifted their voices in prayer.
The pride fired warning shots, sending the first wave of Nortes scurrying, just as Rafe had hoped. The gunfire sent them back once more before Rafe heard a Norte yell that it was blanks. No one was hurt. Rafe and Thales readied for combat as the next surge came. But just as Rafe focused on an advancing Norte—kid couldn’t be more than seventeen—bodies raced past him. The 22s. They launched into the advancing line of Nortes.
Rafe slid his rifle to hang at his back, then nodded at Thales. “Ready?”
“Whenever you say, Asadi.”
He keyed the mike. “Move in!” Adrenaline pumping, they moved into combat.
Cries of pain and rage echoed in the night air as bodies
fell. Rafe fought with a twofold focus—to stay alive and kill only if it couldn’t be avoided. He took one Norte down, then spun, only to find a gun pointed in his face.
The Norte’s finger tightened on the trigger—just as he and the gun went flying. Rafe met Sabada’s eyes over the subdued foe, and they shifted, back to back, not saying a word. Just standing ready.
A bellow from the left pulled his focus, and Rafe saw Thales go down under the force of four thugs who’d ganged up on him. He tensed, ready to go to Thales’s aid, but before he could move, Monroe was there, kicking and punching, using the butt of his rifle to punishing advantage. Within minutes—maybe even seconds—all four of Thales’s assailants lay motionless. Monroe reached down, took Thales’s hand, and pulled the big guy to his feet.
“Asadi! On your six!”
Rafe spun, bringing his cane up, to block the knife slicing toward him. He parried the thrust, stepped back, then, when his attacker leaned in, dropped low and drove up with as much force as he could, punching the point of the cane dead-center into the gang member’s chest. His attacker stopped, eyes wide, and then dropped to the ground like a discarded rag doll.
He started to turn back to Sabada, and just caught the glint of moonlight on a metal baseball bat. With a yell, he brought his arm up, but only managed to deflect the strike from hitting him square in the face. Instead, it connected at the side of his head.
Stars exploded in the night and sounds faded into silence as Rafe dropped to the cold, hard street.
“Rafe’s down!”
Kyla’s cry brought the others rushing to the window. She pointed to Rafe’s inert form, finger trembling. Jesus, please! What will I do if he’s dead?
Pounding footsteps brought her jerking around, and she saw Tarik racing for the doors out of the church. “Tarik!” She stepped forward. “No!”
But she was too late. He’d vanished into the night.
Kyla spun back toward the window, where Fredrik stood watching. His white face turned to her. “The boy …”
Kyla ran back to the window, peering out.
Fearing the worst.
“Rafe! Wake up!”
The frantic command pulled him from the darkness, and Rafe rolled away from it, groaning.
Something grabbed at him, jerking him to a sitting position.
“Get up! Now!”
The scream made his pounding head feel like it was exploding. Anger flooded him, and with a roar he surged to his knees, eyes finally open, trying to focus on his tormentor.
Tarik.
The boy knelt beside him, a mixture of fear and relief on his features.
The sounds of battle reached Rafe then, and realization struck him low and hard. They were in the middle of the fight.
Training kicked in and Rafe flowed to a crouch, one hand grabbing his cane from where it lay on the ground beside him, the other arm moving to shelter Tarik. “I thought you were supposed to stay safe inside!”
“I thought you were supposed to stay alive!”
As though some evil force worked against both goals, two Nortes surged toward them, pipes raised. Rafe tensed for impact, but sudden gunshots barked out, and the two Nortes crumpled to the ground.
Behind them, handgun still pointing, was King K.
King jerked his chin toward the church. Tarik didn’t argue. He stood and ran back toward safety. When he’d slipped through the doors of the building, King met Rafe’s gaze. Then, with a slow grin, King turned and plunged back into the fray.
“Asadi, you okay?”
He took Sabada’s proffered hand and stood. “I’m fine.” He stared after King, heart aching. He hadn’t wanted this. More bloodshed. More death.
“Asadi?”
Squaring his shoulders, he stared forward. Sabada fell into step beside him.
“Time to get back into it, sir?”
“No.”
Sabada’s surprise wasn’t lost on Rafe. He met his friend’s steady gaze. “It’s time to end it.”
Rafe didn’t know how much longer they fought. Time slowed in life-and-death combat. Either that, or accelerated out of control. Nor could he have said how many Nortes he’d fought.
All he knew was the battle. The sounds and sensations, the pain when fists landed, the split-second reflexes that brought his cane up to keep iron bars and bats from ending him. That and the presence of his men.
Endless noise and fury swirled around him. And then, in one sudden moment that was shocking in its stillness, it was over.
Rafe and Sabada stood, still back to back, poised and ready for the next attack. It didn’t come.
They scanned the darkness around them, watching, listening. And then Sabada’s tension eased. “They’re gone.”
Bodies lay on the ground around them, some moaning, some ominously still. The only people standing were Rafe and the Pride, and King K and what was left of the 22s.
King K, his face already bruising, one eye closing, moved to stand over one of the moaning Nortes. He raised a hand, and Rafe realized he held a gun, now pointed at the Norte’s head.
“No!”
King didn’t look up. Just kept fierce eyes on his enemy. Rafe vaulted over the prone bodies in front of him, was at King’s side in a heartbeat, then froze as the gun jerked up and trained on his chest.
FIFTY-SEVEN
“Having thus chosen our course, without guile and with pure purpose, let us renew our trust in God, and go forward without fear.”
ABRAHAM LINCOLN
“But when I am afraid, I will put my trust in you.”
PSALM 56:3
No!
This couldn’t be happening!
Kyla gripped the edges of the window. At the sight of the gun trained on Rafe, her heart stopped, then slammed into overdrive. She spun, only to run into the hulking 22 who was her captor. She pushed back away from him. “I’m going outside!”
She was two steps from the door when he bellowed, “Stop!”
She froze, ready to fight if she had to, but he just walked past her and opened the door. “Mama always said to hold the door for a lady.”
She brushed past him and hurried outside.
Rafe sensed more than saw his men start toward them, and gave the stop signal, all the while holding King’s fierce gaze. “Lower your weapon, King.”
“What? You think we on the same side now, soldier boy? That you can tell me what to do?”
“He isn’t. But I am.”
They both looked to the side. Tarik stood there, feet planted, arms crossed. “Drop it, Jamal. This man is not your enemy.”
“No”—he jerked his chin toward the young man on the ground—“but he is. And he needs to die.”
“No, he doesn’t.”
Rafe almost lost his composure at the sight of Kyla. What was she doing out here?
She stopped beside Tarik. “King, please. The police are coming. They’ll take care of that man. And the others.”
“We take care of our business our own selves.”
Kyla started to speak, but Tarik stopped her by stepping forward. By doing what Rafe couldn’t. Not without getting shot.
He walked to King and put his hand on the gun.
Kyla held her breath, heart pounding. God, please! Don’t let it end this way. Not before I have a chance to tell Rafe how I feel about him!
“You don’t want to do this, Jamal.”
Tarik’s low words held so much emotion, Kyla couldn’t fathom his brother not being impacted. But King stood there, a statue in flesh and blood. For a moment the two brothers were locked in silent battle. Kyla risked a glance at Rafe, saw that his eyes were fixed on the gun.
And King’s finger on the trigger.
“You wrong, L’il Man. I do want to do this.”
Kyla almost cried out at King’s hard words.
“But I won’t.” King lowered the gun.
Relief so intense it buckled her knees swept her, but she didn’t go down. Rafe was there, arms around her, folding
her close against that broad chest. “I told you to wait inside.”
His breath warm on her face, Kyla felt her strength returning. She fixed King K with a glare. “Do you always manhandle women to get your way?”
“Only the stupid ones.”
She tensed, but slight pressure in Rafael’s hand stilled her. As irritated as she was with King, she wasn’t ready to leave this man’s arms.
Not even close.
He’d come so close. And now …
It was all ruined. All his work. All his careful planning.
Destroyed, right before his eyes.
He’d watched the Nortes fall back and run. Defeated. His last hope, defeated! Then new hope sprang to life when that useless piece of humanity, King Killa, aimed the gun at Rafe Murphy. Shoot! his mind screamed, willing the animal to listen. Shoot him!
But the gun lowered, and now they stood there, men who should be enemies, at peace. Peace! What right did they have to peace?
His gaze drifted past them, those disappointments. Those worms! And settled on one person. The person who caused it all, his loss and humiliation. His defeat. All because of one cursed woman too stupid to know she was defeated.
Kyla Justice.
How dare she?
How dare she!
Turn around. Walk away before they see you. Before they realize the part you played in all of this.
Impotent rage roiled through him, heating the blood flowing through his veins. Walk away? Slink into the darkness like some defeated cur? No.
Bile surged into his throat. No!
He’d almost won! She’d been afraid of him. He knew it that night in her apartment. He would have taken care of her then, if not for that blasted cat. A fine job he’d done hiding those scratches.
His feet moved as though of their own volition, carrying him closer to his tormentor. His tormentor. Raw laughter clawed at his throat.
I thought you were the tormentor, they the ones who suffered. But here you stand, helpless. An old fool with nothing to show for his so-called genius.
Words too foul to utter seeped through his heart and mind, poisoning whatever remnant of reason resided there. As it shriveled and died, vengeance rose with an unholy howl to take its place. It wound its way through him, energizing him, tightening his grip on the rifle in his hands.