by Matt Rogers
Myles suppressed a gulp. ‘I don’t want anything in return, if that’s what you’re saying.’
Dwayne snorted, took a step forward, exposing the bloodshot strands in the milky whites of his eyes. ‘Why the fuck would I give you anything in return?’
‘You wouldn’t,’ Myles said, his voice shaking. ‘That’s what I said.’
‘Why even bring it up?’
‘I’m sorry.’
‘You should be. Now what fell into your lap?’
Myles got the sense if the information wasn’t good enough he wouldn’t be walking out of this apartment. Why had he even come here? He almost hadn’t.
But now mad, psychotic Dwayne Griggs was there in front of him, and there’d be hell to pay if he was disappointed.
Myles said, ‘Whatever’s happening, it’s to do with the boy.’
‘What boy?’
‘Marcus’s kid. Tyrell. The one you thought got taken in the middle of all this. He ain’t kidnapped. He’s walking around in public with that huge guy you’re also looking for. Like the boy ain’t got a care in the world.’
‘How do you know this, Myles?’ Dwayne looked like his head might pop off his shoulders. ‘You saw them?’
‘My girlfriend did,’ Myles said. ‘She’s a midwife at Mass General. The big one you’re looking for, this white couple he’s friends with were having a kid. He rocked up in the ward with Tyrell. Didn’t sound like there was any urgency there. He didn’t have a grip on the boy or anything. Nothing noticeable to Rebecca, at least. So this kid’s walking around happy as a pig in shit when his dad and uncle just got executed. And the kid was there for the clusterfuck with Jeremiah. You got witnesses who confirmed that, right?’
‘Yeah.’ Dwayne sounded like he was talking through a steel grater. There was that hard, deranged edge to his voice. Myles had only heard it a couple of times before, and it had never resulted in anything good. Only terrible things that he’d been forced to witness, things that would haunt him for the rest of his life. ‘You absolutely sure of what you telling me? ’Cause it’s not gonna go well for either of them.’
Myles felt sick to his stomach. ‘Come on, man. I came here to tell you I found the big guy. The boy … I mean, he’s just a kid. He doesn’t know what he’s doing.’
Dwayne glared. ‘You knew about the way Marcus was getting, didn’t you? I brought you up to speed on that?’
‘Yeah,’ Myles mumbled. ‘You did.’
‘We got to his crib before the cops. We checked out the scene. Someone shot Marcus in the leg from point-blank range at the edge of the kitchen. The door was unlocked from the inside. All those shitty reinforcements he did to the door didn’t mean anything, cause he’d opened up for whoever was out front. You know what that means, right?’
‘You think the boy shot his dad?’ Myles couldn’t hide the disbelief in his tone.
Dwayne chewed his lower lip, almost drawing blood. His eyes were somehow wider. ‘I ain’t gonna let that slide.’
Myles paused. It only took him a couple of seconds to come up with an alternative. ‘What if it was the big guy using Tyrell as bait? Marcus would open up if someone had a gun to his kid’s head.’
The apartment got real quiet.
Myles squirmed.
Dwayne turned away and thundered into the kitchen. Placed his fists on the cheap countertop, leant his weight on his knuckles. Striations flared in his huge shoulders. Then he started to chuckle to himself. It went on for far too long. Myles couldn’t remember ever being so uncomfortable. He wanted to turn and run from this place, no matter the consequences. Every part of him knew this world was truly toxic.
When Dwayne finally pulled it together, he wiped a tear from his eye. ‘I obviously didn’t make it clear to you the way Marcus was getting, then. He wouldn’t have opened the door for anything sketchy. Trust me.’
Myles said, ‘So…?’
His face was wet now, but he didn’t dare reach up and wipe sweat off his forehead. Dwayne seemed an ounce away from killing him just to feel something.
Dwayne said, ‘So, that’s it. Thank you for letting me know. Now get the fuck out of here.’
Myles tried not to throw up as he went back out onto the fire escape. The cool night air didn’t help like he thought it would.
He’d just inadvertently ordered a hit on a kid.
Later, driving around the dormant city so he didn’t yet have to go back to the home he hated, he realised there was only one thing to do.
Beat Dwayne to the boy. De-escalate things. And to do that, he needed an explanation from that bitch from the hospital. Rebecca didn’t know a thing.
When he came to that realisation it was close to midnight.
There was no time to waste, so he floored it back to Mattapan.
34
Slater couldn’t sleep.
He tossed and turned and at around midnight he gave up and swung out of bed. Despite the hangover-like effect that always came after physical conflict, he wasn’t fatigued enough to stymie his racing mind. He figured he’d change that with an hour on the treadmill in the garage, hammering on the moving belt until it was coated in droplets of his sweat. A cold shower after that and he’d fall back into bed and be out before his head hit the pillow.
But that didn’t happen.
He was in his workout kit, padding down the freezing hallway, when he picked up the faintest noise from the other end.
He stopped in his tracks. Listened harder. Identified it.
It was Tyrell, sobbing.
He backtracked to Tyrell’s door and hovered outside it. He’d approached so quietly that the kid would never have heard it coming, recalling military training on the art of tactful silence.
He gave up on being quiet when he heard Tyrell murmuring. It startled him enough that he reached out and opened the door.
The boy was on his phone in the dark.
As soon the door swung open Tyrell dropped the phone, trying to pretend nothing was amiss. But his face was an uneasy sheet of turmoil. Twelve-year-olds aren’t talented actors. Slater crossed the room and snatched the phone up and read the contact name: UNCLE DWAYNE.
The call was still live. Slater could see the timestamp of how long it had run for, under the name.
26:04.
Slater hung up, dropped the phone on the bed, and thought, Fuck.
Tyrell started crying harder.
Slater wasn’t mad at the kid. He was mad that the curse of the dope business had seemingly afflicted every damn person in Tyrell’s extended family.
He said, ‘Look at me.’
Tyrell’s chin was tucked to his chest. He was staring at the blanket over his legs like he was trying to bore a hole through it. Blinking hard.
‘Tyrell.’
It shocked the boy, made him jolt, and he looked at Slater.
Slater said, ‘I’m not going to ask why you answered because I know why. I only need to know two things.’
‘Okay,’ Tyrell mumbled.
Apprehensive, but open to share if there wasn’t going to be any severe punishment. Slater could see from the look in Tyrell’s eyes that the kid expected to be beaten within an inch of his life for what he’d done.
Slater asked, ‘Is Uncle Dwayne dangerous?’
Tyrell nodded. Bit his lip.
Slater asked, ‘How long into the call did you screw up and tell him where you were?’
Tyrell’s lips flapped and he started gazing around the room, looking everywhere but Slater. He must have been ashamed of what he’d done and expected to lie about it until his dying breath, but now Slater had cut straight through the bullshit and got to the truth. He didn’t want to lie at all now.
He said, ‘Like five minutes in. He tricked me into telling him.’
Slater didn’t ask how, because that wasn’t important.
Twenty-one minutes, he thought to himself.
More than enough time to rally the troops, especially if it was this urgent.
He
heard the vehicle before he saw it, engine droning as it barrelled down the quiet suburban street. Then the large cargo van burst into view, surging up Pleasant Street and screeching to a halt across the mouth of the driveway, blocking it off. Wrapped in the dark blue night, headlights off, it was barely visible in the gloom. Slater wouldn’t have seen it out the big windows that faced the street if Tyrell had a light on when he came in.
The side door slid open and four men leapt out. They were enormous. Athletic silhouettes moving against the backdrop of the heavy van. It was hard to tell whether they were armed or not.
Slater said, ‘Get under the bed and don’t come out for anything.’
He used a tone Tyrell had never heard.
The boy complied immediately, scrambling off the mattress, flattening himself to the rug. He shimmied into the claustrophobic gap under the wooden frame, his breath rasping.
The four thugs advanced up the driveway.
They were armed.
It was unclear what with, but they were all holding something, and that was bad news.
They couldn’t see him through the windows. There wasn’t an ounce of moonlight behind him to backdrop his silhouette, so it was all dark behind the huge panes. He stood deathly still, watching them come up the driveway, just in case his first movement would alert them to his presence.
He waited until they were almost to the porch before he took off with the silence and speed of a panther on the hunt.
He left the room and barrelled down the hallway on his tiptoes. He was back in his bedroom in seconds. He slammed a fist down on the base of the mattress. It only made the softest thump, but the vibration ripped Alexis awake. She sat bolt upright in bed, hair everywhere, eyes wide in the gloom.
Under his breath Slater hissed, ‘Get under the bed and don’t come out for anything.’
She knew better than to ask why.
Just spilled off the king-size mattress and wormed her way under the bed frame, as Tyrell had done.
Slater took a deep breath.
The people he was tasked with protecting were out of harm’s way. Alexis could probably hold her own in an armed conflict by now, but it was a simple risk calculation. Slater was bigger, faster, and knew exactly how many men were coming, and he was already wide awake, uninhibited by the grip of fatigue. It had made the choice obvious — he’d go it alone.
He heard the front door crash in with a tremendous boom.
Time to kill.
35
Rebecca’s heart leapt in her chest when the front door burst open.
Myles stormed in. He’d nearly kicked the door off its hinges. His eyes were bloodshot, so she knew he’d bought more alcohol while he was out. She guessed she’d expected that, but she hadn’t expected the tears rolling down his cheeks. He was furious and distraught at the same time. It was a scary combination.
He didn’t even look at her as he strode past the kitchenette and behind the sofa. He disappeared into the bedroom before she could even put her wine glass down. She’d been half-asleep, nodding in and out as a re-run of “The Bachelor” played on the small television.
Now she was wide awake, her heart pounding.
‘Myles,’ she stammered. ‘Are you okay?’
He slammed the bedroom door with such ferocity that the whole apartment seemed to jolt. Something told her this was different to all the other times. This time he was really hurting.
He sobbed from behind the door.
She ignored her rational mind and walked right up to the closed door. She tried to make her tone soothing, but she couldn’t. She was too scared.
‘Myles, baby,’ she wavered. ‘Talk to me. It’s okay. Trust me, it’s okay. Whatever happened, I still love you.’
His voice came back, so low she could barely hear it. ‘You need to leave.’
She froze. ‘What?’
‘I’ve done something horrible,’ he said. ‘I’m … I’m not in a good place, Rebecca. Go, now. Before I do something stupid.’
‘Something stupid like what?’
‘Like hurt you. Hurt myself. I don’t know.’
She didn’t move. ‘Myles, open the door.’
He opened it. It took some time, but she sensed the volatility fading. She didn’t like those times but she always waited them out, never took him at his word. Sometimes he started talking funny like that, but they were always empty threats. It probably wasn’t healthy that she’d become used to them. Still, he always came round, and he was a good guy at heart…
So when he opened the door she stepped through, but he had his belt on now, his firearm holstered.
She said, ‘What are you—?’
When he looked at her, there was a desperation in his eyes she’d never seen before. ‘I need to go somewhere. Do something. Best we leave it at that.’
‘Come to bed, baby.’
He shouldered past her. It hurt.
‘Myles,’ she gasped, holding her rotator cuff. She was worried he’d torn it, that’s how hard he’d stormed into her.
When she gathered herself and turned around, he was already gone.
The front door groaned back into place, as if bemoaning the constant tension in the apartment. She tried to remember a time when it hadn’t been that way, but it was getting harder and harder to do so.
She went to bed alone, praying to a God she didn’t believe in that he came back undamaged.
He’s a cop, she told herself. He can take care of himself. It’s whoever’s on his shit list I should be worrying about.
But the words rang hollow. She couldn’t convince herself.
Deep down, she knew what a sorry waste of space her boyfriend was.
She figured she’d been ignoring reality since the moment she met him.
36
At midnight, Violetta came awake.
King hadn’t realised he’d dropped off to sleep in the chair by her bed, but her rustled movement kicked some primitive part of him into gear and all his senses fired as he came to.
They looked at each other in the murky shadows of the room, and both smiled. She’d been transferred out of the birthing suite earlier in the evening, King pushing Junior’s crib behind her. They’d stay in this room overnight and in all likelihood would be discharged in the morning.
Violetta glanced at the dormant crib and furrowed her brow. ‘I thought newborns cried all night?’
King muttered, ‘He’s my son. He probably knows it’s tactically unwise.’
It made her smile. Then she grimaced. ‘You know what I’ve gone far too long without?’
King raised his eyebrows. ‘I’d’ve thought you’d be too sore.’
She exhaled and said, ‘A coffee, you moron.’
King didn’t know enough about babies. ‘Is that alright for you?’
‘I asked Rebecca,’ she said with a smile. ‘Anything under two hundred milligrams is generally okay, she said, even though newborns are more sensitive to caffeine through breastmilk. But I don’t need that much. Just a single espresso. I’m craving.’
She sold him. He levered out of the chair. ‘I need to stretch my legs anyway.’
‘I only meant to call for the nurse…’
He bent over and kissed her forehead. ‘It’s fine. I’ll find a shop. Has to be better than the tepid shit they’d bring you up here.’
She smiled. ‘You’re too good to me.’
He rounded the bed and peeked down into the crib before he left. Junior slept soundly. Not a peep to be heard.
The baby was clearly already adept at the conservation of energy.
Satisfied, King slipped out and moved through the ward, nodding to a couple of midwives on their night shifts on his way out. He followed the signs through the starkly lit Mass General complex to the Grey Building, where he found a place called Coffee Central in the lobby. He figured it was as good as he was going to get at this hour. The lobby was subdued, with the occasional burst of frenetic anger: someone shouting into a phone in the distance, or
a couple raising their voices mid-argument. Hospitals brought out the best and worst in people, especially overnight. Tempers frayed, emotions simmered. Sometimes they burst forth, before being reined right back in whenever someone realised they were causing a scene.
King spent maybe ten minutes waiting for the coffees. A double espresso for himself, a single for Violetta.
Another ten or so minutes walking back through Mass General with the lidded takeaway cups, and he was back at the ward.
Gone for maybe half an hour, all up.
As soon as he pushed on the door to the lobby, he knew something was up.
It didn’t budge. Something rested against it, on the other side, blocking entry.
There was a tall, thin window pane in the centre of the door, the frosted glass acid-etched so it slightly blurred the contents of reception. He pressed his face to the glass, peering in, squinting so he could make out the information desk dead ahead.
The same guy was behind the desk.
The ward clerk for the night shift.
He had his bald head down, pretending King wasn’t there.
King put the coffees down. Oblivious to the ruckus it might cause, he put all his weight into the door and pushed like he was a rugby player trying to drive back an entire row of opposition. There must have been a sturdy chair wedged under the handle on the other side. He heard it groaning and twisting and screeching across the reception floor. The door forced open a crack and now he could see straight through across reception.
The desk hid most of the ward clerk’s profile. The guy was hunched over as if being invisible would absolve him of his responsibilities, but as soon as he sat up and made eye contact with King through the newly-opened gap, his face jolted like he’d been electrocuted. He did a decent enough job of wiping the expression off his face as he stood up and hustled to intercept King.
King had the door halfway open before the ward clerk stood against it, trying to be nonchalant about it but failing miserably.
Clearly trying to block the way, and also desperate to pretend the broken chair he’d tried to use as a barricade didn’t exist.