Page 100 of Prodigal Son

Light seeped out from under a closed door. Albie raised his gun, turned the knob quickly, and sent the door swinging in with a fast flick of his fingers.

The light source was a table lamp, sitting on the floor, no shade, its bare bulb glaring in the otherwise dark room. Beside the lamp, a figure sitting cross-legged, dressed all in black, hood pulled up. Albie glimpsed the barest hint of a nose, but that was all.

A man, he thought. One not moving a muscle.

Albie didn’t move, either. For a moment, the rush of his own pulse filled his head. He held his breath.

They moved at the same time.

Albie didn’t know who this was, and didn’t really care; it wasn’t a member of his family, and he wasn’t feeling remorseful. He fired a shot.

The figuredodgedit, somehow.

Albie cracked off two more rounds, pulse galloping wildly, vision swimming, adrenaline turning everything blurry-edged and too-fast.

And then the figure hit him. Tackled him, toppled him back, straddled his chest.

No!Albie thought, panic surging. He caught a glimpse of a face – pale, bright eyes, lean hollow cheeks.

He curled his fingers tight around his torch, and threw a fast, snapping punch, straight up. He connected – grunt, huff of breath – and then the man – it was definitely a man, this person in black – swung at him.

Albie saw stars. Such a solid blow that he didn’t even register the pain at first, only a sudden, intense numbness around his eye.

His gun, where was his…?

He dodged the next hit, or tried to, slow and clumsy, reeling from the first hit. Put both hands up to block. His gun was gone; he’d let go of it when he was tackled. Damn it!

He tried to twist, and buck upward with his hips. The man above him wasn’t all that heavy, but he was strong, thighs like still girders clamped along Albie’s sides.

They scrabbled. Albie felt something hot and wet, and thought he’d poked an eye with his fingertip. Then another blow landed along the side of his head, and his vision fritzed out.

His whole body did.

He drifted, and when he came back to awareness, he lay limp on the floor, and his attacker was on his feet, moving around, thump of his boots over the floorboards. Albie’s bag, slung over his shoulder earlier, was pinned under him now, the broken-down rifle components digging into his back.

Albie scrambled up onto his hands and knees, clumsy, shaking, the room swinging wildly around him. Shit. Shit, shit, shit. How had this happened? He should have been able to handle this – had handled things like this all the time. And here was one guy, unarmed, and he’d reduced Albie to the usefulness of a toddler trying to find its feet for the first time.

The hellish bright light of the bare bulb seemed to slide across the floor, again and again, a loop brought on by dizziness. Concussion; he had a concussion.

His attacker stood in the open window, looking back over his shoulder, cold air pouring in around him, fog that fell to the floor and crept across it, bold as alley cats. He turned to go.

“Wait,” Albie called out, getting up on his knees. The room tilted, and he had to swallow down a surge of bile. He fumbled and pulled the gun off his hip. “Who are you? Where are they keeping my sister?”

The man stared at him a long, unfathomable moment, hood obscuring his face. Then he stepped out of the window onto the fire escape and was gone.

“Wait!” he called again.

Nothing.

It took an age to get to his feet, leaning against the wall. Ringing in his ears, throbbing in his temples. Vision dimming as one eye swelled shut, a fast ballooning of blood under the skin.

He felt intense, dragging shame. Here he was, in the prime of his life, capable, loaded for bear, and he’d been taken out by a couple of hits like the greenest prospect in the world. Like some stupid civilian who’d stumbled into something he shouldn’t mess with.

He was moving toward the door, walking as fast as he dared, the floor seeming at a slant beneath his boots, when he heard it. Distant, at least two floors below.Click. Soft. But not rats in the walls. Not at all.

“Shit.” He spun, arms wind-milling, and charged for the window. Tripping, catching himself against the sill. Hooking a leg over.

Below, a deep, echoingthump.

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