Page 134 of Prodigal Son

“Fucking go.”

Simon looked at Albie, incredulous, and Albie nodded.

“This…goes against all my better judgement,” Simon said, but holstered his weapon.

Devin waited a moment longer. “I’m sorry,” he said again, and then scrambled to his feet and took off, sprinting down the alley, into the dark.

Albie stayed there, on his knees, until the sounds of running footfalls faded. And then a little longer. And a little longer still.

He felt the smooth, cool skin of Axelle’s forehead on the back of his neck. Heard her whisper, “I’m sorry.”

Simon held out a hand. “Come on, man.” And he sounded sorry, too.

Albie was numb.

~*~

Fox’s ears were ringing, and shock reverberated through him like the echo of a gunshot – Dad was gone, he was gone, gone, gone – but he slipped a knife from his belt and met the hooded man who came at him. This was the second generation, the revamped Emerald, and he blocked Fox’s strike and lashed out with one of his own. Fox blocked it in turn, and they danced.

Other security guards poured into the room, and he heard the soft sounds of suppressed fire; let his brothers handle them. This was Fox’s fight, this wraith in black who whirled, and kicked, and flashed.

He was young, and fit, and well-trained.

But Fox had been doing this for a long time.

He dropped and kicked, trying to sweep his legs. The wraith jumped, and aimed a kick at Fox’s head. Fox ducked to the side and caught his foot, wrenched him forward. The kid lurched into him, and Fox felt the sharp pain of a knife along his arm, the immediate heat of drawn blood.

He spun, and shoved the boy, sent him staggering forward. But of course, he had his balance back in one stride, and whirled, roundhouse kick flying at Fox’s head.

Fox ducked under it and tackled him.

They crashed backward against the table, and its edge caught the boy in the back, right along his ribs, and forced all the air from his lungs with an explosive breath. His hood fell back, and–

His eyes. They were blue. Big, and a familiar, shiny, ice-pale blue. His hair was dark, thick, glossy, the part that had been left long on top, above his undercut, a single lock falling on his forehead.

Devin’s eyes.

Fox’s eyes.

The kid reached for Fox’s face, lightning-fast.

But Fox was faster. He got a hand on his throat and slammed his head back against the table. Once, twice, three times. His body went lax, and his eyes rolled back, lids falling shut to hide the blue.

But Fox had seen it, and it was unmistakable.

He just breathed a moment, rough in-and-out gasps through his mouth, holding the boy’s limp body up against the table. Slowly, he became aware of a ringing quiet. The guards were gone. Dead.

Footsteps crunched over glass, and it was Phillip who leaned in, pressing their shoulders together. “Jesus,” he whispered.

Now that Fox was no longer defending himself, he could really look at the boy’s face. Under a thin smear of grease paint, the shape of his chin, and high cheekbones, and forehead became terribly obvious.

Phillip leaned in and oh-so-carefully lifted one eyelid with his thumb. Blue again. He hissed out through his teeth.

“Well,” Fox heard himself say, as if from a great distance. His lips felt numb. “I guess there’s ten of us.”

Thirty-Six

Law enforcement set up a perimeter. Hendricks was able to see the Hennessys safely away, though she grumbled and shook her head about it. Eden left her to it, and went in search of her own people.

---