Page 57 of Prodigal Son

“I’ve lived the sort of life they make movies about,” he said. “But it wasn’t an adventure. I’m good for one thing, and one thing only: killing. I didn’t make your life better, Charlie,” he said, emotion coloring his voice for the first time. “I made it worse. Just like your father did. Get away from this thing. Take the kid, and your girl, and leave us. We’ve all known this end was coming for us for a long time. You can’t stop it, and you’ll only get yourself killed in the process.”

Bits of rust and old, flaking paint crumbled beneath Fox’s grip as it tightened on the rail. He took a deep breath and told himself to really let what he’d just heard sink in; absorb the words and their meaning, and then react in a thoughtful, informed way.

He could believe any account in which Abe had traveled the world. He understood karate, and Krav Maga, and a half-dozen other forms of martial arts in a way that couldn’t be learned in a classroom. Abe had been trained by masters, and then become a master himself in turn. Fox had always thought, half-jokingly, that he was some sort of spy or assassin. It turned out that part was true – again, no surprise.

The surprise was the way Abe thought about it. The conclusions he’d drawn about his life, and his worth. And his willingness to turn away help and die.

Okay, so, yeah. He couldn’t be thoughtful.

“Are you fucking serious?” he demanded. “You want me to – I can’t even – are you listening to yourself?” he spluttered. “Youmade my life worse? That’s what you think you did? I can’t even–”

“You’re shouting.”

“You’re bloody right I’m shouting! I–” He checked himself. Balled both hands into fists and studied his knuckles, heart racing, trying desperately to calm himself. He had old scars there; some were silvery lines from hasty surgeries, others deep pink crescents from teeth. A tiny roadmap of violence he noticed every time he gripped the handlebars of his bike, or washed up before supper, or reached for a woman. A man could drown memories in drink and drugs, but there was no covering scars, and the stories they told, pressed right into the skin for all the world to see.

These scars werehis. Souvenirs of a life lived violently, by choice.

He let out a shaky exhale and lifted his head. Fixed his old sensei with a look. “Do you remember how short I was the day you met me?”

Abe snorted. “You’re still short.”

“Taller thanyou.”

“By a hair.”

“Thepoint I’m makingis: I was a scrawny little kid. With a giant attitude. I was mad at the world – and Dad. A little at Mum, but mostly Dad, yeah.Youtaught me how to do something with that anger, Abe.”

“You kill people.”

“And I’m bloodygoodat it. In fact, I like it. You’re not going to get any sympathy from me on that front, old man. I serve my club. I keep my family safe. My niece puts her baby to bed every night knowing that I – that all of us – are keeping a watchful eye.

“Now I’m sorry what those government bastards did to you. It wasn’t right. But don’t go feeling so sorry for yourself that you drag me into it. I know who I am, I know where home is, and I know it’s going to take a lotmorekilling to keep the lot of you safe.”

He pointed to the slider. “Go in there, pack your damn bag, and get to the van. We’re leaving, and you’re coming with us.”

Silent a beat.

Abe said, “And what if I still say no?”

“Then I’ll kick your wrinkled ass, and throw you over my shoulder.”

Abe sucked down the last of his cigarette and crushed it out in the tray. “Well. Alright then.”

Seventeen

Raven woke to the ringing of her mobile and was not happy about it. She peeled up the corner of her velvet sleep mask to find that it was still dark, and that her bodyguards were, for the moment, blessedly quiet.

Phillip’s idea of security involved an unwinnable choice between two less than pleasant options. She could stay at the clubhouse until things were settled – whatever the hell that meant. She’d been a member of this family long enough that she knew “settled” could take a few days or a few years, it depended, but it all ended in somebody dead, and a news story on the tellie. The other option was to stay at home, to go to work, and live her life…but with a full retinue of Lean Dogs as security in tow. “No cuts,” she said.

Phillip had grinned. “The cuts keep you safe. Nobody thinks twice about bumping off random security thugs. But Dogs? Whoever these wankers are, they don’t want that fight.”

She’d chosen the security detail. Lesser of two evils? Fuck her life.

They’d followed her home the night before,into herhome. She’d taken a moment, looking at them in their dirty boots, and jeans, and cuts, and hated them. Felt incredibly resentful toward her eldest brother.

They’d sat up in her lounge, not smoking, because she’d forbidden it, but drinking her good vodka cut with tonic, and she’d tossed and turned for hours before finally falling into a fitful sleep. She didn’t fear them – loath as she was to admit it, these Dogs boys were a good sort, after a fashion – but it unsettled her nonetheless to have men who weren’t family in the other room while she was trying to go to bed.

Shallie and Chef were their club names. She didn’t ask for their real names; she didn’t care – she told herself. She didn’t care about this club at all, outside its ties to her blood family.

---