Page 70 of Worth the Wait
Nathan dropped through the narrow bathroom window, landing in a low crouch, boots whispering across cracked tiles as he absorbed the shock in his thighs and calves. Training took over. Loosen the knees, shift the weight, stay low.
He’d done this a thousand times before. Crawling into enemy compounds. Securing unknown buildings. First man in, first to die if it went sideways. Back then, he had his kit. Rifle. Camo. Vest. And a knife taped to his chest. Tools that made a man feel ten feet tall even when scared shitless.
Tonight, he had none of that except for the clothes on his back and the thudding, wired pulse of a father whose kid was in over his head.
And the electric imprint of a kiss he couldn’t shakeloose.
He’d trained to compartmentalise. Been good at it, too. Lock the feeling down, shutter it tight, move on to the next breath, the next step. Deployed, he’d had warm bodies before missions, sure. Quick fumbles in dark corners, desperate hands on skin. Sex was a pressure valve, a way to make space in his head so the job could take over.
But Freddie’s kiss wasn’t release.
It wasignition.
But Nathan gave a brutal shake of his head, trying to rip himself free of the memory, force himself into the now. This wasn’t the time. He needed to be here, locked in, laser focused. To get Alfie out of the firing line before his whole world came down on top of him.
The house smelt damp. Sweat and something sour underneath it, the stink of cheap food and cheaper smoke curling down the hallways. So Nathan stayed low, body tight to the wall, listening. Voices drifted from downstairs. Male. Loud. Confident. He clocked at least three. Movement too. A shuffle of trainers on laminate. The clink of glass.
So he moved.
Silent steps, knees bent, rolling through heel and toe to dampen the sound of his boots on the warped floorboards. Halfway down the hall, a door hung ajar. Bedroom, judging by the faded paint and the faint light leaking under the crack. He crept closer, keeping his shoulder close to the wall, trailing his fingers lightly along the plaster. Old trick. If someone was moving towards him, he’d feel the vibration before he ever heard it.
Nothing yet.
At the doorway, he risked a glance inside. A girl. Sixteen at most, slumped over a pile of dirty pillows in a threadbare dress, her face slack and empty. Eyes glassy. One bare foot dragging uselessly across a stained duvet.
Nathan shut his eyes, the gut-punch hitting harder than he’d expected.
Not his mission tonight.
Not his target.
The police would be through this place soon enough. They’d get her out.
He opened his eyes, locked it all down, and moved past the door without a sound.
The voices floated up from downstairs. Low, laughing, confident. Kitchen probably. Echoed enough.
He scanned for exits. Windows. Bottlenecks. If he was going to grab Alfie, he’d need a clean route. Fast, brutal, no room for second guesses.
And whatever time he had left was bleeding away fast.
So he crept down the stairs, keeping close to the side, where the wood was less likely to creak. No carpet to muffle the sound. Just bare slats, worn smooth by years of use and zero maintenance. Every step a calculated risk.
He held his breath at the bottom, peering around the half-open door towards the kitchen.
Two older lads lounged against the far wall, hunched over a battered crate passing for a table. Low murmurs, biting laughs. Packages scattered across the surface. Small plastic baggies, easy cash, a burner phone charging in the corner, screen cracked. No open gear out yet, but Nathan knew the signs. Knew exactly what kind of business this house was running.
Off to the side, awkward and out of place, stood Alfie. Hands jammed into his hoodie pockets. Shoulders hunched as if trying to fold himself smaller. Still clinging to the last scraps of his childhood in a room built to strip it away. He hadn’t seen Nathan yet. Neither had the others.
Good.
Nathan stayed hidden in the shadow of the doorway and tapped his knuckles twice on the frame. Not loud. But enough for Alfie to home in on. It was the same signal he used to give Alfie when he was younger. A quiet call for attention. A warning sometimes, when he was dropping him off at his mum’s old flat, “head down, stay alert, don’t open the door unless you know it’s me.”A tap on the bedroom door when he was saying goodbye and Alfie had locked himself inside. Their signal.
Alfie’s head jerked up at once.
Eyes wide, alert. Training buried deep, even if he didn’t know it.
Nathan caught his gaze. Held it.
