Riot Act

I wanted to find out why Roger and Nasir were so keen on killing me, and if the look on his face was anything to go by, I needed to do that before Sean got his hands on either one of them.

Eleven

As I burst round the corner of the main gym building there was enough ambient light for me to see the boys separate. Sean’s stride faltered, uncertain for once which to follow.

I was about to thank him for probably saving my life, but as he heard me closing he turned fast and made a snap decision. “Go after Roger,” he rapped out. “I’ll take the other one.”

My words of thanks were swallowed quickly. “Roger’s your brother,” I argued, stubborn, as I reached him. “You should go after him yourself.”

His face tightened. People didn’t question Sean’s orders, least of all me. “The other kid may have managed to work out how to clear that pistol,” he said darkly as he started forward again, offering back over his shoulder. “I can take care of myself.”

I opened my mouth to say, “And I can’t?” and then shut it again. Did I really want to persuade him to let me go chasing somebody who was fleeing, scared half to death, and armed?

Instead, I held my tongue as I set off in pursuit of Roger.

Sean’s brother had made it through the tattered wire fence leaving a torn strip of T-shirt behind to mark his hasty passing. The pale cloth flapped feebly as it caught the light, like a pennant. I ducked through the spiked gap and followed, slithering precariously over the rubble under foot. In the darkness it was lethal.

Some months before, the demolition team had brought down the structure of the old factory building behind the gym and then knocked off – permanently, it seemed. In the intervening period the weeds had done their best to camouflage the ruins they’d left behind with tough-stemmed grasses that whipped against my legs as I ran.

Roger had a decent head start on me, but he wasn’t exactly at his peak when it came to physical fitness. He was fading fast, and he knew it. I caught a glimpse of him, dodging clumsily out of sight behind one of the huge piles of broken bricks. He was stumbling as though exhausted and it galvanised me into an extra burst of speed.

That was probably what saved me.

Behind the bricks, I found Roger wrestling with a length of three-by-two that was tethered into the hard- packed ground by loops of rusty wire.

I came hying into view just as he managed to wrench it free, but he had no time to prepare his ambush. His head jerked, and he tried to wrench the timber up more quickly, but his reactions were badly off.

Hesitation would have been fatal, and I didn’t have time to mess around. I shifted my direction slightly, locking my arm out straight to the side. I hit him from a flat run, just about where his collarbones met, putting the whole of my bodyweight and momentum behind my clenched forearm.

Roger’s feet literally flew up in front of him as the top half of his body was snapped back, like he’d just had a belt off the mains. All it lacked to complete the picture was a gentle wisp of smoke and a bad home perm.

It took him a while to think about getting up again and I admit I made no move to help. Instead, I thoughtfully toed the lump of wood so it was well out of his reach, and stood waiting for him to recover enough to take an active part in conversation.

I knew I should have felt guilty about the placing of that punch. I’d deliberately aimed a fraction high, which was malicious at best, and could have been very unhealthy if I’d got it wrong. Then I remembered his urgent commands to Nasir to shoot me, and faced him coolly unrepentant.

After a minute or so, Roger’s breathing returned to some semblance of normality. He used one hand to push himself up into a sitting position, rubbing at his throat with the other and eyeing me warily. I made sure I was standing with my back to the lights.

“So, what’s this all about, Roger?” I asked, surprised that I could put the question without rancour.

He shook his head. “You wouldn’t understand,” he said and, while his face was sour, there was the faintest trace of fear, like an underlying thread.

“Try me.”

He gave me a look that would have been taken off him if he’d tried to go into a nightclub wearing it, and remained pigheadedly silent.

I squatted so my eyes were on his level. He met my gaze cursorily, then slid his own away. “I think it’s you who doesn’t understand the shit you’re in, Rog,” I said lightly. “In fact, you’re in it so deep you need a snorkel.”

I was rewarded with a sneer.

“This isn’t just aggravated burglary any more, Roger,” I said, speaking slowly and keeping my voice neutral. “This is serious. You can’t claim this was accidental, or it wasn’t you. This is full-on premeditated attempted murder.”

I let that one settle for a moment. “Attempted murder,” I repeated, pressing on without mercy, refusing to let myself weaken, “is an adult crime, Rog, and you’ll be dealt with in an adult court. Left to rot away your youth in an adult hell-hole.”

The fright jumped, full-fledged, in his eyes, in his face. “I can’t!” he cried, suddenly very much a child.

“Oh you can,” I said, “and you will. You’ve gone way beyond the limits of teenage rebellion this time. What do you think O’Bryan’s going to do about that?”

I glanced at him then, wanting to see how he was taking the information on board. He looked stricken. Tormented. I suppose I should have been pleased, but it wasn’t much of a victory.

Roger opened his mouth to reply, but before he could speak we heard it, and it stopped both of us stone cold in our tracks.

A single gunshot.

The echo of it rolled over and round us, stark and uncompromising. I froze, straining for additional sounds, but there was nothing.

Silence.

There were no further shots fired. No angry protests. No agonised screams. No evidence of continued pursuit, either, which could have meant Nasir had simply missed.

Or it could have meant that Sean was dead.

My mouth dried instantly as my system shut down unnecessary functions, like the production of saliva. My heartrate had accelerated faster than a top fuel dragster. The shaft of panic that arrowed through me was quite dazzling in its intensity.

There was a time when I’d come damned close to praying for Sean Meyer’s death. But not like this.

Oh no. If anyone was going to kill him, I’d wanted it to be me.

With half my brain numbed into insensibility by the picture my imagination had painted, I’m almost surprised it took Roger so long to take advantage.

I caught the faintest glimmer of colour and movement from the corner of my eye, then his lashing foot connected hard with the underside of my chin and it was my turn to go pitching raggedly onto my backside among the brickwork.

By the time I’d laboured to my feet, I took one look at Roger’s dim figure disappearing into the darkness on the other side of the site, and ruefully gave up any idea of the chase.

I put a hand up to my tender jaw, wriggling it experimentally a few times, but there was no permanent damage. Still, as an object lesson in what happens when you’re stupid enough to take your eye off the ball, I suppose it could have been a lot worse.

***

When I got back to the gym, I found Sean leaning on the front wing of the Cherokee, waiting for me. He looked very much alive and kicking. I ran through a track-list of emotions about that, most of which I didn’t care to put names to.

He straightened up as soon as he saw me, instantly alert like a cat, and lamentably unruffled by events. “You OK?”

I bit back an angry retort about why should he care, and nodded. “You?”