Kickass Anthology (27 page)

"Lean back slowly," he instructed, and realised only when Rio complied how close he'd gotten to the older man. And that his knife lay on the corner of the dining room table.

"Jack. Even if I were the sort of man you're running from, I'm hardly in any shape to..."

Rio's voice trailed off and Jack felt heat spread over his neck and face. Rio had never done anything to harm him, so why was he finding it so hard to believe that he was safe with Rio around? He took a deep breath and recoiled from the cold, pungent scents of blood and sweat. His heart picked up speed and his breath came short and shallow. He was eleven again. Scared and alone and hurting. And when the door opened...

"Jack!"  The smack was loud, but Rio's yelp was louder. "Fuckin' hell tha' hurts!"

The Jamaican was doubled over where he sat, clutching his ribs. The dreadlocks hung down over Rio's face and he muttered something that sounded like a string of obscenities.

"Serves you right." Jack rubbed his stinging cheek. "What you hit me for, anyway?"

Rio jerked his head first one way then the other, trying to get the hair out of his eyes without unwrapping his arms. Jack wanted to reach out and help, but he didn't have his knife and he hadn't come that close to another for-

"Don' go there," Rio said sharply.

"What?"

"I can see it now," Rio explained. "When you go inside your head to whatever scary place you got there."

"That's why you hit me?"

"Sorry ‘bout that. I didn' notice until you were gone. You don' listen so well when you're there."

"I smelled blood." Jack swallowed as understanding dawned. He nodded to himself. "I smelled blood and sweat and it reminded me of..." Deliberately, he took a step closer to Rio and sniffed. Blood and sweat, and then Rio's scent, warm and earthy with an undertone of coconut shower gel. Jack took another deep breath and waited.

Nothing happened.

Nothing at all.

"You need a shower," he finally pointed out. "And bandages for your ribs or they'll hurt more."

"That's clever o' you, but I can' wrap my own ribs," Rio griped. He straightened in slow motion, arms steadying his torso. "So I'll have to make do for now."

"I could wrap..." Jack's voice cut off with a squeak when he realised what he was offering.

"Don' worry. I'm tougher than this shit. I'm good."

But he wasn't.

The deep, squashy sofa, while supremely comfortable, was a bitch to get up from. Rio struggled and gasped and cussed until tears streamed down his face. It looked hilarious, but Jack remembered the agony of trying to move with bruised ribs and couldn't find Rio's struggle funny. Knife clenched tightly in his left, he stepped close to the sofa and held out his right hand.

"Let me help."

Between them they managed to extricate Rio from the depths of the sofa and the Jamaican ended up in the shower after much swearing. Jack brought towels and found bandages and finally strapped Rio's ribs as tightly as he could manage.

Rio didn't mention Jack's knife.

Jack ignored the knowledge that Rio could overpower him without breaking a sweat, even when he was hurt.

"You were right," Jack admitted very quietly late that night, long after pizza and painkillers and careful explanations of the effects of trauma and PTSD. He'd not said much, but he had listened and sat closer to Rio than ever before, propping the older man up when he flagged. He'd stayed close by even when Rio dropped off to sleep, making sure the wheezing breaths didn't falter. He knew that the pain would wake Rio every time he moved and he'd waited for the right time to apologise.

"You were right," he said again, when silvery moonlight was the only illumination in the room and there was comfort in hiding in the shadows. At least Rio wouldn't be able to see his blush. "I should have asked for help."

"You were right, too." Rio's breath was still coming out wheezy, but he sounded better than he had when they'd come home. "I can't protect you. But I can have your back."

"Jesus!" The tiny spring clip pinged away from him for the fourteenth time and Jack sighed as he retrieved it, settling down to try again to fit it into the casing. It was late and he was tired, but he was determined to build a tracker half the size of the ones currently on the market. More because Rio had said that it couldn't be done rather than because it was needed; but that was beside the point.

He had just picked up the tweezers when a small strobe light flashed in his line of vision. The tweezers clattered to the floor. Jack reached for the knife that rested on the corner of the table and gripped it tight while he stared at the strobe until the light blinked out. Jack slumped in relief and dropped the knife when he heard the key in the lock.

Rio was home.

Jack had barely seen the Jamaican in the last week. Rio came and went at odd hours, returning bruised, dirty and exhausted for a few hours sleep before he took off again. Jack guessed that he was training for an assignment but he didn't ask. Jack never asked and – for the most part – Rio extended him the same courtesy.

Today, though, Rio didn't disappear into the bathroom to get cleaned up. He didn't look as if he was in need of food or rest, either. More serious than Jack had ever seen him, Rio threw his leather jacket on to the dining table and came across the room to stand beside Jack's chair.

"I have some news," he said, the lilting accent unexpectedly flat. "About your mother."

"I know she was found dead in her flat yesterday morning," Jack told him without looking up from his tracker design. "The coroner's report cited a heroin overdose as cause of death. Blood alcohol levels were well above normal, too. She'd had unprotected sex before she died and there were old bruises on her face, arms and torso."

Jack had kept an eye on his mother and a raft of other people ever since Rio had shown him how to set a flag. He had read the coroner's report almost as soon as the coroner had filed it, not in the least surprised by the content. It fit with everything else he knew about the woman. And it had long ago stopped to bother him.

"Have you been to see her?"

Jack had to remind himself to shut his mouth. The very ridiculousness of the question floored him so completely he wasn't even aware that he was staring.

"Have you?"

Rio's insistence was out of character. He tended to know when to leave well enough alone. That, and the tension in the man's frame, drew a response from Jack when little else would have. He stood up, raised his chin and looked straight up into coffee-coloured eyes.

"That woman sold me to her pimp when I was eleven years old because she needed a fix," he said. "Why would I…
ever
… want to go and see her?" He dropped his gaze to his shoes, watching from under his lashes as Rio stepped back and settled onto the sofa. "I've had her flagged, but I had nothing to do with her death," he said, quieter now, but no less intent. "And I'm not sorry or upset or ...whatever... just because she died."

"Jack, come sit here," Rio invited, patting the empty space beside him.

Jack didn't hesitate and didn't reach for his knife before he came across the room. He didn't flinch when Rio wrapped an arm lightly around his shoulders. At some point in the last year he had started to trust Rio; even when the man was close enough that Jack could smell his aftershave.

"Look at me."

Jack raised his chin and the concern in Rio's eyes took his breath away.

"The coroner's report you've seen is the edited version. Dr. Wheeler actually thinks your mother died of a blow to the head and that the overdose was administered while she was unconscious."

"Her pimp likes to hit," Jack shrugged. "And since the autopsy report said she'd had unprotected sex…."

"What's tha' got to do with anythin'?"

"He's got a latex allergy or whatever. Never uses rubber."

Rio snorted, but then something lit at the back of his eyes. "That pizza scheme you've got going," he asked, putting it together as he spoke, "is that…?"

"His brother. Jericho's not stupid enough to have a bank account."

"Jericho."

"My mother's pimp," Jack snapped, losing his patience with the conversation. He wanted to get back to his tracker design or – failing that – grab a few hours of sleep. The last thing he wanted was talk about his late unlamented mother and a man who had starred in far too many of his waking nightmares. "Surely you knew all this?"

Rio relaxed against the couch cushions. "Sure didn'. 's not as if you're the sharin' type. But I think you've jus' solved a murder."

"Ah crap!" Jack groaned. "Don't make me do statements and paperwork and shit. Your social services friend is annoying enough."

"Won'," Rio assured, the comforting lilt Jack loved thick in his voice. "I'll drop Tasha a note and she'll act on it. And don' mind Clarissa. I've told you before that you don' have to pretend with me. Now tell me somethin'."

"What?"

"Why have you kept track of your mother and… whoever else?"

"You told me to." Jack grinned at Rio's incredulous look. "The night you caught us raiding the corner shop and you yelled at me 'cause I let that bouncer make me steal booze? You told me to keep my friends close and my enemies closer. So I did."

"The bouncer?"

"I have a list," Jack admitted. He kept track of a good number of people. People who threatened him, people who threatened the local street kids, even a couple of people who could cause trouble for Rio. He knew where they were and what they did – and every once in a while there came a chance to dish out a bit of justice.

Jericho's brother had no idea he was paying for a daily delivery of pizza to the homeless shelter three streets from where Jack lived. And that was the harmless side of Jack's operations. He wasn't above sending incriminating evidence to the police if he could do so without leaving a trace.

Going by the look the Jamaican gave him, Rio had guessed some of what Jack wasn't telling him. "Just make sure you stay safe," he growled softly, and Jack took it as the endorsement it was.

Jack's knowledge about Jericho brought visitors to Rio's house. Visitors who were broader than Rio, who crowded Rio's living room, who were so animated or so stressed that they spoke over each other, not listening to what the other participant had to add to the conversation or even what their host had to say. Neither visitor had taken the time to give Jack more than a passing glance.

And Jack was totally fine with that.

He sat as far away from the two men as the room allowed. Rio had introduced them as Detective Inspector Hastings and Detective Sergeant Clark, so he was careful to keep his knife out of sight. But as the argument across the room grew in volume and ferocity and Jack's heartbeat spiked until he almost choked, he reached for the worn leather handle. After all the time the blade had been with him, the black wrapping was moulded to his grip. It fitted perfectly, caressing his palm and calming his mind.

"Bastard's gone to ground," Hastings complained in response to something Rio might have said. It was hard to tell between the swift back and forth. "It's anyone's guess when and where he'll turn up again."

The younger of the two detectives, Clark, had dark skin and coffee-coloured eyes like Rio, but was without the dreads or Rio's lilting, comforting accent to recommend him.  Instead, he wore an aftershave that reminded Jack of Jericho, and just catching the occasional whiff made his stomach cramp with nausea and his mind curl with dread.

"I 'spose we have to wait for the next dead body to turn up." Defeat and resignation coloured Hastings' deep voice and from a man so big and beefy, that was hard to take.

Almost as hard as the idea of letting Jericho get away.

"I know where he'd be," Jack said from his corner. Judging by the shocked looks cast his way, the two detectives had forgotten he was in the room. "I could lure him out, too," he added, managing to sound steadier than he felt.

"No."

Rio's concern warmed Jack, relaxed him, too, but he didn't drop his idea. "You know it will work. He'll come after me as soon as he sees me."

"And why would he do that?"

Jack pushed his chin up and drew a deep breath. "Because he used to own me."

The stunned silence in the room was a balm to his frayed nerves. He'd said it. Out loud. And neither of the men looked at him as if they were disgusted.

Shocked, yes.

Outraged, yes.

Disgusted, no.

"He let you go?"

"Yeah, 'cause that's what he does, right?" Jack wanted to roll his eyes, but Rio made the hand sign for caution and Jack grew still at once.

"You escaped. When?"

"While ago."

"How?"

"Let's stick to the problem at hand," Rio cut in before Jack could think of anything to say.

"We are," Clark protested and Rio glared at him until he dropped his gaze and shifted in his seat.

"Jack, tell us where Jericho will be."

Jack explained about the place by the gasworks with the small dance club out front and the gambling den in the back. He talked about the boys who were traded for cocaine or coin and the two men's eyes grew wide.

"There, go get him," Rio said finally, when Jack had run out of words.

"We won't even get near the place, you know that."

"I don't know that. And neither do you."

Jack liked the way Rio put himself between the officers and Jack. It made him feel special. But he couldn't hide this time. Not because he desperately wanted to play bait – he'd rather have teeth pulled without anaesthetic than go near Jericho – but because this was his chance to stop the pimp. To make him pay, a tiny little bit at any rate, for the boys he'd hurt.

The nausea gnawing at his gut grew worse the longer he thought about Jericho, but he fought it down, took a deep breath and raised his voice.

"They're right, Rio," he said confidently, far more confidently than he felt. "They won't get in. Even in plain clothes they look nothing like the men Jericho hangs with."

"See, Rio, the kid knows his stuff," the big man took advantage. "You gotta let him help."

"Only if he wants to."

"I'm right here," Jack interrupted the standoff. "And I wanna help."

Rio snarled, Jack insisted and the two detectives left after some provisional plans had been made for Jack to go into the club to lure out Jericho. Jack wanted to go back to the experiment that the arrival of Hastings and Clark had interrupted, but Rio growled at him to get his jacket and shoes.

"You're pissed."

Rio turned his head and regarded Jack for a moment. "Not a' you."

"Who, then?"

Rio tossed his dreads into the direction of the door. "They shouldn' make you do this."

His accent settled around Jack like a warm blanket. If Rio sounded like that, he really wasn't pissed at Jack.

"They're not making me," Jack set the record straight. "I offered."

"You shouldn' have to."

And yes, Jack agreed silently, Rio had a point. He shouldn't have to go after a pimp. He shouldn't have to play bait. Hell, he shouldn't have had to become one of Jericho's boys! There were a lot of shouldn't haves in Jack's life. But
I shouldn't have let Jericho get away
wouldn't ever be amongst that collection. Not now, when Jack had choices.

"I feel like... like it's something worth doing," he said slowly, feeling his way along the unfamiliar thought. "It's not gonna be... pleasant and... and I... it's sorta hanging over me. But..."

"You think you feel better when you've done it?"

Jack thought about it as he followed Rio out the door. "I don't know?" he hazarded after a moment. "Maybe not better. But I think... maybe... it helps to know he can't hurt anyone else?" Jack stopped outside the house. "Where are we going?"

"To see a friend o' mine."

"What's he do?

"He's a cobbler."

"A what?"

"Dictionary. Read one." Rio sighed. "He makes shoes."

Jack frowned at that pronouncement. "I don't need shoes."

"You need boots."

"Boots? Why?"

"If you're goin' into that club, I don' want you helpless. Not for a moment."

"You said you'll back me up."

"I will. But if I sit on you all night I'll blow your cover."

Jack nodded. He hadn't thought of that, but Rio made sense. "So how do boots help?"

"They have a secret."

They took Rio's vintage Citroen DS, the car Jack had fallen in love with on sight three years earlier. He'd never told Rio that it was the quirky car and the fact that Rio's front door was painted a bright, cheerful red in a street where everything else languished in black and white that had prompted him to squat in Rio's basement. Though having learnt since how security conscious Rio was, he didn't understand how it had been so easy to break in.

Rio thought it was fate, as it had been when he'd stumbled over Jack when Jack was sick and needed help.