Kickass Anthology (28 page)

Jack didn't believe in fate, but he couldn't really argue over it. Couldn't and didn't want to, both. Maybe fate was paying him back for all the crap in his life before he'd met Rio. And if this was the case, then he owed at least one favour in return and maybe going into the club was his payment.

"Rio, man! Long time no see." Another Jamaican, almost as tall as Rio, was waiting for them when Rio parked the car in a part of London Jack had never been in. The two men embraced and then the elder turned his eyes to Jack. "And who is this?"

"This is Jack. Who doesn' need shoes."

"Is that so?"

"My shoes are fine." Jack had no idea why he was even having that conversation. It was weird, arguing over shoes with two grown men.

"If your shoes are fine, let Hotshot show you some seriously hot boots," the man smiled and waved for Jack to follow him into the house.

Jack's room in Rio's house was full of books and dismantled electronics. Rio's living room was crammed with CDs and cassette tapes and rows upon rows of vinyl records. Hotshot's house – and where did a man that old get a name like this? – could have doubled as a leather museum.

Or a shoe shop.

A very posh shoe shop.

The first thing that hit Jack was the smell, rich like chocolate and pungent enough to catch in his throat. Next, he noticed the colours: every shade of cream and brown Jack could imagine as well as deep blues and maroons and – most amazingly – shades of green he hadn't known existed. Some of the hides were as thick as his finger, others delicate enough for light to shine through.

"These are vellum," Hotshot explained. "Calf leather used as pages in old books."

"Who needs these?"

"Museums, mostly. To repair manuscripts. Artists use them too. And calligraphers."

Jack had no idea what a calligrapher was. He didn't ask, but he heard Rio's teasing
dictionary
from right across the room. He didn't care. He was far too intrigued by the green leather samples that took up a whole corner of Hotshot's workroom. He held one after the other up to the light to admire the colours. One was a golden green as pale as the leaves on the birch tree in Rio's garden, another a green so deep it looked black unless the light shone right on it.

"What do you think of this one?"

Rio held out a large sheet of leather to him. The colour was unusual, a cross between green and silver.

"It's the exact same colour that your eyes are. I think you need a shirt."

"Made from leather?"

"Or a jacket?"

Jack stilled. A leather jacket? A leather jacket made just for him. He couldn't even imagine how much that would cost.

He was no stranger to hard work. Rio often argued that he spent far too much time in front of the computer, but Jack enjoyed it and work was all he had to repay Rio for the help the man was giving him. Rio always made him put some of the money he earned aside for himself, but Jack was sure that a handmade leather jacket would far outstrip his modest savings.

He shook his head at Rio's suggestion, but the idea stuck with him and he kept coming back to finger the soft silver-green leather.

Hotshot finally dragged him into the next room to look at boots and Jack had trouble shutting his mouth. This was better than any shoe shop Jack had ever seen. Traditional men's shoes vied for space on the many shelves with ladies pumps and trainers. Mostly, though, the shelves displayed boots of all shapes and sizes the way a library displayed its treasure of books. Short boots and tall boots, flats and heels, dainty boots and biker boots, Hotshot's products used all the variations of leather Jack had seen in the first room.

"These look as if they have your name on it, don' you think?"

Rio dropped a pair of boots into Jack's lap that were made from the same silvery green leather he'd admired earlier. The boots were sturdy, came halfway up his calves and had buckles instead of laces.

"Wow, they're way cool."

"Oh, you have no idea!" Rio almost preened when he said that and it looked hilarious. "Lemme show you."

"Are your boots like this?" Jack asked once Rio had shown him the knife sheaths stitched into the lining and demonstrated the short knives that could fit into the sole.

"Hotshot makes
all
my boots," Rio confided. "I won't go on assignment wearing anything else. Tall boots can have space for a stiletto down the back. He can hollow out the heels, so you can fit memory chips in it, or even a one shot pepper spray."

"And nobody will know?"

"Not if they just pat you down. The leather is stiff enough that nobody will be able to feel the knives. Airport security is a different matter, but we don't have to worry about that right now. When you go into that club, I want you to have weapons they won't find."

Jack felt sick, standing outside the once so familiar club. He'd not been here since he escaped from Jericho's hold, but just seeing the brightly lit door with its stained glass panes showing four aces set bile churning in his gut. He'd stopped in the shadow of the huge Victorian gas holders so he could watch the club's entrance and, looking the other way, the field on the other side of the gasworks. The area was dark and quiet and Jack heaved a sigh of relief.

The police were out in force to catch the pimp who'd murdered Jack's mother. As well as the two detectives, who had turned up at Rio's house to make sure he followed through on his offer, there were half a dozen squad cars parked close to the gasworks, ready to swoop in and turn the joint over as soon as Jack gave the word.

Jack had balked at letting either one of the detectives close enough to fit him with the wire they wanted him to wear. With Rio backing him up inside, Jack didn’t think he had need of a wire, but he'd lost that argument. Something about evidence they needed in court. Jack hadn't cared enough to fight. He'd had a hard time keeping the contents of his stomach where they were supposed to be.

Rio had done the honours in the end. He'd helped Jack select black jeans and a green, long-sleeved shirt for the job, threading the wire along the inside seam of the shirt with a familiarity that made Jack smile.

"You've done this before."

"Yeah. And I hate it every time."

"Why?"

"Because it usually means that I'm sending someone else into a shithole. I hate doing that. Jack." Rio was almost begging and it shook Jack to the core. "You don't have to do this."

"Yes, I do."

"Because of your mother?"

"What? No." Jack stared up into Rio's eyes. "I couldn't care less about that woman," he said candidly. "And it isn't so much what he did to me, either." Jack had come to terms with his feelings and motivations while Rio helped him prepare. When he had thought about it, he'd realised his need was a simple one. He didn't want to hear that another boy had been forced to endure what Jack had lived through. Not while Jack had the means and opportunity to stop it.

It didn't even matter that it was Jericho they were hunting.

It only mattered that – like a true zero – Jack had the power to change the way things were.

He'd struggled to find the words to explain why Jericho wasn't important. The words didn't come. Not the right words, those that would erase the disbelieving, pained look from Rio's face. So in the end, Jack did what he hadn't done in many years: He put his arms around another person.

And as Rio hugged him back, the words were right there on his tongue.

Jack had never questioned the fact that Rio would watch his back in the club. He'd scoffed at the two detectives' offer of help, judging them far too obvious, but he'd never put Rio into the same category. Seeing what Rio wore, how he moved and even spoke – Jack had been right. Rio blended perfectly. The bouncers at the entrance didn't give him any more grief than they'd given Jack, which was to say none at all.

For the first hour, Jack clung to the shadows. He'd been afraid he'd be recognised before he could confirm that Jericho was present, but he needn't have worried.  The dance floor looked like a school disco, and Jack blended right in. Older patrons clustered at the bar and there was a steady stream of men drifting into and out of the back room, but none of the faces were familiar. From where Jack stood and looked, the club hadn't changed at all. The music was loud, the smoke thick and the clientele obnoxious.

And right in the thick of it stood Jericho.

He hadn't changed either.

The same olive complexion that looked swarthy against Jack's paler skin. The same unruly black hair and the stubble-covered jaw whose touch on his body Jack had hated almost more than Jericho's god-awful aftershave.

Jack's eyes sought Rio's and he gave a tiny nod and the hand sign they'd agreed on. Then he stepped out of the shadows and neared the cluster of men at the bar.

"Well, look at that."

Jack didn't flinch at the words. He'd been sure that Jericho would accost him immediately, even if the two detectives hadn't wanted to believe him. And the pimp sounded just the way Jack remembered him: oily cheer laced with a hint of threat.

Only Jack wasn't 11 anymore.

He wasn't helpless.

He had learned to fight.

And Rio was close by.

The police was close by, too, but Jack barely considered that.

"Hi," he said, loud enough for the wire to pick up his voice over the music. Rio had made him practise with the stereo at home and Jack was glad he had that tiny memory to distract himself.

He saw Jericho raise his hand and he knew what was coming. He didn't take his eyes off the man, and he didn't move. He stood there, as he'd stood uncounted times before, and let Jericho brush the backs of his fingers down Jack's cheek and jaw. Jack had no idea if it was meant as a caress or a means of intimidation, but he wasn't surprised when the soft touch turned into a vicious backhand that snapped his head to the side. Something warm and wet beaded on his lip and Jack licked it away, tasting salt and metal.

It wasn't the first mark that Jericho's signet ring had left on Jack's skin. But Jack was determined it would be the last. He held himself still and didn't flinch when Jericho's rough palm caressed his jaw, when it slid across his nape and pulled him closer.

"I didn't think you'd be stupid enough to show your face near me again." Jericho's hot, beer-fuelled breath blew across Jack's face, almost making him gag. "Or are you desperate for money?"

"'s not as if you've ever paid me before," Jack managed to say, loud enough to be heard.

"Not gonna pay you now, either," Jericho sneered. He slid sweaty fingers into Jack's hair and yanked his head back, baring Jack's throat. The grip was brutal enough that tears shot into Jack's eyes and blurred his vision.

And then Jericho's mouth closed over Jack's.

"You owe me three years' worth of income, you little shit," Jericho rasped once he'd let Jack go. "And you're gonna pay. Believe me, you--"

"Why should he do anythin' as stupid as tha'?" Rio's voice sounded from behind Jericho's shoulder and before Jack could blink his vision clear, Jericho was face down on the floor with Rio's boot in the small of his back and the club was swarming with uniformed police.

"I'M PROUD o' you."

Rio's words were so unexpected that Jack froze in his seat. He played the words over and over in his mind, unable to connect pride and survival into a pattern that made sense to him.

Jericho was in custody.

Jack and Rio had spent just enough time at the police station to sign statements and be thanked for their help.

Jack hadn't cared about that. All he'd wanted was a long hot shower to wash the scent of smoke out of his hair and Jericho's touch from his skin. As soon as they'd made it home, Rio had handed him a large bottle of coconut and grapefruit bath oil and left him alone while he disappeared into the kitchen to cook dinner. When Jack had come back down, scrubbed pink and still a bit damp around the edges, the table was set with all his favourites. And Jack had finally noticed how hungry he was.

Then Rio had told him he was proud of Jack.

"I don't understand."

"No, I don' suppose you do." Rio sighed and pushed his chair back. He held out a hand and pulled Jack to his feet. "Come with me," he said and led Jack to the one room in the house Jack had never set foot in.

Nothing but a deep green velvet curtain separated the living room from Rio's sanctuary, but the soft fabric made for a sturdier barrier than an electrified barbed wire fence. There were few rules in Rio's house, but this one room had been off limits from the start. Jack had valued Rio, and the shelter and guidance he provided, too much to risk that by breaking the rules. Even now, when Rio had invited him in, Jack lagged behind, feeling more than a little intimidated and unsure.

Those feelings changed the moment he stepped into the room and came face to face with the most sophisticated computer setup he'd ever imagined. Seven screens were grouped in semicircular tiers around a black leather recliner. Two keyboards were built into the chair's armrests and coils of cables snaked along the floors connecting everything.