Vigilante 01 - Who Knows the Storm (11 page)

He got home hours before Sam—messengers were even more necessary on days like this, when no one wanted to go out—and restlessly prowled the brownstone.

He touched the hidden door of the safe room, brushing his palm over the oak trim. His mother had installed it after 9/11, convinced the end times were upon them—the terrorist attack was proof she’d been right all along. The world would descend in chaos and bloodshed and they had to be prepared.

When it was still not good but not bad enough for the hospital, Nox’s father would hand over a credit card and let her buy until she felt a modicum of peace.

Their basement rivaled even the most paranoid of the survivalists’.

Over the years, those supplies had kept Nox and Sam alive. Hard times were never potentially deadly. They made it through.

Food, water, guns. Solar-powered radios and enough first-aid supplies to open a hospital. Blankets tested for the most extreme temperatures. Duplicates and triplicates tucked and neatly ordered on row after row of shelving, waiting for darkness to fall and the people in this house to have to fight for their lives.

Sometimes he thought she had been right all along.

N
OX
CHANGED
into his black leathers and went out to walk the streets of his territory.

It started within the walls of his home, but it bled out onto his block. His terrible fear that someone would come into the house and take Sam propelled him into the darkness, around and around the block, until daylight.

Sam got older. The longer he could stay alone, the larger the circle Nox traveled.

Up here there was no industry, no outside investment, and therefore no cops. The nameless, faceless murderers who killed his father didn’t return, but Nox went on his little missions so he could head off other threats to the peace of his household. Dead Bolt dealers and junkies drawn to the dark mess of the Old City, with no one to stop them from plying their deadly trade.

It made him crazy.

The guy is standing on the steps of Trinity, holding court like he’s king. He’s got a line of people waiting for his poison, out in the open, no shame.

Nox sees red.

He’s eighteen years old, tired and hungry for something more than rice and beans and water. He rations everything out, not knowing when things will turn around. If they will. People who stuck it out through the storms
and the Evacuation have packed up their belongings and left. Nox is alone in the neighborhood except for Sam.

This man, this criminal, smiles and laughs as he passes another clear baggie to another poor soul—and Nox feels a rage he’s only experienced twice before.

He waits in the shadow until the man is alone, counting up money with a huge grin on his face.

He waits until the man walks down the stairs and steps into the shadows pooling on the sidewalk.

Then Nox strikes.

Everything crowded into Nox’s head in a symphony of madness—past and present crashing into him like angry waves. He stared at the faded brick walls of his former school and tried to remember when this building was a joyful memory.

H
E
WENT
home.

H
ALF
A
block away, Nox spotted people inside his gate, on his stairs. The Sig—because a blackjack was no longer enough to make him feel safe—was tucked in the back of his waistband, under his heavy black sweater, and his hand was on it before he consciously registered it.

None of the men were Sam, for which he was instantly grateful. The blond on the top step, he realized, was Mr. Creel—and as he moved closer, he processed that he might need to kill him if he’d brought danger to his house.

Then the other two men attacked, and Nox started running.

He pulled the first man down by the back of his jacket. Nox recognized him as local muscle for one of the larger dealers—that meant a green light for him to get four rib punches and a toss down the stairs. As he collapsed on the ground, Nox moved to the ongoing scuffle.

Nox plucked the second dealer by the back of his shirt. He was heavy, but that just gave gravity a hand in yanking him down the steps after Nox banged his head against the concrete railings and issued a threat.

At his feet, Cade sat up suddenly, looked up at him, and Nox felt a flash of fear as recognition dawned on the kid’s face.

His hood had fallen back.

“Oh shit,” the kid muttered before passing out again.

Nox’s trouble just kept multiplying.

C
REEL
WAS
down for the count, passed out and sprawled on Nox’s front step. Adrenaline coursed through Nox’s body like a fast-moving virus; he had to clean up this mess before Sam woke up or anyone noticed the commotion.

He carried an emergency blanket in his pack, and that became a cocoon for the kid lying unconscious at his feet. The kid’s immediate safety taken care of, Nox dealt with the assholes at the bottom of the stairs.

Part of him wanted to shoot them both—bad enough they prowl his neighborhood, bringing death and destruction, but his house? He tried to keep his logical mind engaged before the animal shredded them both and left them to bleed out in the middle of the street.

One hand on each of their jacket collars, Nox hauled them down the block. The weight and effort taxed his body, pushing it to the limit as he gritted his teeth. Over tree roots and around broken sidewalks, all the way to the main drag. In the center sat an enormous pothole—that was the destination.

Arms screaming, he yanked them the last few yards. First the muscle, then the flunky, went facedown in the slush-filled hole.

If they woke up, they could crawl back to their tenements. If not? Well, that was the law of the jungle. Survival of the fittest.

He got two steps before a searing pain sent him down to one knee. Nox looked back to find the muscle had woken up—and pushed a small blade into the back of Nox’s calf.

Nox kicked back with his good leg without hesitation. He caught the asshole in the face, just over the side of the hole where he’d crawled out. The crunch and whimper of pain gave him time to reach for the Sig and aim over the side.

He pulled the trigger once, the silencer muffling his deed in the quiet, cold night.

The blade was too deep for him to pull out, so he limped back home, only rage powering his movements. The dead man in the street meant nothing to him, meant nothing to the drug dealer who employed him. There were men to take his place, women to step up and do his job without anyone lamenting his passing. Nox knew the score—everything he did just slowed the tide, handicapped the inevitable.

But for the violence to be so close to home? He couldn’t have that.

Jenny’s face flashed in his mind, and he willed himself to move faster.

That pretty boy with the lush mouth was going to tell him everything: who sent the letter to Sam, about Jenny’s doppelganger, and why he was drawing attention to Nox’s front door. And he was going to do all that or end up in the middle of the street like the dead asshole who’d stuck a knife in his leg.

Chapter Twelve

W
HEN
C
ADE
finally found his bearings, he was lying on a bed in a quaint white-and-purple room that looked like something his twin female cousins would go out of their minds for. He tried to remember why his head and hands and stomach and everything hurt so fucking much. It took a second, but the full details came back in a rush.

“Dammit,” he said out loud, shifting his weight to try to roll over. The resulting pain was a mixture of nausea and breath-stealing pressure on his side.

He remembered the guy in the black hood pulling him up and the blue eyes and considered whether Mr. Mullens might be triplets or clones. He remembered being told to stay awake, which seemed a terrible idea. Everything hurt, especially his head.

A nap would be wonderful.

Or it could kill you
, another voice said. This one sounded sardonic and irritated and most like his brother, Lee.

This time I won’t go the opposite way just to spite you
, Cade thought as he pinched his palm in an attempt to stay conscious.

The door opened and one of the Mr. Mullens—the one in the black hoodie—stepped in, hood down and a full scowl on his dirty and bruised face.

He slammed the door behind him. The sound went through Cade’s skull like a knife through hot butter—and that image called to mind made his stomach roil.

“Who are you working for?” the man asked, cold and fierce. He moved—no, limped—to stand over Cade, who rolled onto his back in a move of supplication.

“I just wanted to know….” Cade shook his head, trying to clear his mind. “I don’t like not knowing…,” he tried again, but Mr. Mullens’s face kept contorting into something angrier and angrier.

“Why are you here?” he snapped.

Cade closed his eyes tightly, bringing his hands up to cover his ears. “Shut up,” he moaned, fighting another wave of nausea.

“I’m going to dump your ass in the middle of the street in five seconds if you don’t tell me who you’re working for.”

Thu-thump, thu-thump
went Cade’s temples. He pressed his hands harder against his ears as if to keep his brains from spilling out.

“Mr. White is a good customer,” he whispered. “It was just a favor.”

Then everything faded to black.

Chapter Thirteen

N
OX
LIMPED
back into the hallway only to find Sam standing there, arms tight across his chest.

“Your leg….” Sam gestured, his face pale. Nox looked down and realized the reason for his son’s expression.

There was a blood trail from the front door, down the hall, and crisscrossing between the doors as Nox stomped around.

“Fuck. Get the first-aid kit,” Nox rumbled, leaning against the wall with a shaky exhale. As his anger simmered and the heat from the house permeated his bones, the pain and blood loss started to register with his body.

Haziness touched the edges of his vision.

Sam pushed him into the kitchen, then directly into a chair. The sudden drop made Nox’s head spin. He gripped Sam’s arm as he leaned over him. “We need to get that guy out of here.”

“He’s hurt and so are you,” Sam said, kneeling at Nox’s side. His hands were gentle as he ripped the material of Nox’s pant leg. The small knife sticking out of the meaty part of Nox’s calf didn’t even make him blink.

He’d sewn up worse.

“I don’t want him here,” Nox started, but Sam put his hand up to stop the flow of words.

“Well, tough. It’s after curfew.” There was a serious, mature edge to Sam’s voice, his face—Nox couldn’t help but see the little boy, but it was clear times had changed. “And we need to make sure he’s okay.”

Sam had grown up.

They were both quiet after that. Nox braced himself as Sam removed the small knife. He bit his lip as Sam cleaned and sewed up the wound. It wasn’t his first stabbing and it wouldn’t be his last, and somewhere along the way, Sam had gotten good at playing nurse.

In another life Sam would have made a wonderful doctor.

Sam stood up, wiping his hands on his T-shirt. “I want to talk to him, see if he knows anything else about the person who wrote the letter,” he said matter-of-factly.

“No.”

Nox rubbed his face with both hands, shaken from the loss of blood and still on edge with Cade in his house. People weren’t allowed in here, for very good reason.

He didn’t want to sacrifice another life, but he would if it meant keeping Sam safe.

“Stop saying that.” Sam sounded done. “Stop telling me what to do. I’m going to talk to him and make sure he’s okay, and then you can kick him out, okay?” Sam’s voice escalated into a shout. “Stop being so goddamned paranoid.”

Not much could have driven Nox out of that chair, but Sam’s anger—his determination to defy Nox—did the trick. He loomed over Sam, who lifted his chin defiantly. “I’m trying to keep you safe.”

“You’re keeping me prisoner! Out there—my parents could be looking for me! Did you ever think of that?” Despair crept into his voice. “You keep me in this house, you control where I go and who I talk to! And all this time, they could be—they could be freaking out, thinking I was dead when I’m not.”

Nox’s heart broke, but anger was the only emotion he could safely express. “I saved your goddamn life,” he snapped. “Everything is about keeping you safe. Every piece of shit’s blood on my hands—even that’s about you.”

A dark veil fell over Sam’s face. “Maybe you should have just let me drown,” he said slowly.

Nox regretted it as soon as he opened his mouth, but the words snapped out. “Yeah, maybe I should have.”

Sam was gone before Nox could stop him, storming through the living room and then up the stairs. Nox tried to limp after him but gave up halfway—he hurt, he was angry, and he didn’t think Sam would have any interest in speaking with him at this moment.

Nox felt shame at hurting Sam, because nothing could be further from the truth. He didn’t regret saving his life, not for a single second.

He felt the burn in his leg from a wound that never should have happened. Distraction. The boy unconscious in the guest room.

His carefully ordered world was descending into chaos again, and he didn’t spend seventeen years to watch it happen because he lost control.

He limped into the bedroom where Cade was sleeping, trembling under the thin blankets. Nox didn’t question the logic of what followed—he stripped the wet clothes off Cade’s dead weight, tossed each piece to the floor, ignored his concern at the bluish tinge to his skin.

This kid was a bridge to trouble Nox didn’t need or want.

With trembling hands, he tucked the blankets around Cade’s still limp body and watched him for a long, long time.