Chapter 15 #2
The night progressed, and the club got more crowded until around midnight, when it was definitely time to leave.
They’d had fun, but Toby’s shift as a DJ was over, and Crosby and Garcia had plans to escort him home.
Natalia and Emily had children to return to, and Harding and Blodgett had a long drive ahead.
And even those without “grown-up” responsibilities still led grown-up lives.
Partying until 3:00 a.m. was great until it interfered with a run or a nap or a diet or even doing laundry, because when they hit work on Monday, they had to have their feet underneath them to run.
And Joey, who may have been their only party animal, absolutely needed to come home and finish the night in Gideon’s arms.
But they were all seasoned at watching their backs by now. The people who’d driven had parked in the same place, and the people who were flagging down cabs or rideshares would wait together and even crash at each other’s places. No single person would be left behind.
Which was why it was such a surprise.
They all hugged Chartreuse goodbye and left her tables empty—and hefty tips on board for the whole staff that had treated them right—and then exited out the back entrance, through an alleyway to an alcove where hailing a cab was as natural as breathing.
Gid went first, knowing Harding and the other drivers were bringing up the rear with Toby in their midst, Manny Swan at his elbow since he was still recovering from his ordeal.
Gideon stepped out to hail a cab and was unprepared for the black SUV, tinted windows and reinforced grill, to swerve to the side of the road.
The side door popped open, and a beefy set of hands hauled him back into the darkened interior, and then the vehicle pulled away.
The last thing he saw before the door slammed was Joey Carlyle’s anguished face.
“Well done,” came a voice with a lot of south Boston in it. “I couldn’t count on my last bodyguard to do well in such circumstances.”
Stevie Carlyle. Well, the least Gideon could do was make it quick.
“Yeah, that’s because Joey shoved a knife through his hand,” he said before planting his elbow in the bodyguard’s throat.
The man gave a strangled grunt and released his arms, and Gideon had his hand on the car door’s handle when he felt the muzzle of a very large gun against the back of his neck.
“Listen,” said Joey’s father. “I don’t really give a crap who you are or what you are to my son, but I know you’re a worse bargaining chip with your brains splattered all over the inside of the car. You calm down and I can at least spare your ugly mug for him. He’d probably prefer it that way.”
Gideon was tempted—so tempted—to keep fighting, but he’d done his homework. Absolutely unprovable, but still, everybody knew Stevie Carlyle had splattered a lot of brains.
He stilled and allowed himself to slide between Stevie and his bodyguard, who was still struggling for air.
He shouldn’t have been shocked when Stevie moved the barrel of the gun from the back of his neck to the side of the guard’s head and pulled the trigger.
The noise and the smell and the awfulness that followed blurred, one big gray-and-red-spattered fuzz spot in Gideon’s brain, and he tried to breathe through his nausea.
The only reason he didn’t throw up on Joey’s father was because he knew for certain if he did, he’d be part of the mess too.
“Good,” Stevie Carlyle said, taking out a kerchief and wiping the gun and then throwing the kerchief and the gun out the window in front of a school as their SUV whizzed by.
He rolled up the window and said, “As long as we understand each other, it was worth losing another bodyguard to make my point.”
Gideon felt a black-hearted smile twisting his lips.
“What?” Stevie demanded. “What is that look?”
“You, sir,” Gideon said distinctly, “are lucky your son didn’t put you down in your sleep like a rabid dog.”
Stevie didn’t kill him, didn’t even go for the other gun Gideon was sure he had in the holster he could spot at the man’s side.
“That’s funny. I always thought it was the other way around.”
Gideon didn’t answer him—he didn’t want to play the bad-guy banter game. He ignored the mess to his right because he had to, and focused on not being sick.
And remembered that moment in the warehouse office when the needle had slid into his arm, after hearing Joey actually use his father’s name to keep them both safe.
He hadn’t said anything, but what he’d wanted to say, had been yearning to say, was “Don’t worry, kid. They’re coming for us. They won’t leave us in the wind.”
Now, in his head, he heard his own voice saying those words, and then Joey’s voice, loopy, garbled, saying, “If you hurt him I will burn your families to the ground.”
Oh yeah.
All he had to do was survive. Stevie Carlyle didn’t have a clue what was coming.
“I’LL GUT him! I’ll rip his throat out with my teeth!” Somebody was howling, gibbering, and Joey was struggling with all his might. Iron bands wrapped around his shoulders as he stared at the disappearing SUV in a red haze of fury.
“Joey—fuckin’ Carlyle—stop it!” Crosby boomed in his ear. Were those his arms holding him back?
“Gideon!” The howl was raw enough to tear his throat, and the echoes were still ringing in his ears when a harsh slap across his face shocked him into stilling his frantic thrashing.
“Carlyle!” Clint Harding barked into his face. “Stand down, son, stand down!” The military boom, accompanied by the military command, was almost as bracing as the slap, and Joey sagged in Crosby’s iron grip.
“He’s got him,” Joey gasped. “Harding, he’s got Gid.”
Harding nodded. “I hear you. But he could have shot him right here. Think, Joey—why wouldn’t he do that?”
Joey struggled for breath, for clarity. “Same thing he’s wanted since I got clear of FLETC,” he said. “He wants me. He seems to think I’m some sort of weapon. Military, DOJ—like if I joined the organization, he’d be invincible.”
Harding nodded slowly. “He’s going to need to break you first—make you feel like you’ve crossed the line. He wants a mini-me. Someone of his own flesh and blood. It’s a narcissist’s dream.”
“He didn’t seem to think I was his own flesh and blood when a brown girl squirted me out,” Joey spat venomously. His father’s words; Joey had heard them a lot growing up.
“Yeah, Joey,” Crosby rumbled. “But now he thinks you’re a killer. We were in the fucking papers, man, and I’m sure there’s folks in the Sons of the Blood who told him about you. How many of them did you put away?”
Joey’s shoulders went limp, and Crosby set him down like he was a porcelain doll.
All those lessons with Gideon flooded through him, and he could hear the thing Gideon had never said, probably because Gid hadn’t wanted Joey to ever imagine it was true.
“So I’m a killer,” he said, dispirited, close to tears.
“No,” Harding said, voice firm. “You’re a warrior. You know the difference between those two things?”
Classes—all that book learning, but it didn’t come down to that in the end. His brain said, Protector—trained, disciplined. But that’s not what penetrated the blinding cold fear of becoming what he hated the most.
What it came down to was a blanket, constructed one stitch at a time, thrown around Joey’s shoulders to keep him warm. Every stitch a memory of kindness.
Of love.
Gideon’s unfathomable eyes as he buffed makeup into Joey’s face.
His approval as Joey had been kind to Crosby, playful with Pearson, tender to Natalia, deferential to Harding.
That dry chuckle he had as he laughed at his own jokes.
His fury when Joey had taken his own life for granted.
That sudden vulnerability every time they were about to kiss.
His resonant baritone as they sang at the top of their lungs, because they were high, and pissed, and very, very glad to be alive.
The way he’d touched Joey softly in the night, when they were hard men meant for hard use.
And contrasted with that?
There was only the lack of expression on Joey’s father’s face when Joey had threatened him with death at the age of eight years old.
“Yeah, I know,” Joey said into the sudden silence.
“The difference between a warrior and a sociopath?” Harding said, his voice firm. “Let’s hear it, Joey, or I’m locking you in a padded room while we go get our friend.”
Joey gave a wolfish smile. “Me. I’m the warrior. Stevie Carlyle’s the sociopath. We kill the sociopath to keep our pack safe.”
Harding gave a sharp nod. “That’ll do.” He glanced to his people, all of them dressed for dinner and dancing, all of them with hard faces and squared shoulders, even Natalia’s wife, who knew what it was to stand by a warrior when she went into battle.
Even Toby Trotter, their little DJ, who had been rescued by warriors when he’d gotten in the way of the sociopaths.
“Okay, people,” Harding said. “What’s coming next is off books.
Whether you join us or not, you need to keep your eyes peeled—we don’t know how much he knows about the whole unit.
We meet at the office in two hours to pick up body armor and tactical gear and to map out a plan.
Bring your drop pieces and ammo. Anybody not up for this needs to let me know—”
“See you in two hours, Boss,” said Doba, with Henderson nodding at his side.
“Tal’s drop piece is in the lockbox in the car,” Emily said. “Let her get that and she can ride with you. Toby, I’ll get you home.”
“Thanks, honey,” Natalia said, giving her the warm gaze of somebody who has seen their every faith rewarded.
“It’s Gid, honey. We gotta go get our boy, right?”
Gideon, who had been there from the very beginning, Joey remembered. Gideon who wasn’t only Joey’s. Gideon who belonged to the unit, and everybody wanted in.
“It’s a plan,” Harding said. “Crosby, Harm and I will take Joey to Gideon’s apartment to get his stuff.
I’m going to give you two Joey’s apartment keys and the location of the cameras his father has been tapping to monitor him.
So far we haven’t spotted any other tails or cameras, but we need to make sure.
Let us know how many people you see waiting for him. I’m pretty sure it’s a trap.”
Crosby grunted. “Boss, uhm… permission?”
Harding’s smile wasn’t… pleasant. “With cause,” he said temperately, which meant Stevie Carlyle might be out some men that night.
“Course,” Crosby said. “Joey, you want us to bring you some, uhm—” He gave Joey an apologetic once-over. “—clothes that won’t rip?”
Joey remembered Gideon’s comment about seeing when Joey had last waxed and was surprised he could still smile.
“Most of my work clothes are at Gid’s,” he said, not caring.
They knew. Everybody had seen that dance, their kiss.
Gideon may have dealt with the fallout, but Joey had known what he was doing.
“Then you won’t mind what we stash in there if we have to,” Crosby said, nodding.
“Fair.” He was still standing a little behind Joey, and Joey was surprised by the giant, all-encompassing hug he received.
“You keep your brains in your head, Carlyle. Remember, we got your back. We got Gid’s. Nobody has to be alone, you hear me?”
And Joey remembered that late-night talk with Gid, and how Gid had told him he would be okay, would remain himself, because he had people to remind him who he was.
“I hear you,” he said and gave Harding a grim nod. “Can we send somebody with Emily and Toby?” he asked, remembering the night Toby had gotten hurt. “I am not okay with them on their own.”
Harding glanced up, obviously reluctant to ask somebody to stand down. His shoulders relaxed when Henderson stepped forward.
“I’m not as good a shot as Doba,” he apologized, nodding to Emily. “But I’ll be happy to escort you both.”
“Harm, do you want to go with them?” Clint asked, and his husband gave him a bored glance.
“No,” he said, without elaboration.
Harding let out a soft breath. “Of course not. Okay, people—we all have our assignments. Two hours. First person who gets there needs to unlock the equipment room and start cleaning guns. Let’s go.”
And they went.