Chapter Twenty-One Covers Off
Chapter twenty-one
Covers Off
Warren had lost count of how many times he’d run through it in his head.
The knife, the struggle, Jude’s face when the cuffs came out of the glovebox.
That look. Christ, that look. He’d had perps spit in his face, point guns at him, swear blind they’d gut him.
None of it had got under his skin the way Jude had stared at him as though the ground had vanished beneath his feet.
And when he’d had to listen to Patel reading him the riot act whilst watching Jude disappear out of view in the back of a patrol car…that was gutting. More damage than Reid’s rusty kitchen knife could have done to him.
The procedure after was automatic. He had the full debrief in the secure room.
Senior officers circled him like sharks, wanting his first account before the adrenaline had drained.
A written statement had been logged, typed up, signed off.
Then came the body check by the FME for scratches and bruises, photographs of his split knuckles after he’d lost his temper with Reid’s jaw.
And along came the Professional Standards officer making notes with the look Warren knew too well, weighing up if his use of force would stand in front of a tribunal.
If he’d fucked up any hope of them securing a conviction.
Then came the debrief with Patel. Clipped questions, clipped answers. What went right? Not much. What went wrong? Almost everything. What he should have done better? Where to start.
He could still hear Reid’s taunts, the filth he’d spat about Jude, and he hated himself for letting it needle under his skin.
The threats, the crack of his fist across Reid’s jaw.
None of it looked good written down in black and white.
But the worst wasn’t what happened on the street. That had started days before, with him.
That note in the glasses case. His handwriting. His risk.
A stupid gesture meant to give Jude a lifeline had catastrophically backfired and killed the whole op.
He’d never believed it could fuck him up like this, though.
That Reid would find it, use it, and show up at his door with a blade pressed to his throat.
But that’s how they were here now. How his cover got burned.
His op compromised. Now benched until further notice, maybe for good.
Reid was in custody, sure. But Radley was still out there.
Still moving pieces, poisoning kids in seaside towns.
Un-fucking-touchable. And Warren had handed him a warning shot by screwing up the one thing he was supposed to protect.
Yet through all of it, he couldn’t stop thinking about Jude.
He’d been processed too. Statement taken, Victim Liaison hovering, shuffled into another interview room somewhere down the corridor.
Warren pictured him there. Pale, silent, despising him with every breath.
He should let it lie. Walk away. Patel had made that clear enough.
He’d compromised the op, and now he had to swallow the consequences: stay away from the station, stay away from Reid, stay the hell away from Jude.
The order was simple. Go home. South London.
Back to the Met. More than likely back to a desk, pushing paper instead of people. That was the price.
And Christ, it tasted worse than blood in his mouth.
Because he couldn’t. Not with Jude’s face in his head.
By the time he signed himself out, it was close to midnight.
The corridors were empty, the hum of the vending machine echoing louder than footsteps.
He got in his car, drove on autopilot, headlights carving through the sleeping town until he turned onto Ashworth Drive.
The marked car parked opposite was something, at least. Proof Patel was serious about keeping Jude safe.
If word had already reached Radley’s line that Callum was in custody, and Jude had given a statement against him, then Jude was a target.
Silencing him would be simple. Efficient.
That was reason enough for Warren to stay close.
Even if it wasn’t the real reason he was here.
He pulled up alongside the kerb, killed the engine, and stepped into the night air. Cold bit at his skin as he tugged his warrant card from his hoodie pocket, rapped his knuckles on the driver’s side window, and pressed the card flat to the glass. The window slid down.
“Sarge.” The driver gave a curt nod.
Warren crouched to meet him at eye level. “Report.”
“All quiet.”
“Subject inside?”
“Yeah. We’ve had the address covered since nine. Lights went out about an hour ago. No further movement.”
“Good.” Warren straightened, tying his locs back with a band from his wrist, forcing himself into the professional mask.
He slid a folded slip of paper through the gap in the window; his number scrawled on it.
“You call me directly if anyone, and I mean anyone, comes to that door. Don’t filter it through Patel.
Don’t wait for chain of command. Straight to me. Clear?”
The constable nodded, wary but obedient. “Yes, Sarge.”
Warren slipped his warrant card back into his pocket and crossed the street, each step dragging heavier than the last. Jude’s house loomed darker than the rest, curtains drawn tight, a shadow hunched beneath the glow of the streetlamp.
He raised a fist. Knocked. Once. Twice.
Then he waited, breath lodged tight in his chest, every second stretching. Jude might not open. And if he did… Warren didn’t know which would be worse: silence, or words. Glancing back at the patrol car, he exhaled, breath fogging white in the night air.
The lock rattled. The door cracked.
And suddenly the fog was gone, because all the air was stolen clean out of him.
The door was barely open an inch, but Warren could still see Jude.
All of him. Dishevelled. A crumpled T-shirt and boxers.
Settling his glasses onto his nose. Curls unruly, as though he’d just rolled from bed.
Warren’s heart stuttered and he couldn’t help the slip of his real voice cutting through before he could pull it back.
“Fuck, you’re cute.”
Jude swallowed, his throat working as he straightened, nudging his glasses higher. He peeked past Warren to the patrol car across the street.
“They’re staying.” Warren shifted into his line of sight again. “Not going anywhere. You’re safe.”
Jude’s gaze cut back to him, eyes sharp behind the lenses. “Am I?”
“I promised you.” Warren widened his eyes in plea. “Said you’d be safe.”
“Yeah.” Jude leaned against the edge of the door, folding his arms. “But I sort of hoped you meant safe from having my heart ripped out. Guess not.”
Warren took the hit. He deserved it. Every word.
“Can I come in?” Warren angled his head. “Let me explain.”
Jude held the pause too long. Enough for Warren to feel the weight of eyes on him from across the street and long enough for the night air to bite his skin. Then Jude stepped back, leaving the door open. Not quite the same invitation as that morning in the shower, but close enough.
Warren stepped inside.
He closed the door behind him and followed Jude into the living room.
A tall lamp clicked on, throwing a soft glow over the space.
And Christ, he looked even cuter now. The oversized T-shirt hanging almost to his thighs, the faded band logo cracked and worn.
Something he’d had for years, maybe since Leeds.
Maybe since the streets. A comfort thing.
A shield. Warren was probably reading too much into it, but it was easier than facing how Jude stood: arms locked tight around himself, rubbing his own skin for warmth and safety.
“Do you want something to drink?” Jude tilted his head towards the kitchen. “Tea, coffee. Water. Beer?”
“I’d kill for a beer.” The words left too quickly, automatic.
Jude turned towards the kitchen.
“But—no, wait.” Warren took a step closer. “I don’t drink. Or at least I’m trying not to. And tonight, that would be a push too far if I did. Thanks though. And no to anything else either. I tanked enough coffee at the station to keep me upright for days.”
Jude said nothing.
“Look… sit. Please.” Warren gestured to the sofa. “Hear me out. Then if after that, you want me gone, I’ll go. And if I refuse, you’ve got marked police outside you can shout for.”
“Don’t you outrank them?”
“Yes. But you scream, it’s their duty to protect you. And I really hope you won’t scream.”
That earned a long sigh. But Jude finally lowered himself onto the sofa, restlessly jiggling his legs.
From cold, maybe. Or nerves. Warren’s palms itched to settle there, to still him, to feel the warmth of skin and tickle of hair beneath his fingertips.
But he didn’t. Instead, he dragged the coffee table closer and sat opposite.
Face to face. Knee to knee.
“Careful.” Jude pointed at the table. “That’s Ikea crap. Not sure it’ll hold your bulk.”
Warren let the corner of his mouth twitch. “If it breaks, I’ll buy you one from Oak Furniture Village.”
“Expensive.”
“There’s always a sale.”
A snort slipped out of Jude before he could stop it. He turned away fast, as if even a hint of a smile was a betrayal.
“Okay, look, I want to even the field here.” Warren gestured between them.
Jude arched an eyebrow as if unbelieving he could.
“Yesterday, you said if anyone found out about your past, then your job, your career… it’d all be at risk.
” Warren heaved a breath, chest elevating.
“Ditto. Right now. Ditto. My whole career is hanging by a thread because of what happened yesterday and how I’m ignoring the slapped wrist to knock on your door tonight.
Just by being here, talking to you, I’ve probably torched it already. ”
Jude sank into the cushions. “Then why are you here?”
“To let you know it wasn’t a game.” Warren’s throat tightened, but he pushed through, because it mattered. “What happened between you and me? It wasn’t the job. Nor a tactic. It wasn’t a play.”