Chapter Thirteen Against Orders
chapter thirteen
Against Orders
The next day, Nathan tried, and failed, to get on with his life.
Or what was left of it.
Elbow-deep under the bonnet of a temperamental Fiat 500, battling the same shitty fault these things always had, he was also trying, not very successfully, not to think about the night before.
The football match.
And Freddie Webb .
Bollocks . He needed a wrench.
He rolled out from under the car with a grunt, stood, and headed for the workbench as the low rumble of a motorbike rolled through the open doors.
Triumph Bonneville.
Nathan didn’t look up right away. He’d half expected Reece to ghost him. Not show. Would’ve figured. Customer gone, maybe even a shot at something resembling friendship, gone too.
But no.
In he rolled. As if nothing had happened. As if being punched in the mouth was a warmup routine. Helmet came off. Same cocky grin working its way up Nathan’s personal shit list.
Reece killed the engine, swung off the bike with too much ease, and tucked the helmet under one arm. “Morning, Staff.”
“Surprised you showed.”
Reece looked at his watch. “Little late, yeah. Got caught rescuing a cat up a tree. Then had to make myself look presentable. Cover a bruise.”
Nathan didn’t rise to the bait. “She cool enough?” He jutted his chin to the bike.
“Yep. She’s all yours.”
Nathan wiped his hands on a rag that had seen better decades, then turned to the workbench.
He gathered what he needed without rushing: a ten mm socket, five mm Allen key, long-nose pliers, a fresh ball joint, and the replacement shift rod he’d ordered in.
Then he crouched by the bike, eyes on the gear linkage.
Cool to the touch. Slight drag in the selector arm. Worn joint.
Reece loomed behind him.
Not for a better look. Nathan knew that.
Bloke wasn’t the least bit interested in whether the repair held.
He was just… there. All height and bulk and infuriating co nfidence.
Reece was taller, broader in the chest, arms like he bench-pressed engines for fun.
Nathan wasn’t small, not by a long shot, but next to Reece, he felt lean. Tight. Contained.
And it fucking killed him to picture those hands, that body, pressing Freddie into anything.
He cracked his neck, one side then the other. No room in his head for that. Not now.
Nathan opened the toolbox, methodical as ever. Pulled out the long-nose pliers, the replacement shift rod, a cloth, and the little box housing the new ball joint. Then he crouched beside the Triumph, letting the world shrink to metal, grease, and precision.
First, he disconnected the old rod, bracing his thumb behind the joint, working the circlip loose with steady pressure. Grease stuck under his nails. Didn’t bother him. Didn’t distract him.
Focus. Anchor down.
Strip the linkage. Clean the contact points. Fit the new joint. Tighten with care.
Keep his head in the job.
“Listen, about yesterday…” Reece shifted closer. Too close.
Nathan didn’t look up. He reached for the degreaser. “Said I was sorry.”
“Yeah, I know. But I thought I’d clear the air a bit. Don’t want you thinking I go around putting my hands on just anyone.”
Nathan flicked his gaze up, brief but sharp as he fitted the new rod into place.
“Me and Freddie…”
Nathan drew in a breath through his nose, those words hitting his gut. Me and Freddie . As if that was something anyone else got to say .
“…we had a thing, yeah.”
Nathan turned his attention back to the bolts. “I know.”
“Right. So when I touch him, it’s not out of line. He lets me.”
Nathan gritted his teeth and focused on the torque wrench, adjusting it to spec. Then overtightened it anyway.
“I mean, we’re a bit back and forth,” Reece said, tone casual. Either clueless or pretending. “But he always bounces back.”
“Does he.” Nathan didn’t phrase it as a question.
Reece leaned on the bench, folding those massive arms to make his leather jacket creak. “He’s all work, y’know? Married to the uniform. But when he needs to let off steam…”
Nathan locked the new joint into place. Turned the wrench. Too far. The thread bit sharp. Stripped. He swore under his breath. Reached for the backup bolt, slid it in tighter this time. Controlled. Clean.
Reece gave a low whistle. “Christ. He’s a fucking storm. Got this edge to him when he lets go… Begs .”
Nathan stood, wiping his hands on the rag, the oil streaking dark across his skin. He looked at Reece, held the stare, breathing through the fire in his chest.
“You think touching someone when they’re burnt out and bleeding counts as connection?”
Reece grinned. “We definitely connected.” He winked. “Slotted right into place.”
Nathan stepped forward. “You might want to rethink who you’re bragging to.”
Reece’s smirk didn’t fade. “Why’s that, Staff?”
Nathan turned his back, tossed the wrench into the box with a clang that echoed through the garage. “That’s done. ”
Reece straightened. “Appreciate it. What’s the damage?”
Nathan walked past him without looking. “On the house.”
“Oh, come on,” Reece called after him. “Don’t want to owe you. Not after feeling that right hook.”
Nathan finally turned. Voice like gravel. “You come here to check out the competition?”
“You saying I got competition?” Reece arched an eyebrow. “In you?”
Nathan said nothing.
“Know you two have a history, but thought that was all a friendship thing? Best bros. Went to school together.”
Nathan said nothing.
So Reece swung his leg over the bike. “Or maybe I came by to give you a kick up the arse.”
“About what?”
The engine coughed, caught, purred.
Reece looked over his shoulder, eyes lit with challenge.
“Freddie’s not the type you leave single for long.
And this—” he gestured loosely between them “—this is just friendly banter, yeah? I’ll keep my hands off him.
But if no one else is laying claim... well…
he’s fair game.” He revved the engine. “You might wanna think about that.”
Then the helmet went on, visor down. He raised a hand in a lazy wave and took off, tyres spitting grit across the concrete. Gone in a growl of exhaust and cocky self-assurance.
Nathan did think about it.
All fucking day.
Even while picking Alfie up from school. While cooking dinner, stirring red sauce into overboiled pasta shells. Sitting across the table watching his son eat in silence, fork clinking against the bowl with every bite .
So much so that when Alfie spoke, Nathan wasn’t sure he heard the words.
“Can I go or what?”
Nathan blinked. “Go where?”
“Kid from school. Said he’d help me with maths homework.”
Right. Sure.
Nathan stabbed a shell with his fork. “Yeah. S’pose.”
Alfie scraped back his chair. Took his plate to the sink. No thanks. No nothing. Then earbuds in, hood up, and out the door.
The kitchen stayed quiet long after.
Nathan stared at the leftover pasta. Then at the empty chair. Then at the door.
Maths homework?
Not a fucking chance.
He stood, shoved his boots back on, and grabbed his keys.
If Reece was right about one thing, it was that you didn’t leave things you care about unattended.
Not in Worthbridge.
* * * *
Freddie was back in uniform. Four days off already a distant memory but he hoped a bit of responsibility and the start of another punishing run of nights might be enough to drag his mind off Nathan Carter.
At least he wasn’t pounding the pavement on foot patrol, chasing pissed-up teenagers or scraping drunks off the pavement this time. No. Tonight he was deep in it.
Surveillance op.
Static, cold, drawn-out work. Eyes on a target house for Operation Echelon, a property tied to the Radley investigation.
Suspected drugs, suspected trafficking, and no room for screw-ups.
He could already feel the edge of something huge about to break creeping in.
He adjusted his earpiece, curling one hand loosely around the thermal coffee cup balanced between his knees, tapping a restless rhythm with the other on the steering wheel.
Outside the car, the street was quiet. Too quiet for half-eight on a Thursday night.
Too dark, too. No working streetlights, and all the semi-detached houses had the same tired curtains drawn already.
Same cracked paving stones, too. Only difference was the target house three doors down: blacked-out windows, a steady trickle of comings and goings, and a hell of a lot of reasons to believe Radley’s operation was rooted inside.
He shifted, the police radio crackling quietly through his comms. Static. Then the clipped voice of DI Carrick.
“Surveillance teams in position. Maintain constant observations. No pro-active moves unless authority given. Confirm over .”
Freddie pressed the mic clipped to his vest. “Bravo One, received, over.”
Becca sat in the passenger seat, munching on a bag of crisps as if they weren’t about to bust open a potential trafficking ring. She licked the salt off her thumb.
“You reckon they’re sitting in there counting twenties?”
Freddie kept his eyes forward, scanning the quiet street. “Bodies, more like.” He glanced at her. “Intel says two minors inside. Maybe more.”
“Great.” Becca tossed the empty bag into the footwell.
They settled back into silence, engines off, windows cracked enough to hear anything off outside. This was the waiting game: old-school observational policing. Confirm the activity. Wait for DI Carrick to call a go. No heroics. No cowboy shit. And usually a long-arse night of sitting here .
Freddie checked his watch. Twenty minutes since the last movement.
A scrappy teenager dropping off a pizza box nobody seriously believed had actual pizza inside.
He shifted in his seat, itching to move, to do something , to focus on the job instead of letting his mind drift where it really shouldn’t.
He hadn’t heard from Nathan.