Chapter Thirteen Against Orders #2
Maybe Ron hadn’t passed on the message that he’d come by.
Wouldn’t be a shock. He hadn’t exactly expected Ron to be the welcoming committee.
But still. No call, no text, no sign. Not that Nathan had his number anymore.
That had changed a dozen times since their teens, mostly thanks to money problems, new contracts, and one memorable stint where Freddie had needed to swap phones after a Grindr hook up turned into a mild stalking situation.
Still. He’d half-hoped Nathan might find a way. Track him down somehow. Because Christ knew Freddie couldn’t exactly turn up at the garage again. Couldn’t risk running into Ron and standing there like an idiot on the doorstep.
Instead, he’d spent the day trying, and failing, to get some sleep, mentally prepping for this shift. Because at least out here, behind the wheel, with a target to watch, he had a purpose. Something to do other than think about Nathan Carter .
Becca elbowed him. “So what’s the deal with this Nathan Carter?”
Freddie snapped his gaze to her. “Huh?”
“Dave passed it around the station. Nathan Carter threw a punch on the pitch. Knocked Reece flat.”
“He didn’t knock Reece out. ”
“Thought that sounded bollocks. Reece is the size of a bloody Ford Transit. And a boxing champ. Worthbridge’s answer to Tyson Fury. Be mental to take him down clean.”
Freddie didn’t respond, turning his attention back to the target house. Truth was, he reckoned if Nathan really wanted to, he could’ve flattened Reece. Flattened anyone. Infantry training didn’t teach soldiers to hold back. Or not to go beyond the belt.
“You think he wants you back?”
Freddie turned back to her. “Who?”
“Reece.”
“Nah.” Freddie shook his head, eyes back out the window. “Reece is a wind-up merch. Plus he has a massive thing for Trent. The paramedic? Bloke won’t give him the time of day, so he tries his luck elsewhere hoping one day he’ll notice him.”
“Who don’t notice him? He’s literal presence.”
“Yeah, I know. It’s more Trent doesn’t want to notice him.”
Becca reached behind her to the back seat, rustling in a bag, and produced another bag of Giant Wotsits. Sweet and sour flavour this time. She ripped them open and stuffed one into her mouth.
“How much bloody gear did you bring?” Freddie noted the overflowing stash of junk food on the back seat.
“Shitloads, mate.” She thumbed towards the bag. “Was stuck out on static for twelve hours the other night. Didn’t even get a piss break. Fuck knows what CID are stalling for.”
Freddie shifted in his seat, scanning the street again out of habit. “They’re waiting for the intel to firm up. We get one move wrong, Radley’s lot’ll bolt. We lose everything. ”
“Yeah, yeah,” Becca muttered around a mouthful of Wotsit. “Preservation of evidence. Build your case. All that golden hour bollocks.”
“Golden hour’s long gone, love. We’re babysitting the shitshow now until they authorise a breach.”
“Or until the Chief Inspector finishes writing his risk assessment.”
Freddie chuckled under his breath and shifted forward, eyes fixed back on the target house. Babysit. Observe. Wait for orders. Standard playbook. But it didn’t stop the itch under his skin. The part of him that knew something was about to break loose.
A giant Wotsit landed on Freddie’s lap. Freddie blinked, brain still half back at the house they were supposed to be watching, then plucked up the crisp and ate it.
“So was Reece trying to get the greenie to swing at him or you?”
“Huh?”
“On the pitch. When Carter thumped him. Was he expecting Trent to come to his aid. ‘Cause you’d think it would’ve pissed off Mr History Teacher more, right?”
Freddie glanced away. “Jude ain’t the sort of bloke to throw his weight around.”
“Cause he’s got none compared to Reece.”
“Exactly.”
“And that’s why you don’t really like him.”
Freddie glanced down, fiddling with the Velcro on his stab vest. Didn’t argue. Didn’t have to.
Becca laughed, chucked another Wotsit at him, and Freddie caught it on instinct, popping the stray crisp into his mouth with a shrug.
“Would’ve been easier if I did. Less complicated. ”
“My motto right there.” Becca grinned, crinkling the packet noisily between them.
“Sweet and cute’s all well and good but they can’t lift you up by the arse, shove you against a wall and fuck you senseless.
” She then shifted in her seat, squinting out of the window. “Oh, hang on. Got a familiar face.”
Freddie snapped his head round, tension pulling tight across his shoulders.
“Knew we were bang on.” Becca pointed across the road. “That little shit from the skate park’s turned up.”
Freddie followed her line of sight, and his stomach dropped like a stone straight through the floor.
Alfie.
Alfie Carter.
Hood up, hands jammed in his pockets, skulking up the pavement towards the house .
“Shit.”
Becca sat forward, pulling out the observation log to note the time and movement.
“Wait.” Freddie held up a hand to stop her. “Hang on.”
Becca narrowed her eyes, suspicion curling round the edges, but she paused her pen on the log.
“We don’t know he’s going in there.”
“You think he’s taking a scenic stroll past a drug house?”
“He’s new in town. He won’t know that’s a drug house.”
“Fred, hun, this a closed off street.” She circled her pen, glancing out the window to indicate the blocked off cul-de-sac. “There’s nowhere else he’s going.”
Before Freddie could answer, the radio crackled to life, DI Carrick’s voice clear and expectant: “Bravo One, Bravo Two, status check. Any movement at the target address, over. ”
Freddie reached for the mic, heart hammering. He pressed down the transmit button, keeping his voice as casual as he could, and before he could even think about what he was doing, he said, “Bravo One. Negative movement. Area remains static. Over.”
A beat of silence, long enough for the sweat to prickle at the back of his neck. Then Carrick’s voice came back: “Received. Hold position.”
Freddie dropped the mic as if it burned him.
Becca stared at him, mouth agape, disbelief written all over her face. “You lied on comms.”
Freddie swallowed, holding her gaze for a beat. Then he clicked open the door, ready to get out.
“What the fuck are you doing?” Becca snapped, half out of her seat.
God, he hoped she’d have his back when this all came crashing down.
In his earpiece, DI Carrick’s voice came back, calm but taut: “ All units hold positions. Tactical entry pending. I say again: NO action unless authorised. Containment teams en route.”
Freddie flexed his fingers around the door handle. Hold. Stay put . Standard operational protocol: contain, observe, wait for firearms or Territorial Support Group if needed. But protocol wouldn’t stop Alfie Carter from implicating himself in something he didn’t know about yet.
His body-worn camera was active. Red light blinking on his chest. Standard for any potential contact. But if he was about to go off-script, even by seconds…
The decision was already made.
He thumbed the toggle under his vest flap, and killed it. Then he ducked low as he slid out of the unmarked unit, keeping his body tight to the car. One fast glance across the street showed Alfie, clear as fucking day, being ushered into the house.
“Shit, shit, shit.” Freddie’s gut twisted.
He moved fast, keeping to the shadows, weaving through the parked cars along the kerb. His heart thundered loud enough he thought someone might hear it. Then halfway across the street, he collided headlong into another figure lurking low behind the hedge-line.
Nathan .
Nathan spun fast, all instinct and muscle coiled tight, before he clocked Freddie, and stilled.
Their eyes locked.
Two idiots hiding in the dark.
Both doing the exact same stupid thing for the same stupid reason.
Freddie jerked his head, nodding towards a narrow alley running between two garages. A spot shielded from the road, the windows, the surveillance teams.
Wordless understanding passed between them.
Until Freddie had to ask in a desperate whisper, “What the fuck are you doing here?”
“Tracing Alfie,” Nathan shot back. “What the fuck are you doing here?”
Freddie waved his hand at the property. “House is under surveillance.”
“For what?”
“Drugs. Trafficking. Shit way above my pay grade. We’re minutes away from a tactical breach.”
Nathan paled in the half-light.
Freddie caught the flash of panic and shoved it home. “Alfie’s in there. Do you know what that means ?”
Nathan scrubbed a hand through his hair, panic visibly breaking through his resolve. “He’ll get nicked.”
“Yeah. ”
“I’ve got to get him out.”
“Shit, Nate. It’s too late. Place is wired. They’ve already got eyes on. I’m meant to be logging it.”
“Then stall it. Buy me time.”
“I’m already breaking every rule standing here and you don’t just go knock on the door of a fucking drug den and ask for your boy back. We’ve got intel there’s weapons in there. Armed response standing by.”
Nathan glanced up to the house. “I can get in and out before your lot even makes the call.”
Freddie exhaled, breath misting white in the freezing air. He looked around, every instinct screaming at him to shut this down, to follow orders, to protect them all. But one look at Nathan’s eyes, at the sheer terror and love in them, undid him.
“ Fuck !” Freddie raked his hands over his head. “I’ll try and stall Carrick. Buy you some time. But it won’t be much. You’ve got maybe two minutes before they hit that door.”
Nathan nodded once, a hard soldier’s nod, and he glanced up to the house.
Then he hesitated. Turned back. Lingering his gaze on Freddie.
And for a heartbeat, everything stopped.
The shouting in Freddie’s earpiece, the cold cutting wind, the blinding panic inside his own head.
All of it faded. Because Nathan reached out, grabbed the front of Freddie’s stab vest, yanked him forward and kissed him.
Not gently.
Not even tentatively.
Messy and hungry and needed . Heat and desperation and years of regret crashing into a single brutal moment. Freddie gasped, and Nathan swallowed the sound, angling closer until there was no space left between them .
The buzz of urgent voices crackled through Freddie’s earpiece, snapping the moment and he staggered back, breath coming in hard, broken bursts, chest heaving.
“Go!” Freddie pulled him from the wall. “If you’re in there when they breach, you won’t get treated like a concerned dad. You’ll get treated like one of them.”
In a blink, Nathan went. Silent stealth, he scanned the house as if he was reading terrain, assessing the weaknesses. Then he crouched low, grabbing hold of an old drainage pipe bolted to the brickwork.
Freddie watched, heart hammering, as Nathan moved. Fast, fluid, ruthless. With a precision learned from spending years crawling through mud in camo. No wasted motion. No hesitation. It was all honed strength, every movement stripped down to exactly what was needed and nothing more.
He then hauled himself up to a narrow bathroom window tucked around the side, boots finding purchase on the uneven bricks, and at the ledge, he paused. Listening, checking, before easing the window open enough to slip inside, vanishing into the darkness without so much as a creak.
Freddie pressed himself deeper into the shadows, every nerve screaming, every instinct wanting to drag him back out and stop this insanity. Instead, he stayed frozen, fists clenched, heart pounding.
Praying he hadn’t helped Nathan Carter walk straight into a fucking warzone.
Again .