Chapter Fourteen Lines in the Dark
Chapter fourteen
Lines in the Dark
Nathan dropped through the narrow bathroom window, landing in a low crouch, boots whispering across cracked tiles as he absorbed the shock in his thighs and calves. Training took over. Loosen the knees, shift the weight, stay low.
He’d done this a thousand times before. Crawling into enemy compounds. Securing unknown buildings. First man in, first to die if it went sideways. Back then, he had his kit. Rifle. Camo. Vest. And a knife taped to his chest. Tools that made a man feel ten feet tall even when scared shitless.
Tonight, he had none of that except for the clothes on his back and the thudding, wired pulse of a father whose kid was in over his head.
And the electric imprint of a kiss he couldn’t shake loose.
He’d trained to compartmentalise. Been good at it, too.
Lock the feeling down, shutter it tight, move on to the next breath, the next step.
Deployed, he’d had warm bodies before missions, sure.
Quick fumbles in dark corners, desperate hands on skin.
Sex was a pressure valve, a way to make space in his head so the job could take over.
But Freddie’s kiss wasn’t release.
It was ignition .
But Nathan gave a brutal shake of his head, trying to rip himself free of the memory, force himself into the now. This wasn’t the time. He needed to be here, locked in, laser focused. To get Alfie out of the firing line before his whole world came down on top of him.
The house smelt damp. Sweat and something sour underneath it, the stink of cheap food and cheaper smoke curling down the hallways.
So Nathan stayed low, body tight to the wall, listening.
Voices drifted from downstairs. Male. Loud.
Confident. He clocked at least three. Movement too.
A shuffle of trainers on laminate. The clink of glass.
So he moved.
Silent steps, knees bent, rolling through heel and toe to dampen the sound of his boots on the warped floorboards.
Halfway down the hall, a door hung ajar.
Bedroom, judging by the faded paint and the faint light leaking under the crack.
He crept closer, keeping his shoulder close to the wall, trailing his fingers lightly along the plaster.
Old trick. If someone was moving towards him, he’d feel the vibration before he ever heard it.
Nothing yet.
At the doorway, he risked a glance inside. A girl. Sixteen at most, slumped over a pile of dirty pillows in a threadbare dress, her face slack and empty. Eyes glassy. One bare foot dragging uselessly across a stained duvet .
Nathan shut his eyes, the gut-punch hitting harder than he’d expected.
Not his mission tonight.
Not his target.
The police would be through this place soon enough. They’d get her out.
He opened his eyes, locked it all down, and moved past the door without a sound.
The voices floated up from downstairs. Low, laughing, confident. Kitchen probably. Echoed enough.
He scanned for exits. Windows. Bottlenecks. If he was going to grab Alfie, he’d need a clean route. Fast, brutal, no room for second guesses.
And whatever time he had left was bleeding away fast.
So he crept down the stairs, keeping close to the side, where the wood was less likely to creak. No carpet to muffle the sound. Just bare slats, worn smooth by years of use and zero maintenance. Every step a calculated risk.
He held his breath at the bottom, peering around the half-open door towards the kitchen.
Two older lads lounged against the far wall, hunched over a battered crate passing for a table.
Low murmurs, biting laughs. Packages scattered across the surface.
Small plastic baggies, easy cash, a burner phone charging in the corner, screen cracked.
No open gear out yet, but Nathan knew the signs.
Knew exactly what kind of business this house was running.
Off to the side, awkward and out of place, stood Alfie. Hands jammed into his hoodie pockets. Shoulders hunched as if trying to fold himself smaller. Still clinging to the last scraps of his childhood in a room built to strip it away. He hadn’t seen Nathan yet. Neither had the others.
Good .
Nathan stayed hidden in the shadow of the doorway and tapped his knuckles twice on the frame.
Not loud. But enough for Alfie to home in on.
It was the same signal he used to give Alfie when he was younger.
A quiet call for attention. A warning sometimes, when he was dropping him off at his mum’s old flat , “head down, stay alert, don’t open the door unless you know it’s me.
” A tap on the bedroom door when he was saying goodbye and Alfie had locked himself inside. Their signal.
Alfie’s head jerked up at once.
Eyes wide, alert. Training buried deep, even if he didn’t know it.
Nathan caught his gaze. Held it.
Come here. Now.
Alfie stood as if waking from a bad dream. The two lads didn’t notice, too busy arguing over something, low and sniping.
Nathan moved back, silent as a ghost, slipping into the shadow of the hallway.
Waited.
One breath. Two.
Alfie slid out behind him, quiet as a whisper, and Nathan tapped a finger to his lips.
Alfie nodded. Once. Maybe the boy had some instincts after all.
So Nathan kept the signals minimal. Slicing two fingers through the air.
Move, now . Field gestures he’d used clearing compounds in Helmand, instinctive and urgent.
Alfie must’ve caught the vibe, even without formal training. Some things were in the blood.
Alfie swallowed, glanced once behind him, then crept forward.
They moved fast and low, hugging the wall, retracing Nathan’s path back up the stairs towards the side bathroom. But as Nathan reached the door, a voice bellowed from downstairs.
“Oi! Alfie! You want in on this or what?”
Nathan spun, grabbing Alfie by the back of the hoodie, and yanked him bodily into the bathroom, slamming the door behind them. In one fluid move, he shoved open the narrow window he’d slipped through earlier, twisted Alfie out first, feet scrambling for purchase, then hauled himself after.
They dropped.
No time to control it properly. No graceful exits.
They hit the cold concrete of the alley in a tangle of limbs, hard and fast, knocking the breath out of each other.
Nathan got up first, dragging Alfie to his feet, pushing him back into the cover of the alley wall as headlights swept past the end of the street.
No shouting yet.
No alarms.
They were clear.
Nathan held Alfie by the collar a second longer, making sure he had him, grounding them both. Then he shoved him ahead, low and fast, towards the shadows and out of sight. He stopped to check, then pressed a hand over Alfie’s chest, the wild hammer of his heart under his palm matching his own.
And for the first time in years, Nathan felt the soldier fall away, and the father step in.
* * * *
When Freddie slid back into the car, Becca glared at him.
He couldn’t deal with it. Couldn’t deal with anything yet.
Words jammed somewhere between his lungs and his throat, refusing to budge.
So he sank lower in the seat, trying to make himself small, invisible, as if it might calm the chaos tearing through him, trying and failing not to replay that damn kiss.
God, Nathan could kiss. Kissed as if it was the only thing he ever wanted to be good at.
And, Christ, he was. He could tear Freddie down and rebuild him with just his mouth.
And the situation — Jesus fuck , the situation — had amped it up.
The radio crackling low with DI Carrick’s voice in his ear, the heavy drag of his uniform, the live-wire tension of being on duty , on a bloody surveillance job. It was stupid. Reckless. Unforgivable.
Yet it was perfect .
It made him feel seventeen again, sneaking into Nathan’s room, curling under his duvet, kissing him senseless with Ron downstairs, a thin panelled door with no lock away from catching them and blowing everything apart. Freddie hadn’t cared then. And he didn’t care now.
He closed his eyes, dropping his head back on the seat with a dull thud.
Fuck.
He was absolutely fucking fucked.
Through the tangle of the hedge, movement snagged Freddie’s eye.
Two figures slipping through the darkness.
Low, fast, tactical. Nathan hauling his kid like a soldier extracting a wounded man off a battlefield, shielding Alfie without hesitation.
Freddie’s throat clenched so tight it hurt to swallow.
Thank Christ. They were out.
His earpiece buzzed, too loud in the tense quiet. “ All units, standby for breach. Five minutes.”
Beside him, Becca shifted, tension rippling off her as her eyes swept the street. “What the fuck is going on, Webb? ”
Freddie forced himself to breathe. And lie. “Cat,” he said, as flat as he could, locking eyes with her and willing her to choose to believe him. “Stray. Probably scared off by the lights.”
A beat of silence stretched between them, taut and dangerous.
Freddie held her stare, hoping she’d see what he couldn’t say out loud.
Hoping she’d make the choice to stay on his side, even if it was a shitty one.
Then he used the observation log to block her view, subtly noting the time.
He logged nothing. No movement. No activity.
Officially, the scene was still tight. Still clean.
Except it wasn’t. Freddie’s gut knew it. His heart knew it.
Soon enough, Carrick would know it, too.
Across the street, tactical vans pulled in, armed officers, black-clad and masked, fanning out into pre-assigned zones. Organised. A brutal sweep that wouldn’t end quietly.
Becca nudged his arm.