Chapter Twenty Point of No Return #2
Nathan had spent years believing his dad wouldn’t . But maybe the truth was simpler. Maybe Ron couldn’t . Maybe this was his way of letting Nathan do what he never could.
After a long moment, Ron turned his back on him. “Go sort that Polo. It’s got a misfire and an owner with all the patience of a bomb with the pin half-out.”
What more could Nathan expect?
* * * *
Later, after having sorted that Polo, Nathan sat in the driver’s seat of his car, engine off, waiting for Alfie to emerge from the school gates.
He tapped his fingers on the steering wheel, watching the tide of kids trickling out, some in noisy packs, others hunched and solo, and he scanned their faces automatically, as if his body remembered this routine from a lifetime ago.
Then he stopped at one .
A figure leant against the iron fence to the left of the entrance, half-hidden behind the row of recycling bins. Hoodie up, baggy jeans, shoulders hunched. And still. Too still.
Nathan honed in on him.
That wasn’t a kid waiting for a mate. Too tense. So he followed the boy’s gaze to the school gates. Nathan’s training kicked in. Target. Waiting. Planning.
He gripped the steering wheel. He knew that stance.
It was the same tension he’d seen in ambushes.
In alleys and compounds. The kid wasn’t loitering.
He was bracing . Then the crowd shifted, and Alfie stepped out.
Alone. Hood up. A teacher came running after him, stopped him before he got to the gates.
Mr Ellison. Jude. He spoke to him, tapped him on the back, and handed him a piece of paper, then scurried off.
Then Alfie turned back towards the gates.
The figure moved.
Nathan was out of the car before the door even fully opened, slamming his steel toe caps onto the tarmac. The kid broke from the gate in a blur. Fast, focused, pulling something from his coat.
Blade.
Years of military training fired through Nathan’s limbs on instinct.
Assess, act, intercept. He pushed off the pavement and ran, weaving between clumps of parents and kids lingering by the gates, dodging a toddler, shoulder-checking a teenage boy who cursed at him.
He didn’t stop. He narrowed his focus on the figure sprinting towards Alfie.
Fast. Blade drawn. Shoulder low. Intent in every step.
He ain’t here to scare him. He’s here to hurt him. Warning or ending .
Alfie stepped clear of the crowd, head down, reading through the letter, oblivious. The wind caught his hood, tugged it back, and only then did he look up.
Nathan slammed into him with an outstretched arm, shoving Alfie sideways, and knocked him off balance, sending him sprawling onto the grass verge. Nathan then pivoted, turning his body in mid-air, positioning himself in the boy’s path.
Pain flared. Hot and immediate. Searing a line across Nathan’s side as the blade tore through fabric and found skin. Shallow, but brutal. Enough to send him crashing to one knee on the gritty tarmac.
The attacker faltered.
His eyes blew wide. He couldn’t have been much older than Alfie, barely past childhood, face still smooth beneath the hoodie. And for a flicker of a moment, Nathan wasn’t sure what hit harder—the pain, or the sick twist of sympathy.
But the boy stumbled, panicked, then turned, and bolted for the alley behind the shops, vanishing.
Behind them, the school gate erupted. Screams. Shouts. A whistle blew. Someone yelled, “Call an ambulance!”
Nathan stayed upright long enough to scan for Alfie, curled on the ground, wide-eyed and shaking, but unhurt.
That’s all that matters.
Then Nathan checked his ribs.
Blood.
Warm. Sticky. Spreading.
With the adrenaline ebbed, it left behind the sting. The fire. And the gradual awareness that something wasn’t right.
Alfie scrambled up from the verge. “Dad? Dad! ” He dropped to his knees beside him. “Oh fuck! Dad! You’re bleeding. You been fucking shanked! ”
Nathan gritted his teeth, curled an arm around his son, holding tight. “Yeah. But you’re okay. Yeah? You’re okay?”
“Yeah, Dad, but you…”
Sirens wailed in the distance, growing louder, cutting through the rising noise of the crowd.
Teachers shouted for space. Kids got their phones out.
Someone cried. Someone else filmed the whole thing.
But Nathan focused on calming Alfie as the ambulance screeched into view, tyres juddering against the kerb.
The doors flew open, and two paramedics jumped out. One woman, already speaking into her comms. The other a man with a golden halo of blond curls who dropped to his knees beside Nathan, pulling on gloves.
“Okay, mate?” He crouched to meet his gaze as he gently peeled Nathan’s hand away from the wound. “What’s your name?”
“Nathan Carter.”
“Nice to meet you, Nathan. I’m Trent. Let’s see what we’re dealing with.”
“Left side. Below the ribs.” Nathan’s voice was tight. “Can’t tell how deep.” He angled his head towards Alfie. “Priority’s the boy. My son. He’s not injured. Just… shook up.”
“He’s being checked now.” Trent nodded to someone behind him then cut through the fabric of Nathan’s shirt and his face said it all.
“Tell me,” Nathan said. “I’m ex-army.”
Trent held his gaze. “Then you already know how serious this is.”
“Yeah.”
“I’ll stop the bleeding. Patch up what I can.” Trent’s hands moved quickly, efficiently. Then he paused. Brow furrowed. “You need to go to hospital. ”
Nathan tried to ask, but the words didn’t come.
The edges of his vision blurred.
And as Trent called something over his shoulder, Nathan leaned back, eyes on Alfie, hand slick with blood, and tried not to show how much pain he was in
Nor how deep he knew that blade had gone.