The Boss

by J. Calamy

  They were pinned again from above, rounds cracking against the walls. Russ and Rook were firing back, ducking behind each other. Graves suddenly leaned out and fired, the big gun roaring out. Another body fell past them even as Bishop dragged him back with a curse.

  Russ was clipped in the leg after the third turning, shouting in pain. He limped on, leaving bloody footprints on the stairs. The look Charlotte gave Graves was tense and angry, a mask in the red light. Bishop kept firing down behind them, as doors in the stairwell opened below. The smoke was getting worse.

  “One more to the roof!” Graves bellowed. “Tell Tony to clear that fucking landing pad! I don’t care who he kills!” Bishop relayed this into the radio.

  Something blew above them with a roar. Russ threw his body over Graves as concrete dust and pieces rained down on them. A blast of hot air and screaming—Bishop pushed past Nick and threw Russ’s arm over his shoulder. Rook was firing with grim concentration. Nick couldn’t see through the smoke. He held onto Graves’s jacket, trying to see where they were going.

  They were on the roof. There was burning debris, a crater in the landing pad. Gusts of smoke made things appear and disappear in turn. Bishop dragged Nick back as rounds snapped and zipped by. There were a handful of men, behind a giant air-conditioning unit, firing at them.

  “Here he comes!” Bishop shouted, and Rook pushed Graves flat, throwing her body over his. Another roaring explosion and the air-con unit was gone. Nick fell back onto his ass from the blast of heat. Out of nowhere, a helicopter came screaming in, sending the smoke whirling around them. Rook stood up and shoved Graves toward the bird.

  Nick crouched and followed. He tried not to trip over the broken concrete and scattered pieces of metal but it was hard to see. He slipped to his knees, cracking his shin against something. White hot pain shot up his leg, and he bit his tongue. As he made to get up, he saw Mac, still in his tuxedo, was raising a gun to Graves’s back. The look on his face was terrifying: a mix of pain and anger that cut right through Nick’s confusion. His teeth were bared in a rictus of hatred as he steadied his gun with a hand on his wrist.

  Nick shot him.

  Later he would wonder how it even happened. But in the moment, he didn’t think. He raised Bishop’s gun and fired it three times, screaming a warning. Someone grabbed his arm, and he was jerked backward. He heard Graves shouting, but he was hit in the face, something hot and wet in his mouth. He tried to turn over and found he could—whoever had grabbed him had let go. He saw Graves, his face contorted in rage, being physically put on the helicopter by three men. They were holding him back as best they could. He was fighting them, but they were having none of it. The Boss was being evacuated and that was that.

  He is trying to come for me. He will get killed. The thoughts were perfectly calm. Nick shoved to his feet and sprinted pell-mell to the helicopter, jumping over a crushed duct. Something plucked at his shirt again. Then Bishop was running toward him, firing the way Nick had come. He grabbed Nick around the waist and threw him over his shoulder, sprinting to the bird like it was nothing. Nick was trying to say that he was fine—but then he was being grabbed and pulled aboard and the building dropped away below them. He watched it vanish down in the smoke and heard the chaos around him as the people on the helicopter organized themselves.

  Nick was hauled over and there was Graves, looking down at him, clearly furious. But when he saw Nick’s smile, his head sank forward onto Nick’s chest. His shoulders were shaking. Nick patted his head, noting the dust and grime on Graves’s tuxedo. He was lifted up, and gently put in a seat, buckled in beside Rook. He tried to hand her his gun but she was busy wrapping a bandage around Russ’s leg. He was laughing at something Bishop was saying, and Nick breathed a sigh of relief. Russ was okay. Nick rubbed his own knee where he had cracked it. It didn’t feel broken. His arm was hot, he had twisted his shoulder when someone grabbed him—something had wrenched in there.

  Graves put headphones over Nick’s ears. Instantly, he was enveloped in a babble of voices. They were coordinated, though, queries about fuel and altitudes. All pretense of civility was gone—Russ and Bishop were both wielding military-grade rifles and strapping themselves in so they could hang out the open doors.

  “Don’t let the boy so much as poke his head out,” Graves snarled into the mic and Rook nodded, still watching Russ.

  The bird swung out over Victoria Bay, climbing high away from the city. Nick was shoved back into his seat as they climbed. He noticed Bishop and Graves both leaning out the door pointing in the direction of the mainland. They were passing binoculars back and forth.

  “Here they come,” Bishop’s voice was calm over the comms.

  “I don’t think they saw us take off—we will have—”

  Suddenly, the frame of the helicopter shook, and Nick felt rather than heard the slap of bullets against the hull.

  “Incoming fire! Incoming fire! One thirty—another bird—coming fast! Two o’clock, now two o’clock!”

  Graves spun and dragged a crate from where it was strapped to the ceiling. He was shouting into his mic.

  “Get me a clear angle! I’ll have Tang’s balls for this!” He popped the lid of the crate and pulled out one of the long rifles

  “Incoming two thirty, Boss; which direction you need?”

  “Guide right, Tony; get me a clear shot,” came Graves’s reply. His manner had dropped into a cold calm. Nick was terrified, clutching the edge of the seat under his knees as the bird swung left, turning the right side door toward the oncoming helicopter. It made his bruised shoulder bang against the frame of the seat, sending up a jolt of pain.

  “Think they know we took the American?” a voice Nick didn’t know asked. Graves looked across at him, and Nick’s heart surged at the affection there.

  “No, he is still my little secret,” Graves said with a wink. “God, if they did, we would have more than just HKPD.” The bird swerved again, and the sound of more bullets slapped against the side. One of the red lights over their heads shattered with a shower of sparks, and Nick yelped.

  Now, even Nick could see the other helicopter, blue-and-white, with flashing lights, as it came straight at them.

  “Ready, Boss, in three, two”—Graves raised the rifle to his shoulder and leaned out the door. Nick drew in a strangled breath, clutching the harness around him—“one, all clear.”

  “Steady,” Graves said, quietly. “Steady.”

  “Come on! Take the fucking shot, Boss!” Bishop was barking into the mic. “We have two birds lifting off from the mainland, and we—”

  “Shut up, David.” Graves said coolly. “I was doing this when you were still a snot-nosed private.”

  The rifle went off, Graves’s body shifting easily with the recoil. He sat back and handed the gun to Rook who put it away. Bishop handed him the binoculars.

  “Nice shot, Lord Graves!” came the unknown voice again.

  “Get us out to sea!” Graves barked. “The other bird is already peeling off. Rendezvous with Scimitar, and let’s see if they think they can catch her this time.”

  None of this made any sense to Nick, but the tumbling flame and smoke that was the HKPD helicopter tore a shout of fear from his throat. There was a larger burst of flames as the helicopter crashed somewhere down by the seafront.

  “Here come the Chinese—they’re rounding the port—” Bishop said, his eyes still fixed on the binoculars.

  “Then they are too late,” Graves said with grim satisfaction. “They’ll never make the altitude in time.”

  While the others busied themselves closing the helicopter doors and putting away the weapons, Graves clambered over to Nick and pulled him tight against his side. The voices on the radio were laughing and talking about the shot Graves had made. Graves fiddled with the headset, and the banter of the others shut off.

  “Are you all right?” he asked and Nick understood he had put them on a private channel.

  “Who were—? The other he
licopters?”

  “Chinese,” Graves said calmly. “They have a drug agency same as you lot. Hong Kong is…difficult for me.”

  “Why did you come then?” Nick asked. “You could have been killed!”

  “For you of course,” he said and ran a hand along Nick’s cheek. “Thought it might be my last chance.” The crooked smile returned. “I’m disappearing. This is it for me. But I love you, Nick. And I was hoping you would want…that you would consider…”

  Nick leaned in and kissed him again. I love you. I love you. Graves wrapped him up and pulled him close. Nick was dizzy. He tried to say it back, but his lips were numb, vision blurry. He could feel Graves’s hands on his face, his lips against his skin, but he couldn’t seem to say anything. Rook was talking to him, asking questions. Then he was on his side, and Graves was shouting. They ripped off his shirt. It was so cold. He saw it when they threw it on the floor of the bird. The sleeve was solid red. Nick tried to understand. I got shot. That’s stupid. I’m going home. Home with Graves. He loves me.

  He must have passed out because next thing he knew he was being lifted and bundled off the helicopter.

  It was cold and the wind was blowing hard. He was being carried across a dark, open space, just a few lights leading them forward. As the bird took off again, Nick realized they were on a ship. But not the sleek little yacht Graves had in Singapore. This ship was much bigger. A single glance at the horizon showed how high up they were. And they were far, far out to sea. The smell of the ocean was clean, unlike the bays and estuaries he had been around. The difference was obvious. Looking around, Nick saw a pitch-black sky, bathed in stars. And the ship was moving fast, a wide white wake streaming out behind her in the moonlight.

  Scimitar!

  Chapter Twenty-Seven

  Graves carried Nick inside, doors held open by various crew, repeated “Welcome aboard, Lord Graves,” “Welcome home, sir,” and worried exclamations following them as they climbed stairs and pushed through teak and mahogany doors with glowing brass.

  “Call Stephen,” Graves said, sending a steward running for the ship surgeon.

  Nick was shivering with exhaustion and shock. Graves ignored the other stewards and carried him straight through into his own bathroom with its benches and rails.

  “All right, darling, all right,” Graves said as he sat Nick down. “We were worried you had lost too much blood. But I think it was only shock.”

  “Graves,” Nick said seriously. “Someone shot me.” His blue eyes were blinking in the light, smears of blood and ash marring his pale skin.

  “Someone did,” Graves said. “Lucky boy, it grazed your bicep. Dug a nice little trench. Once we are all clean, Stephen will come to sew you up—that’s the ship surgeon. You’ll have an interesting scar.” Graves checked the bandage they had tied around Nick’s arm. It didn’t appear to be bleeding. He pinched Nick’s fingertips—plenty of color. So he was all right then.

  Nick gave him a tired smile and Graves sat beside him. For a moment, they simply leaned on each other. Nick sighed and kicked off his shoes. Graves did the same. They helped each other strip, and when their clothes were thrown into a pile off to the side, Nick helped him out of his prosthetics. Graves jabbed a few buttons and turned on the shower.

  Graves had been dreaming of his first night on Scimitar with Nick for months. He didn’t anticipate the grime and blood and injuries. But somehow it still matched his wishes. He and Nick scrubbed each other’s backs in companionable silence, keeping the water off his bandage as best they could. Everything was within reach since this was home.

  “This really is your place,” Nick said, and Graves handed him a towel. His expression was fond, and Graves basked in it, unable to look away. He pulled himself up, the handrails helping him navigate out the door and onto his bed.

  They exchanged kisses, and Nick rested his head on Graves’s shoulder as Stephen came and sewed Nick up, putting on a fresh bandage and giving him a shot. Graves and Nick smoked a joint together in the dark, talking softly about what had happened.

  “I shot someone,” Nick said. “Holy mother of God, Graves. I shot that Mac guy.”

  “You shot a man who was about to kill me,” Graves said. “You’ll forgive me if I am grateful and proud instead of appalled. But if it’s any consolation, I don’t think you killed him.”

  “I am not going to think about that tonight,” Nick said. He let out a slow rattling sigh. He rolled gingerly to his uninjured side, peering at Graves in the low light from the windows.

  “I’m sorry, Graves.”

  “What for?” Graves propped himself up on an elbow, tracing slow circles on Nick’s chest.

  “Everything. You came to Hong Kong. You all could have been killed,” Nick said.

  “All of it is my fault, Nick. I lied to you. I was unbelievably stupid,” he said. “It’s a lesson I seem to need to learn over and over again. Even for a man with his brains bashed about, I have no excuses. Don’t blame yourself.”

  “Don’t tell me what to do, asshole,” Nick muttered, feeling himself start to drift.

  “There’s my Nick.” He laughed quietly and lay back, tucking Nick under his chin, careful of his arm.

  “Can we talk about this tomorrow?” Nick said into his chest.

  “Of course. Sleep well, darling.”

  They adjusted themselves in silence, letting the breeze from the sea, the wind, and waves lull them to sleep.

  *

  Nick woke slowly, aware only that he was warm and safe and some nameless pain was gone—a fear lifted. He was stripped to his underwear under a big feather comforter. His arm was bandaged from elbow to shoulder, and it ached, hot and agonizing.

  The smell of coffee came to him, and the sounds of sea birds. He was being rocked in slow swells. The ship. The helicopter. Graves. He had run off with Nelson Graves?

  Nick sat up with a jolt, and the big boss was the first thing he saw. He was out on the gangway, looking over the side. He wore nothing but a loose pair of trousers and sunglasses and was leaning on the rail, drinking coffee. There was no denying Nick’s reaction to the broad tattooed back. Relief. Relief and surprise and want. He had run off with Nelson Graves, and he was relieved and glad. Yes, glad.

  Nick got out of bed and stumbled out to where his man was standing. Graves sensed his approach and turned. His expression was closed off and cautious but when Nick ran straight into his arms his face lit up.

  “Well good morning!” he said, sounding surprised and pleased. Nick pushed his face into Graves’s chest, oddly happy about how much bigger than him Graves was. Out in the wind, it was nice to lean into Graves’s wide shoulders. Nick peered up at him, catching his growing delight.

  “Morning, big guy. Where are we? Can I have coffee? Did you sleep okay?” The words tumbled out as Nick felt a swelling joy, the sea air, the speed, the wide dark blue swells as far as the eye could see—no land anywhere— He felt free. He squeezed his man hard around the waist, drawing out a grunt of laughter.

  “And to think I was worried you would be full of regrets and second thoughts,” Graves laughed.

  “Nope,” Nick said with a grin. “I opened my eyes and saw you and I was happy.”

  “Well you’ve just made my whole day, boy. Come have some coffee.”

  As they stepped out onto the main deck, Nick whistled. He understood now why everyone had referred to the yacht in Singapore as a tub. Scimitar was huge. They were standing on the second highest deck, which Graves referred to as the “owners’ deck.” It had the bedroom and a living and dining room that could be closed in with sliding glass doors.

  “You’ve seen the bedroom and bathroom. There is an office too,” he said. “It’s my home away from home.” Nick fought back a smile and gestured him to lead the way.

  The office was at the front, with a magnificent sweep of sloped windows and the required power desk. Nick rolled his eyes as Graves darted forward and began needlessly tidying the papers on the desk, pus
hing things into piles and blushing furiously.

  “You’re acting really weird, big guy,” Nick said, laughing at him.

  This was clearly the big man’s space. There were photos everywhere. Children’s art framed as seriously as the—

  “Is that a fucking Van Gogh?”

  “Yes,” he said glancing up. “I, uh, borrowed it. Well. S-stole it, actually. Had it s-stolen.”

  There were also guns mounted on the walls, a row of computer monitors and screens, an arrangement of ceremonial knives. Below, stood a case with a New Zealand flag and a display of medals and shell casings. It was the most intensely personal space Nick could have imagined. It was like being in Graves’s head. Which explained him standing there shifting foot to foot with a whirr of the servos in his knee.

  Nick gaped at him, and Graves cleared his throat, his elbow knocking a green bowl off the desk.

  “Shit!” he barked, just catching it. He cradled the bowl gently in his huge hands. “Davy would be furious if I broke this. He made it his first year in art school.”

  “Your son is an artist?”

  “He is,” Graves said, his smile melting a decade off his face. “A sculptor. He is only seventeen, but his teachers say he has promise.”

  Nick did a slow pivot, seeing the room with new eyes.

  “Maybe you aren’t a total lost cause,” he said softly. Pictures of children and presumably their mothers, a box of LEGO in a corner, a big armchair with a shelf of children’s books…

  “Let’s go eat while our food is still hot,” Graves muttered and steered him back out to the sundeck.

  “It’s a hundred degrees,” Nick laughed. “Our food is still hot— I guarantee it, but okay.”

  He froze at the door. Stopped dead so that Graves bumped into him.