Prodigal Son (Lean Dogs Legacy Book 3)

by Lauren Gilley

  “No,” Albie said, but his heart sank, because he knew…he knew…

  And Devin’s little wince proved it.

  They stayed there, in the wan touch of someone’s security light, and Albie breathed in and out, trying to rectify it. Justify it, maybe. He couldn’t.

  “What the fuck? What the fuck, what the fuck?!” He pushed up on his hands and knees, scrabbled on top of his father, and punched him in the mouth. With his cast.

  Devin grunted, softly, as the hit landed, and then reached for Albie’s face, fingers curled into claws.

  “Hey!” Simon shouted.

  A hand hooked in Albie’s collar, and dragged him back. His cheek stung, where Devin had scratched him.

  Devin had his hands up again, but he’d made it to his knees, kneeling in the filth of the alley.

  “You just left them?” Albie asked. He was shouting; he didn’t care. “What is wrong with you? It’s not bad enough you’re the shittiest father on earth, now you have to abandon them all to die? God, I hate you! Go to hell, you fucking bastard!”

  The hand had moved from his collar to his shoulder, and held him steady. He was swaying, he realized. The vision in his good eye blurred.

  Air stirred at the back of his neck, and then there were new hands, smaller, gripping both his shoulders from behind, and a voice, low and soothing, breath warm in his ear. “Albie, come on.” Axelle. “Let’s get back in the van.”

  “You were in on this from the start, weren’t you?” Simon asked. He let go of Albie and stepped in front of him, gun still trained on Devin. “You led your own kids to slaughter. How much did they promise you? Or was it just to save your skin?”

  Devin shook his head, and his gaze dropped to the ground. “No…no, it’s not like that. I can’t…”

  Vivian had joined them, somehow. Albie hadn’t noticed. He could barely hold himself upright, and his eyes burned, even his bad one. Axelle’s arms slipped around him, and she held on tight. He felt sick. Everything hurt terribly. And Devin had betrayed them all. Again. He never stopped doing it.

  “Get the tape,” Simon said to Vivian. “We’ll put him in the back of the van–”

  “No,” Albie said.

  Axelle’s arms flexed around him. “Albie–”

  “I don’t want to see him ever again.” His voice was heavy with exhaustion; he was exhausted. He thought he might slump over right here in the alley and pass out. To Devin: “You better run. You will never be welcome at any of our homes, or our clubhouse, again. If any of us catch word of you so much as looking at our mothers, we’ll kill you. You’re dead to us. Forever. There’s nothing you could say to claw your way back this time.”

  Devin looked at him, and maybe it was a trick of the light, but his eyes seemed to shine, glassy with unshed tears. His voice came out rough. “I know I’m a shit father, but I’ve tried to spare you all the truth. I haven’t worked for those bastards in a long, long time, but the contract was still there. I knew it could only ever hurt all of you. That’s why I’m running, Albie.” Low and pleading. “Because there’s no way any of you can ever forgive me after tonight. I won’t try and beg, or stick around. I broke all your hearts, and now I have to leave. I’m sorry.”

  “Fucking go.”

  Simon looked at Albie, incredulous, and Albie nodded.

  “This…goes against all my better judgement,” Simon said, but holstered his weapon.

  Devin waited a moment longer. “I’m sorry,” he said again, and then scrambled to his feet and took off, sprinting down the alley, into the dark.

  Albie stayed there, on his knees, until the sounds of running footfalls faded. And then a little longer. And a little longer still.

  He felt the smooth, cool skin of Axelle’s forehead on the back of his neck. Heard her whisper, “I’m sorry.”

  Simon held out a hand. “Come on, man.” And he sounded sorry, too.

  Albie was numb.

  ~*~

  Fox’s ears were ringing, and shock reverberated through him like the echo of a gunshot – Dad was gone, he was gone, gone, gone – but he slipped a knife from his belt and met the hooded man who came at him. This was the second generation, the revamped Emerald, and he blocked Fox’s strike and lashed out with one of his own. Fox blocked it in turn, and they danced.

  Other security guards poured into the room, and he heard the soft sounds of suppressed fire; let his brothers handle them. This was Fox’s fight, this wraith in black who whirled, and kicked, and flashed.

  He was young, and fit, and well-trained.

  But Fox had been doing this for a long time.

  He dropped and kicked, trying to sweep his legs. The wraith jumped, and aimed a kick at Fox’s head. Fox ducked to the side and caught his foot, wrenched him forward. The kid lurched into him, and Fox felt the sharp pain of a knife along his arm, the immediate heat of drawn blood.

  He spun, and shoved the boy, sent him staggering forward. But of course, he had his balance back in one stride, and whirled, roundhouse kick flying at Fox’s head.

  Fox ducked under it and tackled him.

  They crashed backward against the table, and its edge caught the boy in the back, right along his ribs, and forced all the air from his lungs with an explosive breath. His hood fell back, and–

  His eyes. They were blue. Big, and a familiar, shiny, ice-pale blue. His hair was dark, thick, glossy, the part that had been left long on top, above his undercut, a single lock falling on his forehead.

  Devin’s eyes.

  Fox’s eyes.

  The kid reached for Fox’s face, lightning-fast.

  But Fox was faster. He got a hand on his throat and slammed his head back against the table. Once, twice, three times. His body went lax, and his eyes rolled back, lids falling shut to hide the blue.

  But Fox had seen it, and it was unmistakable.

  He just breathed a moment, rough in-and-out gasps through his mouth, holding the boy’s limp body up against the table. Slowly, he became aware of a ringing quiet. The guards were gone. Dead.

  Footsteps crunched over glass, and it was Phillip who leaned in, pressing their shoulders together. “Jesus,” he whispered.

  Now that Fox was no longer defending himself, he could really look at the boy’s face. Under a thin smear of grease paint, the shape of his chin, and high cheekbones, and forehead became terribly obvious.

  Phillip leaned in and oh-so-carefully lifted one eyelid with his thumb. Blue again. He hissed out through his teeth.

  “Well,” Fox heard himself say, as if from a great distance. His lips felt numb. “I guess there’s ten of us.”

  Thirty-Six

  Law enforcement set up a perimeter. Hendricks was able to see the Hennessys safely away, though she grumbled and shook her head about it. Eden left her to it, and went in search of her own people.

  That’s who they were, weren’t they? Hers. She was an outlaw now, no denying it.

  She made her way around to one of the side entrances, the one that fed out into the parking garage, where a group of disgruntled MI5 agents had created a holding area for the Lean Dogs who’d rendezvoused. The Dogs, by contrast, looked triumphant, shooting smug looks at the agents who’d been told to hang back, and not make any arrests.

  She spotted Raven, and Ryan; Mercy, Ian, Walsh, Shane, Reese, Evan, and, thankfully, little Cassandra, glued to Walsh’s side. And Miles, and Tommy, and…

  “Where’s Fox?” she asked as she walked up to Morgan.

  Her old boss looked not just tired, but defeated, but he offered a lopsided smile. “He’s alright. He and Phil and Abe stayed back a bit. One of the guards was going to show them to the basement. Just some last-minute ghosts to lay to rest. Speaking of ghosts…” He turned, and that was when she saw someone dressed all in black, trussed up like a Christmas goose, slumped down at Mercy’s feet. It seemed obvious that the largest member of their group would be in charge of carrying the unconscious man. “It seems Devin had one more son.”

  She je
rked like she’d been slapped. “Are you serious?”

  Morgan’s smile turned grim. “There’s no mistaking those eyes. I imagine he’s a very wanted man.” He nodded toward the agents. “But I think Devin’s brood have it in their minds to take him home.”

  “Yeah.” She glanced up toward the building and suppressed a shiver. “I bet.”

  ~*~

  Why was it always in the basement? In every movie, and every book, the secret, scary stuff was always housed in the basement. Fox had found that was true in real life, too.

  The guard who showed them down, compelled at gunpoint, had a hand pressed to a wound on his neck, blood oozing through his fingers. Just a graze.

  By the time the service elevator finally shuddered to a halt, and the double layer of steel and cage doors began to slide apart, Fox could feel the temperature drop. It was cold down here; it smelled of metal, and industrial solvents.

  They stepped out into a wide room, with low ceilings, walls made of cold, poured concrete. Fox registered the hum of machinery, and saw a long computer bank, and tables loaded with what looked like medical equipment.

  “It looks just like the old one,” Abe said, voice distant, steps slow.

  They walked through it all, Fox and Abe, while Phil held a gun on the guard. They found a shooting range, and rooms with gym mats on the floors, kickboxing dummies, and cabinets full of neatly rolled bandages. A room with a desk, and projector, like a classroom. And they found a row of bedrooms with heavy locks on the doors that were really cells. Utilitarian cots, and toilets, and sinks. In nine of them, they found the other original members of Project Emerald, dead and left to rot.

  Fox turned to Abe, and found the man’s expression haunted. “You’re all sterile?” His voice sounded flat; it would take a long time for his shock to wear away, and he wasn’t looking forward to the moment it finally did.

  Abe sighed, and his shoulders slumped, and he didn’t look like a warrior anymore, only an old man. “I thought we all were. Vasectomies, all of us. Neat and tidy. The things we knew…they didn’t want us having children, for obvious reasons. Not for the emotional attachment it would offer, but they’d done things to us, too. Chemicals, steroids, like he said.

  “I didn’t realize they’d left Devin intact until Phillip was born. He came around and told me. Sounded proud, even.” He shook his head. “And then he kept having more, but different women, always.”

  “Why? What was Morris talking about? Prodigal Son?”

  “I don’t know, Charlie, and that’s the truth. We all have secrets, but Devin…”

  Had more than any of them, obviously.

  “Did you know about the tenth?”

  “No.” Several theories were kicking around in the back of Fox’s head, but he didn’t want to examine any of them too closely.

  He cast a look around the main room, the lab. “He’s like a robot. And he nearly killed Albie. I don’t know if there’s any coming back from that.”

  “There was for us,” Abe said, and shrugged. “And there’s that other boy, the one who got Cass.”

  “Reese? Yeah.”

  Another glance, like maybe all this empty concrete could tell him something.

  But whatever he was searching for, it wasn’t here. It was probably halfway to France by now.

  “Come on,” he said, turning back for the elevator. “Let’s go.”

  They took the guard back, and marched him out to the rendezvous point, turned him over to MI5.

  There was his family. His club. Cass safe, his brothers alive and unhurt. Raven had a gray blanket draped over her shoulders, and held a paper cup of something hot, steam curling up under her nose, face pale, but jaw set. Brave as any of the boys.

  Reese, shirtless under his flak vest, had crouched down to examine the unconscious tenth sibling, head cocked, gaze like a bird’s.

  But the numbness persisted. Relief felt distant and insubstantial, like a scattering of embers against an iceberg, unable to warm it.

  And then someone walked toward him, strides long and purposeful. Eden, in a black turtleneck and tac pants, Docs laced up tight, hair whipping loose around her shoulders, cheeks pink from the cold. She didn’t speak, and didn’t pause; walked right up to him, up into his space, and threw her arms around her neck. Pressed the cold skin of her face into his throat and let out a shuddering breath.

  He lifted leaden arms and held her back. The smell of her hair, and of her skin, the tremor that moved through her body pushed back against his shock. He shivered, and she gripped him tighter.

  “It’s alright,” she murmured against his ear.

  Was it? He didn’t know.

  Thirty-Seven

  “Congrats,” Ghost Teague’s sleep-scratchy voice answered when the line picked up. “You’ve made the international news.”

  Phillip frowned at the flat-screen TV situated across from his desk and slumped a little farther into his cupped hand, juggling the phone between chin and shoulder. “Not exactly the reason a man wants to make the news.”

  On the screen, a properly dour reporter stood in front of the Pseudonym building, its glass facets subdued in the gray morning light. Yellow tape roped the entire thing off, and teams of police in windbreakers moved back and forth beneath a light layer of drizzle. Law enforcement was taking full responsibility for apprehending a rogue, government-funded terrorist group whose very existence was about to rock Britain to its political foundations. And Phillip was very glad no one made mention of the Dogs.

  People would find out, though. The Hennessy family would talk, for one thing. The entire underground would know who’d slain this particular dragon, and the Dogs’ reputation would only grow stronger and more mysterious.

  “How’re the kids?” Ghost asked.

  Phillip yawned, jaw popping, before he could answer. “Rattled. A little banged up. But all in one piece. Devin…we haven’t talked about Devin, yet.” And wasn’t sure they could; it would take flame-throwers and machetes to get through that nest of thorns.

  “Hmm,” Ghost hummed, sympathetic. “Well, if anyone wants to get away for a bit, I’ve got plenty of room over here, and there’s always something to do. Just offering, if it helps. My door’s always open.”

  Phillip started to say no, they were fine, but he thought of Charlie’s vacant gaze last night as he’d surveyed the basement, blood on his lips and chin, nose bruised and purpling. “Actually…I think I might have a few who’ll take you up on that. Thanks, Ghost.”

  “Anytime, brother. Just say the word.”

  ~*~

  “Raven. Oh my God, stop.”

  Raven pulled back, scowling, and swatted Cass’s shoulder with the end of the towel she’d been using to clean the narrow scrape on her cheek. It was the tiniest of wounds, but Raven had nearly scrubbed it raw, with both alcohol and peroxide. Cass’s face was stinging.

  “I’ll stop when I feel like it,” Raven said, bustling back into the en suite to put the cloth away. “And you’ll just have to deal with it.”

  Cass heard the catch in her voice. She hadn’t cried, not yet, but there had been lots of hugs – gladly returned – and kisses to the forehead, and deep, shuddering inhales.

  “Raven,” Cass said, and her own voice cracked, just a little.

  Raven rushed back into the room, and sat down on the bed beside her, arms already open. Cass leaned into her sister, and let herself get wrapped up, and squeezed tight. They rocked a little, side-to-side.

  “It’s alright, darling,” Raven said, and stroked her hair.

  “Is Dad – did he–?”

  “We’re not going to talk about him. He doesn’t matter.” Firm, no room for argument.

  But he did matter, a little, because he was the reason they were all here, that they existed, and had one another. But Cass wouldn’t push that, not now.

  She yawned.

  “Alright, time to get some rest.”

  “It’s daylight.”

  “Barely, with this rain
. Come on, lie down.”

  Cass slid under the covers obediently, and her eyes fluttered shut, overcome with a sudden, dizzying wave of emotion, as Raven kissed her forehead and smoothed her hair back one last time.

  “Get some sleep.”

  She nodded, the lump in her throat too large to speak around.

  Raven clicked off the lights and left.

  But Cass didn’t go to sleep. She couldn’t.

  When she felt sure that Raven was gone, she slipped out of bed and headed down the hall. She didn’t know which room to look for, but she didn’t have to, because she bumped into Mercy first.

  He was one of the few who didn’t look dead on his feet with exhaustion, sipping coffee as he walked along, humming to himself.

  “Hey, kiddo,” he greeted.

  “Hi.” She felt her own smile tugging; it was pretty impossible not to smile at the guy. No one that big and dangerous should have been so cheerful, and she loved the contradiction. “Where’s Reese? I wanted to thank him.”

  Mercy’s smile froze. His brows lifted slowly. “Reese? Uh, yeah. I don’t know if that’s a good idea.”

  And here came the patronizing.

  She folded her arms. “You guys sent him in through the ceiling to kill a guy in front of me. But it’s a bad idea to say thank you?”

  “Uh, well…” He rubbed at he back of his neck with his free hand. “When you put it like that.” He sighed. “Look, Cass, Reese isn’t exactly…what you’d think of as normal.”

  Her turn to lift her brows. “Okay. And what part of all this” – she twirled her finger to indicate the building, the club, the circumstances – “am I supposed to think is normal?”

  “An excellent point. But you know what I mean.”

  She sighed. “Yeah. He’s – he’s pretty spooky, actually.” She was a little afraid those emotionless pale eyes would chase her into her dreams – nightmares, really.