Justice Mine: a Base Branch Novel

by Megan Mitcham

  “Don’t shoot Willow,” Magdalena whispered.

  “What does she look like?”

  “My height, but skinnier. Brown hair and eyes.”

  Law nodded. “Watch our backs.”

  Her adamant nod tugged at his jacket, which she held in a death grip at the lower hem. Law turned the knob, clearing the latch, closed his eyes, and strained to hear any noise from inside the flat through the thin gap he created. He held the wood-finished handle of his gun at the ready, but eased his left hand up in a countdown for Magdalena. Three. Two. One. They moved with surprising grace, her tight against his back, through the doorway.

  Law’s sight adjusted instantly to the dim entrance, scanning right to left for the barrel of enemy guns. None presented themselves. Magdalena closed the door behind them, her white knuckles threatening to strangle the knob if it made a sound. As they moved deeper into danger Law swept the kitchen in silence, finding only a sleek modern arrangement of appliances and clean lined furniture in the living area beyond. Everything from the dishtowel hanging to the left of the sink and the magazines stacked on the small living room table rested pertly in its place. No huge pieces of furniture provided an opponent a vantage point against them. Still, irritation tickled his nape. Things were too quiet.

  His pace increased, as did his wariness, as he cleared the first bedroom, a soft palate of lilac and white that seemed incongruous to the lightning rod of a woman behind him. But it smelled like the wild vanilla of her skin. The closet doors gaped open. Its contents littered the floor, but the articles weren’t tossed as those at her father’s house had been. These lay shoved in small piles in a deliberate path to the back corner. A mallet and red ball leaned against the far joint of the wardrobe. He discounted the mess as one Magdalena had created while trying to save her friend like she’d recounted.

  The last bedroom sat pin neat, every last colorful pillow in its place atop the bed. By design, three paintings hung askew above the headboard. A rift between the windowsill and bottom frame caught his attention, but he held himself back. Law’s gaze swung to the buttoned-up closet opposite the foot of the bed. He removed Magdalena’s hands from his jacket and stayed her at the doorway with a raised palm. He pointed two fingers at his eyes then turned them out the doorway. With a hesitant gnaw of her lip, Magdalena’s gaze left him and the ominous closet it bounced between and locked on the corridor.

  Law holstered his Sig, opting to have both hands free in the close quarters. He eased toward the closet and wrenched the door open. He didn’t bother using the paltry wood as a shield, but attacked the interior like a grizzly busting open a garbage can in search of a meal. Dresses and vibrant tops fell from the rod. Shoes cascaded from their neatly stacked boxes.

  When he came up one bad guy short, a growl rumbled from his throat. Someone was just here and you tipped them off, getting all sappy. Law’s gaze snagged the window and he launched himself at it. Fingers curled under the edge, he heaved the thing open. The same screech they’d heard earlier pierced the air.

  Careful not to get his head shot off, Law peered out enough to see a dark iron fire escape snuggled to the side of the building. He leaned over the edge and watched a man jump from the lowest landing to the street below. The bloke took the fifteen-foot drop and hit the concrete below on the balls of his feet, curled into a ball, and rolled up from the crouch in one fluid motion.

  Law admired the free-runner types. What they did with their bodies was nothing short of amazing, but fuck he hated chasing them. It always ended with a bullet in their ass and him sucking wind like an old geezer.

  “Stay here,” Law barked. But before he could leap onto the escape, the speedy chap veered into the alley, headed for the back of the building. “Damn.” He turned into the apartment. “Lock the door behind me.” With everything he had, Law propelled himself through the flat and into the stairwell. He took each set of stairs in a single leap, steadying each jarring impact on the lands with his grip on the railing.

  Light but rapid footfalls sounded a story above his head and irritation tickled his spine. Magdalena hadn’t listened. The accompanying breathy gasps gave her away, but he couldn’t stop to reprimand her for putting herself in harm’s way. Law doubled his efforts, putting as much distance between himself and Magdalena as he could while closing the span between himself and the man he pursued. He needed answers and it was bloody time he got them.

  Sweat stung his eyes, but he didn’t bother wiping it away. Two more bounds and he landed in the main lobby. Law turned to the back of the building and surged down the corridor he and Magdalena had entered minutes ago. He slowed only enough to shoulder the door and push through it.

  Lightning flashed in his eyes so brilliant and painful he’d swear the sky opened and struck him down as soon as his feet hit the pavement. His skull threatened to shatter at the force. He gripped it with both hands, holding the shards together as the world tilted and he met the hard surface with a thud.

  The whack of impact at his ribs gave Law the first clue that he hadn’t been struck down by the thunder god. A hail of blows tenderized his gut and his body took over, balling into the fetal position. The brunt of each hit burned his belly and sent bile pitching toward his throat.

  Law struggled to open his eyes, but they refused his commands like some critical nerve had been severed. Hell, he couldn’t even see where the attack came from. Training overrode instinct and Law focused on the senses he had to locate his attacker. Bits of gravel and sand crunched in front of him and the kicks originated from the same place each time, even the same damn foot—a foot covered with a steel toe boot.

  Magdalena’s gut-rending scream compelled his left eye open just enough to see her petrified form fixed at the far end of the corridor. Her face contorted in a broken expression of horror. Only still for a moment, she ran for him. Fear shredded his heart, making a mockery of the anxiety he managed before. Magdalena ran toward certain death. No matter what he tried, half beaten to his own demise he was no match for this son of a bitch. If he grabbed for his gun, the man would just as likely rip it from his grasp and shoot the two of them with it.

  Law breathed as deeply as he could, kicked the man’s left foot, and crawled to the door. Magdalena’s face brightened then fell as he closed her inside. “Run,” he hollered. But only a rasped choke escaped his lips. He collapsed the weight of his torso against the door and faced his attacker. And found two through the slit of his lid. The one he’d seen drop from the escape dusted the leg of his blue jeans. The other held Magdalena’s cricket bat in his meaty hand.

  The door jarred as his sweet Magdalena pushed against the door. Her screams filled his ears. And he regretted so much. Bringing her here. Acting rash and barreling into the situation without adequate recon or back up. Not being strong enough to take these fuckers out. But most, he regretted not telling her how much he loved her.

  28

  Magdalena shoved at the door, straining every feeble muscle she possessed. As it had five times before, the door opened only a crack before slamming shut. The clack of metal on metal rang in her ears as did her sobs. Tears streamed down her cheeks in rolling waves with every failed attempt to help the man she loved.

  He’d closed her inside to save her, no doubt, but she would rather die fighting to save him than listen to the sickening thuds of the beating he endured. “Law,” she screamed. “Let me out!” Magdalena balled her fists and beat them against the door. “Please.”

  “Please shut up!”

  Magdalena pivoted, fists drawing back instinctually at the woman who’d caught her unaware.

  A thirty-something gal in a wrinkled sleep shirt and bare legs shrank back against her opened apartment door. Her hands flew to her chest, palms out, warding Magdalena off. She’d never elicited such a response from another human being. She would have apologized, but she couldn’t think of decorum with Law’s life in danger. Desperation clouded self-preservation and every other civil tendency her father cultivated during her f
ormative years.

  “Does your flat have a window to the alley?”

  Black jaw-length curls flopped back and forth. “I don’t have anything worth stealing. I work two jobs just to afford this place.”

  “I’m not robbing you. My friend is being attacked in the alley. I need to help him.”

  “In the middle of the day?”

  “Yes,” Mags hollered, beyond frantic to be at Law’s side.

  “I’ll call the police.” The lady stepped into her flat, a flash of relief slacking her tight features.

  Magdalena ducked past her into the unfamiliar layout.

  “Hey.”

  “By the time the police get here he’ll be dead. Please, where is the bloody window?” Mags ran headlong, not waiting for a response, fumbling her way through the maze of rooms.

  “Last bedroom. End of the corridor,” the woman’s voice called from the entryway.

  All the curtains were drawn tight throughout the flat and in the master bedroom the sheets lay tossed back. Magdalena bound onto the bed and shoved the thick fabric over the window to the side. A green wall greeted her. The dumpster they parked by nearly abutted the building, blotting out the sunlight. She smashed her face against the icy glass and peered down the back street. To the right, green blocked her view, but to the left she saw the tip of the Hog’s handle and the sleek side fender.

  “What in the hell are you doing?”

  Mags turned to the woman, who had both hands shaking in the air. “Close and lock this behind me as quietly as you can and stay inside your flat.”

  “For sure.”

  With her swift breaths hushed by force of will, Magdalena unlatched the window and tugged. Inch by measured inch she increased the gap and thanked the contractor for installing stealthy new windows in this part of the building. As the window opened wider the sound of flesh smacking flesh filtered through, causing her lower lip to quiver.Finally, the window yawned wide; she slipped one foot out and prayed it would fit between the dumpster and wall of the building. Her sandals scraped along the brick in what sounded like a break in the sound barrier. Magdalena froze for a moment, but the beating did not. So, she gripped the frame, ignored the woman’s wide-eyed stare, and lowered herself toward the ground. Her stomach and elbows scraped the stucco sill on the way down, stinging only a microscopic fraction as badly as her heart did.

  When her feet hit the pavement Mags shuffled like a real-life version of Gumby, the flat green chum she’d seen as a kid, away from the fight until daylight enveloped her. She hurried on tiptoes to the Harley, flipped open the saddlebag, unzipped her pack, and shoved her hand into the depths. Cold metal slid beneath her fingers and she clamped down on it.

  Never in her life could Magdalena Wells have pictured herself holding a gun, much less preparing to shoot someone with it. Inside, her nerves quaked an eight on the Richter scale. But her fingers gripped firm and steady around the sleek wood-finished grip. She thumbed the safety down, filled her lungs with the humid air, lifted the threatening metal with both hands, and stepped out from behind the dumpster.

  Two men stood over Law. One wrenched his leg back and slammed it into Law’s stomach again and again. The other bastard watched, twirling a cricket bat in his hand like he itched to take a swing. Law’s only saving grace was that he had arms big enough to absorb some of the blows and block his ribs from being snapped like dry twigs.

  Never had she seen or imagined Law vulnerable like any other person. His thick muscles and armored heart created an illusion of invincibility. But the man she loved lay slumped against the door, a curled ball of susceptibility. Even in his weakened state he was powerful. He blocked her exit. Guarding her until the end.

  “Stop!” Magdalena’s voice bounded off the brick walls and reverberated in her head in a gritty pitch of demand. The word came from deep inside. Someplace strong, someplace she didn’t know existed.

  The punter’s leg gridlocked on a back swing. In unison, two sets of eyes found her and narrowed as they registered the gun. Magdalena couldn’t look at Law again, fearful she might accidentally shoot him or lose her bare-threaded composure and give the attackers the upper hand.

  “Back away,” she commanded.

  The chav with the bat, her cricket bat, stepped forward. “The information we got didn’t say anything about you knowing how to shoot. Your grip’s pretty good for a first timer, but I don’t think you have what it takes to pull the trigger.”

  “I can pull the trigger. The question is, can I hit what I aim for? I could try for your shoulder and hit your nuts. Assuming you have any,” Magdalena taunted like she wasn’t about to pass out.

  “Fuck it,” bat-boy said. “We were supposed to bring you in alive for some fun, but I like my sack where it belongs. How about you, Mac?”

  The kicker fisted his junk and shook it, flexing the area toward Magdalena. “Yeah, I like em’ attached all right. Shoot her and we’ll find them some other entrainment.”

  Her breath caught. She hadn’t expected them to have guns. She didn’t expect anyone to have a gun, because she hated them. But a cold hand gripped her throat as bat-boy switched hands with the bat and reached behind his back.

  Magdalena’s hand tingled from the rabid grip she had on the weapon, but she adjusted the man in her sight and pulled the trigger. The thing exploded in a concussive sound that rippled through her entire body. It bucked wildly. The shot went wide, chipping away a hunk of brick in the building to her left. Her grasp loosened on the unruly beast and she readjusted in time to see the barrel of the man’s gun and his zealous gaze squared on her chest.

  Two gun blasts cracked the hot day. Magdalena had no time to react. She stood static. A perfect target.

  The cylindrical metal hole she stared into did launch a bullet at her heart. It quavered and her gaze drew to the man’s face. His intense stare washed vacant. The wrinkles in his sneer slacked. His life evaporated in the brutal sunlight and he collapsed to the baking ground, blood seeping from behind his ear.

  Magdalena looked at the gun in her hand and the man on the ground, and then her gaze snapped toward the second assailant. Unlike the man who lay sprawled in front of her, he lay in a knotted heap against the wall. Beside him, Law pitched on his side. One of his arms wrapped around his middle. The other clasped his Sig, now resting on his thigh.

  Emotions roiled inside her body, ricocheting and eviscerating her composure. The sobs she’d shoved aside only minutes earlier broke free as she sprinted for Law. His regal jaw set in a hard line. The flesh of his right brow split wide, oozing blood down the angles of his cheek. Swelling puffed the skin around it, sealing his lid shut in a macabre painting of blues, purples, and yellows. His left eye had taken some of the impact, bloating the hood of his eye to half-mast.

  She skidded to a stop on her knees beside him, her hands shooting out to help, but only hovering. It seemed there was no safe place to touch him. “What can I do?”

  “Start by flipping on your safety,” he rasped.

  “Oh God. I’m so sorry.” She tried to stem the waterworks, but her sobs only transformed to hiccups. A flick of the lever set the gun on safety and she glanced at Law’s gun. Of course, he’d already managed his weapon.

  “Magdalena.”

  “Yes,” she sniffled.

  “Don’t be sorry. You saved my life.”

  “I didn’t. I—”

  “You did. Now, stow your gun in my left holster.”

  Law raised his arm and muffled a groan behind his pinched lips. Magdalena lifted his jacket and snuggled the metal into the leather compartment. “Now mine,” he said on a sharp breath. She repeated the task with a bit more difficulty since he lay on his right side.

  “You’re doing great, Magdalena. I’m going to need you to help me up.”

  “Okay, but where else are you hurt? If you have any broken ribs, moving you could puncture a lung.”

  “Staying here will get us in jail or dead.”

  Right. Her unwillin
g helper probably called the Met as she locked her window. Mags burrowed her head under the crook of Law’s left arm, waited for his go-ahead, then pushed so hard her legs quaked from the effort. Together they staggered upright. Well, upright for her. Law hunched like Quasimodo. She gripped his arm for leverage and searched for an escape. There was no way he could drive the Hog in his condition.

  “Do we hail a cab?”

  “No. Bike. You drive.”

  “What?”

  “I’ll handle the clutch. You steer.”

  Magdalena couldn’t speak for her shock and the use of every muscle and bit of coordination she had to keep pace with Law’s shaky strides toward the damn motorcycle. Hiking his leg over the massive beast cost him dearly. His breath hissed in hasty pants. The beautiful lines of his face were mangled by blood, swelling, and wrinkles from a deep grimace.

  He handed her the spare helmet and shoved his on with a string of vicious curses obscured by the hitch of his breaths. Magdalena shoved hers on, slipped on in front of Law, and hoped she hadn’t just saved him to lose him in the wreckage of a multi-vehicle collision.

  29

  Even though Magdalena had been expecting it, her entire body jumped at the sharp knock on the motel door. Shit, she’d been counting down the seconds since she practically dragged Law from the motorcycle, into the room, and situated him in the chair next to her. He refused the bed and she hadn’t had the heart to make him explain his reasoning. She just hoped his injuries weren’t too serious. And that the obscure rural inn was far enough away from danger.

  “Check first,” Law croaked.

  Bloody hell, she wasn’t cut out for this clandestine shit. Her heart raced and the thing of it was she didn’t know which life altering experience to attribute the constant and frantic thuds. Struggling to save Law from certain death? Firing a gun for the first time? Watching yet another man’s life leave his body? Driving a fucking motorcycle through the crowded streets of London?