Fathers

by Matt Rogers

  King sized him up. He’d already seen the guy was bald, but now he realised he didn’t have eyebrows either. Probably alopecia. He was pale, his head like a round white egg, and he was solidly built. Not muscular, not fat, just six feet tall and roughly a hundred and ninety pounds. He probably didn’t exercise but had good genetics and stayed in reasonable shape.

  Nothing to worry about.

  A good guy caught in a bad position.

  Maybe blackmailed. Maybe threatened. Not his fault. Caught between a rock and a hard place.

  The ward clerk said, ‘Sorry, sir, there’s a technical issue…’

  He was straining to keep the door at the halfway point. King was putting about ten percent of his strength into keeping it open.

  ‘What technical issue?’ King said. ‘I’m here to see my partner and my child.’

  ‘You can’t. Not right now.’ A vein at the top of the pale egg strained. The first beads of sweat started to form across his forehead. ‘I’m sorry. I know it’s inconvenient.’

  ‘You giving everyone this same spiel?’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘No you’re not,’ King said. ‘Otherwise you would have closed the ward off instead of keeping a lookout for me. Someone’s ordered you to do this, and they’re not very well-informed.’

  The guy blinked. ‘What do you mean?’

  ‘I mean, I can just do this.’

  King put what he thought was fifty percent of his strength into the door in the form of a two-handed shove. He realised it was much more than that when the ward clerk flew back off his feet, sent head over heels by the force of the door’s edge slamming into him. He landed across his upper back and skidded a couple of feet, but King was already stepping over him before he even came to rest on the hard floor.

  The chair lay scattered in broken pieces.

  King had never miscalculated his strength like that, and he thought he knew why.

  He could feel the rage in him, the deep-seated desire to protect his family. If someone was trying to keep him out, then they wanted something with Violetta or the baby…

  He almost felt sorry for whoever it was.

  Almost.

  37

  Hit first and hit hard.

  Slater liked that philosophy. It kept things simple. It meant he didn’t need to spend any time strategising in the moment. He only had to find the closest, hardest weapon and put it to use.

  He’d already ripped the compact Glock 43X in its holster from his nightstand but he didn’t want to shoot and give up his location, so he hooked the holster clip into the waistband of his running shorts. If all four of the massive gangsters had guns, the odds wouldn’t be good. It didn’t matter what sort of training or reflexes he had. If four people who’ve never held guns before in their life are told to round a corner and pull the trigger until either it was empty or they were dead, they’d probably kill an elite soldier standing in that hallway with no cover. That’s just simple physics. Four barrels spewing lead at supersonic speeds versus one. So he wasn’t about to get himself killed trying to finish it as fast as possible.

  All he needed was momentum.

  With the Glock at his waist he fetched a Louisville Slugger baseball bat from his wardrobe and wielded it double-handed as he slipped out into the hallway. He crossed to the closed door opposite the master bedroom and buried himself in the small alcove.

  Then he waited.

  Heavy footsteps approached from the front of the house, coming toward where the hallway hooked at a right angle. Slater’s alcove was only six feet from the corner itself.

  He kept waiting.

  The footfalls were loud and urgent against the wooden floorboards, enough to strike fear in anyone.

  Almost anyone.

  Slater waited like he was half-asleep.

  The first set of footsteps reached the corner, seconds from rounding it into the hallway that led to the master and spare bedrooms.

  Slater let his mind go blank, except for a single train of thought.

  He wants to kill Alexis.

  He wants to kill Tyrell.

  It charged him with an energy that was almost inhuman.

  A huge body rounded the corner. Slater sensed mass moving through space, close by.

  Batter up.

  He stepped out and swung the Louisville Slugger like he was actually trying to tear both of his shoulders out of their sockets. He swung it so fast and hard that if he missed it would probably send him spinning an entire revolution, knocked off-balance, whereupon the home invaders could finish him off. But he’d assessed their heights based on their silhouettes, so he’d known where to aim.

  With suitable preparation, he never missed.

  He felt the target’s face cave all the way in, and the vibration of the impact nearly dislocated Slater’s elbows and shoulders all at once. But he held tight and stepped back as he reached blindly behind him for the handle of the door he’d pressed up against. He opened it and slipped into the dark study before the first guy’s body even hit the carpet.

  There was an ominous beat of silence, then the thug’s buddies caught up to him, found his corpse.

  Even in the lowlight they must have seen the damage.

  One of them muttered, ‘Holy fucking shit.’

  Another realised Slater must have been close enough to swing a baseball bat and charged forward, letting urgency get the better of him. He didn’t even choose the right room. He leapt ahead, gun raised, and pivoted into the open doorway of the master bedroom. Finding nothing, he wheeled back to the study, just as Slater brought the Slugger down across his forearms with the same force and anger as the first swing. Both radius bones shattered under the hit, and the guy couldn’t have kept hold of his gun if he tried. He dropped it as his arms flopped about like they were made of rubber, and Slater pivoted the downward swing into a scything uppercut. The top of the bat caught the underside of the thug’s chin and destroyed his jaw beyond recognition.

  Bone and teeth came flying out of his mouth.

  The trajectory of the second hit sent him careening back out of the doorway, where he fell to the hallway floor beside his dead friend. He was still alive, though, and he screamed through mangled teeth.

  It was a haunting sound.

  The last two guys were gangsters, thugs, killers through and through. Seasoned sociopaths, ready for anything. They’d probably tortured and killed dozens of Dwayne’s enemies in their lifetimes.

  But there’s always a moment when a big fish realises they’ve been in the wrong pond their whole lives. Top dogs in their yard, only to find there’s a yard above theirs, full of people who would eat them for a light snack.

  One of the remaining two realised that, and the other didn’t.

  One high-tailed it back to the front door, running for his life, and the other charged forward to avenge his comrades.

  By now it wasn’t even close to one on four so Slater had no qualms about ripping the Glock from its holster. He stepped into the corridor and put a bullet straight through the face of the guy who’d rushed forward, before the huge thug even had the chance to raise his own gun. Then Slater took off sprinting, taking the long way through the house to the front door, but he still made it before the last guy. Slater’s athleticism was unparalleled, and he timed it so he lunged forward and kicked the front door shut just as the last guy came sprinting out of another corridor, hoping to throw himself through the doorway.

  Instead he ran face-first into the thick slab of wood and bounced off it, blinded by the shock and pain of the impact.

  Slater stepped right up to the guy, put the Glock against the side of his throat, and put one through his neck.

  Blood geysered over the plush entranceway rug as the man’s knees turned to rubber and he sprawled across it, choking to death.

  Slater sighed. A lot of furniture would need to be replaced. The floorboards in the hallway would need to be scrubbed within an inch of their lives.

  Then he thought about what
the neighbours might have seen, and realised he might need to replace the whole house.

  38

  King heard the ward clerk calling after him but didn’t pay any attention to it.

  From the tone, he figured it was more of a warning to whoever had threatened him. The guy was shouting, ‘Hey, you’re not supposed to be here! You better stop right there!’ It echoed down the hard empty corridors. Filled the trembling nighttime stillness.

  Somehow it added dread to the air.

  King could see why.

  If there was anyone in their room other than Violetta or Junior...

  A midwife scurried out of one of the rooms, nearly colliding with him in the wing hallway. His stomach sank as he realised he might have to overpower her, but she recognised him. She’d admitted them to the postpartum ward. There must have been a serious shortage of staff if she was extended into the night shift. She’d stormed out into the hallway with verve, ready to confront an intruder after hearing the ward clerk’s warning cries, but now she and King locked eyes and there was a long moment of hesitation.

  King jerked a thumb over his shoulder, back the way he came. ‘What’s his deal?’

  The clerk’s shouts rang like some warbled siren.

  The midwife shook her head. ‘I…’

  At a loss for words. The ward wasn’t closed, or she’d know about it. And King had been around for several hours, so how could he have been mistaken for an intruder? He was even logged in the system…

  King said, ‘Maybe he’s tired. Could you get him to shut up? He’s disturbing everyone.’

  She could do something with a request like that. There was a certain urgency to it. She nodded and brushed past him, beelining for reception.

  He called after her. ‘Quick question.’

  She looked over her shoulder.

  He asked, ‘Are you the only midwife here?’

  ‘There’s plenty more,’ she said. ‘Somewhere else in the ward. You can buzz if you need.’

  King nodded. ‘Be careful with that clerk.’

  ‘Don’t worry,’ she said. ‘It’s just Rick.’

  She hustled away.

  Somewhere else in the ward. At least now King knew there wouldn’t be any witnesses.

  He hurried down the hall and came to their door. It was shut tight. It was big and sturdy, and King doubted the sound of the ward clerk’s cries would have travelled through it. It was designed to provide an exhausted mother with a decent night’s sleep.

  King kept his movements quiet in case it was a false alarm. But he twisted the handle, shoved forward, and spilled into the room as fast as humanly possible.

  He assessed the scene in the dark gold glow of the nightlight above the bed.

  A policeman stood hunched over the bed, staring down at Violetta. He’d been talking to her, whispering a question into her groggy face. She was staring up at him with half-closed eyes. She was out of it. Her head lolled side to side, and she didn’t even realise King had come into the room. There was no way the nurses had given her those quantities of painkillers. The cop had drugged her, tried to get her delirious so he could successfully interrogate her.

  He spun at the sound of the door swooshing open and saw King filling the doorway.

  He said, ‘Oh, fuck,’ under his breath as he scrambled for his service weapon at his belt.

  He didn’t reach it.

  King swarmed him.

  39

  Slater didn’t waste a second.

  He raced to the master bedroom, stuck his head through the doorway, and said, ‘All clear.’

  Alexis wormed her way out from under the bed in seconds, and he saw she couldn’t take her eyes off the bat in his hand, stained with blood and brain matter. The colour drained from her face. ‘Is that what those thumps were?’

  ‘They were here to kill Tyrell.’

  She said nothing.

  Slater said, ‘They would have raped you before they killed you.’

  That made her shudder. ‘Why are they all like that?’

  ‘That’s why King and I were paid so handsomely when we were employed.’

  That made her hesitate. ‘What’s that got to do with anything?’

  He held up the dripping bat. ‘We can do things like this and keep our humanity. That’s rare. It’s unique to kill consistently and stay sane. Most can’t let those savage instincts out without letting all the other savagery take over. That’s why killers are usually all like that…’

  ‘I’ve killed,’ she said. ‘It didn’t consume me. But I guess you were my tutor. Gave me guidance.’

  He shook his head. ‘Can’t be taught. You got that way all on your own.’

  She said, ‘Well, I’m glad.’

  A long pause.

  She asked, ‘Who were they?’

  ‘Tyrell has another uncle. Dwayne. They were his men. I hope he’s the last psycho family member.’

  The realisation struck her and she touched a hand to her mouth, hiding her slack jaw. ‘He sent men to kill his own nephew?’

  Slater nodded, ‘I’ll check on Tyrell.’

  He put the bat down before he went down the hall to the spare room and stepped inside, turning the light on. He heard the boy recoil under the bed. There was the sound of Tyrell shrinking into a ball and knocking boxes aside as he burrowed further into the shadows.

  ‘It’s okay,’ Slater said. ‘It’s me.’

  There was a splutter of relief, and a few seconds later Tyrell shimmied out from under the bed. He sat himself upright, but didn’t seem to have the energy to get to his feet. He tucked his knees to his chest and settled back against the bed frame, eyes red and raw.

  When he finally looked up, he stared at Slater’s clothes and said, ‘There’s blood all over you.’

  ‘I didn’t have a choice.’

  ‘That … that was my fault, man.’

  Slater shook his head. ‘You didn’t know what you were doing. What happened?’

  ‘He acted so friendly,’ Tyrell said. ‘Like he really cared about me, even though I only ever met him once, and he made my life hell. He was sayin’ he was real sorry to hear about Dad, about Uncle J. He said it was time for me to come home. And, like, the way he said it … I believed him. So I told him where I was, asked him to pick me up out front. Then he started talking about all sorts of random shit, and I started thinkin’, like, maybe he’s just keepin’ me on the line? That’s when I realised Dwayne ain’t nothin’ but trouble. That’s when I started crying. Then you came in, and…’

  He trailed off.

  Slater thought about asking what Dwayne had done to make Tyrell’s life miserable from one encounter, but figured the kid had talked about enough trauma for one night. He made a mental note to follow it up down the line. ‘It’s okay, Tyrell. It’s okay.’

  Tyrell sobbed.

  Slater sat down beside him, put an arm around him.

  Tyrell said, ‘Those guys were gonna kill you and Alexis just to get me back. They ain’t need to have done that. They got themselves killed, by bein’ stupid.’

  Slater needed the boy to understand.

  He slowly shook his head.

  Tyrell noticed the gesture. ‘What?’

  ‘They weren’t coming in to save you, Tyrell.’

  A horrendous pause, like the world was crashing down on the boy’s head. ‘How you know that?’

  ‘Dwayne had a hit team here within thirty minutes. Like you said, he doesn’t care about you. He would never be that desperate to get you back. The only thing that would make him mad was if someone had spotted something. Placed you at the scene, or seen you with me. I’m sure the whole gang has my description. If you were seen walking around with me — maybe on the street, maybe at the hospital — then Dwayne wouldn’t have wanted to do anything but hurt you.’

  Tyrell scrunched up his face. ‘You sure, man? He’s a bad dude, but, like, that bad…?’

  ‘He had your number this whole time, right?’

  ‘Yeah.’
>
  ‘There’s no way he heard about your disappearance right before he called you. He already knew. We caused a scene at that apartment complex, and at your dad’s. So what made him suddenly so mad, when he could have called you at any point during the day?’

  Tyrell shrugged.

  Slater said, ‘New information?’

  ‘From who?’

  Slater didn’t know.

  He thought about giving King a call, then he heard the sirens.

  40

  Violetta was in dreamworld, off with the fairies, so it didn’t matter how much noise King made, but he didn’t want to disturb Junior’s first night of sleep outside of the womb.

  When the cop got a hand on his weapon, King skirted sideways around him and looped a giant arm around the man’s mid-section to pin his arm to his side, preventing him from pulling his piece. King used the momentum to swing all the way round behind the cop, and with his other arm he looped an equally crushing hold around the guy’s throat.

  The guy almost managed to scream but King brutalised his windpipe with the squeeze, cutting him off mid-cry.

  Then King picked him up and carried him out of the room.

  The cop weighed nothing. It was relative, of course. In actuality he was probably two hundred pounds, a big lad nearly as tall as King, but where the cop’s physique was flat, King’s was shaped by war with himself. And he had the fury of a father protecting his son, a man protecting his woman. The cop had nervous energy at being caught, and that was about it.

  So King simply wrenched him up off the ground and walked him through the open door. When they came out into the corridor the cop growled, ‘Put me down,’ in a garbled voice, his enunciation restricted by King’s forearm crushing his throat.

  King growled back, ‘Yeah? That’s what you want?’

  He’d learned some judo in his crusade through the world of high-level mixed martial arts. It was all about the art of the throw. How to make someone meet the floor as fast and as hard as possible. Everything centred around the hips. If your hips were lower than your opponent’s, you had the leverage, and you could use your bodyweight to hurl them over the top of you. The results were already violent enough in competition, where precautions were taken. In the real world they could be catastrophic.