Disparate Pathways: Chapter 41
- WARNING: THIS CHAPTER IS NOT FOR THE FAINT OF HEART -
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Chapter 41 - Compromized
Judging by the speed with which Jones sped across town, he hadn’t been joking at all when he said they had a problem. They were heading for the ‘safe house’ in another run down neighborhood. The Brewery, they called it, an apt name because that was exactly what it was. It was a disused brewery where they could keep their merchandise and no one would ask any questions. Jefferson could only guess at what the problem might be.
Running a stop sign, and crossing oncoming traffic, Jones threw the car into the The Brewery’s yard. This was the place they kept the girls when they first arrived. Jefferson cursed under his breath as he hung on to the handle above the door to keep himself from being thrown around. If the yard hadn’t been mostly dirt and broken blacktop he was sure Jones would have screeched to a halt.
The thought died in his mind as he saw the source of the trouble. Anthony Keith.
Across the yard, by the door, Keith, supported by two of his hangers-on, was wrestling with one of the girls. She was twisting and pulling against the hold he had on her, and he was so lost in his attempted assault that he hadn’t even heard the car - or so it seemed to Jefferson.
The sound of a shrill cry broke his inertia, and almost as fast as Jones had thrown the car into the yard, Jefferson threw open the door and found his feet at the exact same moment that the girl broke free of Keith’s grasp and started to run.
She was running blind, with no idea of where she was running, and after a moment taken to color the air with ungentlemanly curses, Keith took off after her.
She was fast, Jefferson had to give her that, but with Keith’s longer stride, Jefferson knew it wouldn’t be long before he caught up to her, and if he didn’t - well… the razor wire would see to any chance of escape she might have had, in the worst way possible. Taking barely a second to take it all in, Jefferson did the only thing he could. He set of at a sprint that would allow him to intercept Keith before he could reach the girl. He’d take him down if he had to, and hoped the girl had enough sense still in her head - wasn’t panicking too much - to recognize he was trying to help her. The last thing he wanted was her running headlong into the wire.
He charged at Keith so fast that when they collided, the air was forced from his lungs, but at least he kept his feet, unlike Keith who stumbled back and fell to land unceremoniously on his ass. Brought up short by the collision of the two men, the girl spun around to face the danger from which she had been running.
Somehow still laser focused, Jefferson sensed it, and managed, “Stay behind me!” The words were strained, still winded as he was. He barely had time to glance behind him to see that she was doing as she was told, before Keith’s mocking voice, and the rustle of clothing, proved he was moving, and that Jefferson was out of time.
“My hero,” Keith dripped sarcasm onto each syllable. “Always trying to save the underdog - or in this case, the bitch.”
He was playing to his cronies and Jefferson knew it. Even so, the words raised his hackles, and loosened what tenuous hold he had on rationality.
“Wonder why that is,” Keith went on, staring, his eyes cold, his whole demeanor calculating. “Wonder what it is that we don’t know about the good Jared here…?”
In that, with those words, Jefferson knew he had been recognized, and his chilled blood slowed to a crawl inside of him. He had seconds. Less than that, before Keith and his henchmen would have him dead to rights. A dangerous, unwelcome instinct had him reach for his weapon, the ratchet sound of the slide as he pulled it back sounding far too loud in the near silence that had fallen, punctuated only by the fearful, hurried breathing of the girl behind him, whose fingers now trembled against the small of his back.
“Steady on, mate,” Jones’ voice, brittle with tension, sounded a moment later, as he reached them.
“Ever wondered why that is, Jones?” Keith went on undeterred, examining his fingernails. “That our friend here always seems to be in the right place at the right time to get in the way of—”
“If you’ve got something to say, go ahead and spit it out,” Jefferson growled, “instead of gossiping like an old woman.”
“Oh-ho-ho…” Keith laughed, his face a mask of exaggerated mocking.
“I. Dare. You.” Jefferson breathed, and flicked off the safety with an audible click. He felt the heat of his own intense stare boiling behind his eyes.
Keith lunged, trying to bypass Jefferson to reach the girl. She screamed, and Jefferson felt her forehead come to rest against his back.
Time slowed.
Jefferson half turned, and pushed the girl away from him, almost directly into Jones’ arms. On the momentum of the turn, even as Keith tried to side step him, and anticipating where he might move, Jefferson caught his man’s arm. He twisted it upward and behind him, forcing Keith to his knees amid the accusatory words the other man spat half in anger, half in pain.
“So what is it this time, man…? Still some kind of co—?”
Jefferson twisted his arm still further then, to silence him before he could finish the word and put the thought into Jones’ head, adding the threat of the gun, just resting against the pack of Keith’s head, but with even more derision, Keith whimpered, “Maybe just a snitch!”
"Say it again,” Jefferson spat, “Just one more time, Motherfucker!"
“Bet you don’t even remember, do you…? Took so many in,” Keith’s words all ran together as he rushed to get them out. “…one way or another, but I remember you. I—.”
“You’re out of your fucking mind!” Jefferson leaned down to growl the words against the side of Keith’s head.
“Nah, man… I remember. Nothing you can say or do… nothing.” Keith struggled, as if he meant to find his feet; make one more assay to reach the girl.
“What the fuck, Jared,” Jones demanded, “is he talking about?”
“Out of his fucking mind,” Jefferson repeated, almost ignoring Jones. Almost, but not quite.
“Oh, you’d like that, but I tell you… every single one of those bitches in there is mine, and I didn’t fight my way up to an Enforcer to be told what to do by the likes of some… two bit squealer; some washed out, has-been, underc—”
The alley behind the bar was dimly lit and the wall behind him cold and hard. Jefferson took in a breath to speak, but the moment was taken from him with the hungry press of lips against his.
“You know,” his benefactor murmured around a dance of ice and tongues, speaking of his useless handler, “he has no fucking intention of doing anything.” Jefferson moaned. He didn’t want to think about that right now, so he missed the next words out of his lover’s lips. “Sooner or later it’ll come down to you or some dead guy walking. You’ll have no choice but to take matters into your own…”
The memory ended on the deafening sound of a single gunshot, and bile rose in Jefferson’s throat as sticky, hot, wet gore splashed the back of his hand; the side of his face, and the arm he was still holding went limp as the body pitched forward.
“Left!”
Jones warning came barely in time as Jefferson turned to see one of Keith’s henchmen drawing down on the two of them. On reflex, another act of self preservation, he raised his weapon and fired off two shots in quick succession, setting his jaw against the matching twin retorts of Jones’ weapon as he took out the man on the right.
In an organization like the Duneach, divided loyalties were never wise, and almost always fatal.
What could have been a messier situation than it already was, was over before it began, though it drew out several other guards from inside the Brewery. All were wielding guns which they lowered as soon as they set eyes on Jones.
“You,” Jones ordered one of them, “Clean up this fucking mess, and you…” he pointed to two of the newcomers, propelling the girl toward the second of the two, “Take this one back inside, and get the house under control.”
Even as Jefferson wiped his mostly clean sleeve over the side of his face, Jones turned and tossed him the car keys.
“Get back to the warehouse and get yourself cleaned up,” he said, “speak to no one until I send for you. Duneach is gonna want to hear about this.”
**
He had no memory of how he made it back to his room in the Warehouse complex, just stumbled into the rooms they’d given to him, already shrugging off his jacket, automatically putting one foot in front of the other.
“You’re hurt!”
The words, soft spoken, jolted him out of his stupor, and he managed, “Not mine,” against the rising tide of emotion his numbness had kept at bay.
“Here,” the girl he’d left in his room when Jones had come to get him moved closer as he began struggling with the buttons of his shirt. “Let me.”
He shook his head, held up his hands and almost pushed her away.
“Can you drive?”
“What?”
“Can you drive?”
“Yes, I can drive, I—”
She barely caught the keys he tossed her way.
“Get out of here,” he told her. “Drive as far away from here as you can, and don’t look back.”
“But—”
“Do it!,” he snapped. “I can’t protect you any more!”
“You don’t have to, you—”
“Go!”
The anguish in his voice took even him by surprise, and he snatched at the young woman’s arm and pushed her toward the door as he repeated himself. He listened as she fled, before - certain she was away and protective in spite of his assertion that he couldn’t protect her any more - he closed the door, turned the lock, and with his back to its solid surface, surrendered to the desolation that stole the strength from his legs, and the cry that he dredged from the depth of his being was like that of a wounded animal, or a lost child calling out to its absentee mother.