As he moved down the stairs, George dragged his bat along the railings. The vibration buzzed all the way up the handle, an ache nestling in his elbow. An image of Zach doing the same with a stick along fences sprung into his mind. Shaking his head cleared his thoughts, and he continued on.
The clanging rattle rang out in the cavernous hallway like a football clacker. The sound was jarring and cut right through him. If that didn’t wake everyone up…
With his confidence growing, George started taking the stairs two at a time, his weak legs one stumble away from total collapse. “Wake up!” he shouted. “We’re being attacked!” The empty hallway threw his call back at him from every angle.
Taking a moment to look up, he saw candles above as people came out into the hallway. Help wouldn’t be far behind.
When he got to the bottom of the stairs, he imagined one of the invading gang on the other side of the front doors. Kicking so hard it stung the ball of his foot, George rushed outside with his bat raised.
The outside air set fire to his sinuses, fingers, and ears. Why did he leave his jacket in the flat?
Despite the gang having only just entered the complex, there was already chaos outside. There were men on cars and trucks, bouncing with frenzied excitement like monkeys in a safari park. George’s head spun as he struggled to get his bearings, and he nearly tripped over John, who was lying on the ground and clutching his throat.
Leaning over the fallen man, George stared at him. “What’s wrong?”
Looking up, John opened and closed his mouth. Spluttering, he kept a grip on his neck.
George could see the light leaving John’s bulging eyes. Leaning closer, George saw a dark liquid belching through the gaps in his fingers. The reek of iron hung in the air and George’s stomach lurched. There was blood everywhere. “Sorry, mate. There’s nothing I can do.”
When George looked up, he saw one of the invading gang members running directly at him. Putting the momentum of standing up into his swing, he drove the bat into the stomach of his attacker. The impact ran up his arms and stung his shoulders. The man folded over the bat like a ragdoll, his fingers and toes touching as he bent around the weapon. He then fell to the floor, gasping.
Forgetting the person on the floor, George saw the truck with the women was fine. The food truck wasn’t. There were two men going at the padlock while another stood guard.
Shaking his head, George shouted, “No fucking way!”
Charging at the truck with his bat raised, George saw the one standing guard was the guy who’d been talking to Ravi in the supermarket. A quick scan showed him that all of their attackers had the slim builds of boys. There wasn’t a fully-grown man among them. It now made sense why the one he hit folded so easily.
As he closed in on the hoodie, the boy raised his chin and pulled his shoulders back. When George got close enough for the boy to see him, his frame sagged. Peter Pan had suddenly realized that he was out of his depth. The crowbar in his hand lowered.
Wringing the bat’s handle like he was trying to draw sweat from it, George gritted his teeth and continued on. Fury coiled in his shoulders, and a heavy frown squashed his view of the boy.
However, before he could drive a full-bodied swing at him, Dean and most of the other men burst from the block.
Looking past George, the whites of his eyes catching the moonlight, the hoodie shouted, “We’ve got to go, lads! This ain’t happening tonight!”
Before George got to them, the three of them ran.
Looking around, George saw all of the hoodie’s gang heading for the gap in the gate. All except the boy he’d winded. He wasn’t going anywhere.
It was hard with only the moonlight to guide him, but George performed a thorough investigation of the cage. He couldn’t see any damage around the padlock, and running his fingers across the cold bars suggested all the welded joints had held. Shaking his head, he laughed to himself. “Useless pricks.”
When he looked up, he saw the boy that he’d hit was still lying on the floor. With his hood over his head, he had Ravi sat on his back, pushing his face into the concrete like an over-zealous police officer.
Shivering, the cold wind reminding George again that he should have worn a coat, the big man watched Dean walk over to them. What the fuck was he wearing?
Before he addressed the intruder, Dean pointed at Ginge. “Secure the perimeter, and close the gate.” He then pointed at Jason. “You help him.”
Leaning down, Dean pulled the boy’s hood free.
When he caught sight of the prisoner, George sighed. He wasn’t any older than about seventeen. What a waste of a life!
Looking at Ravi, who continued to ride the back of their resistant captive, Dean pointed at him. “Lift him up.”
It looked even worse when they got him to his feet. At about five feet nine, he couldn’t have weighed any more than ten stone. What was he doing getting mixed up in this bullshit?
Shaking his dishevelled, mousy-brown hair from his eyes, the kid stared at Ravi.
Hooking the boy’s chin with his hammer, Dean pulled his head round. “Look at me, not him.”
Moving closer, George watched Dean step into the kid’s personal space. Standing close enough so a cigarette paper wouldn’t pass between them, Dean ground his jaw and looked straight into the boy’s eyes.
Having been caught up in his concern for the kid, George then had a proper look at what Dean was wearing. How was he not freezing? He stood in nothing but a large pair of white boxer shorts and his suit jacket. Dean didn’t even seem to notice the cold. On closer inspection, George saw the boxer shorts had a Millwall F.C. logo on the leg.
Breathing steam, the psychopath tilted his head to one side. “I was sleeping, you little fucker.”
The boy flinched from the words.
“I was having a nice dream until you and your band of fuckwits came in and ruined it.”
The boy didn’t reply. Instead, he looked at Ravi, who looked away.
“What’s your name, son?” Dean asked.
The boy still didn’t reply.
Lifting his hammer, Dean pushed the metal head into the boy’s face. “You’ve stretched my patience to breaking already, so you’d best fucking answer my questions before I bury this into your fucking skull.” Pointing his hammer at himself, he added, “Do I look like the kind of person that you want to upset?”
The boy slurred his word. “No.”
Returning his hammer to the kid’s face, Dean pushed so hard the boy had to bend backwards. “What’s your name?”
“F… F… Freddie.”
“Well, F… F… Freddie, we’ve established that I don’t look like the kind of person you want to upset. So let me ask you something else. Do I look the kind of person you should rob?”
The butterflies in George’s stomach made him nauseous as he watched the boy shake his head so vigorously it looked like he was having a seizure. Why had the boy tried to attack him? He’d given him no other choice but to put him down. Stupid little prick.
Rage seemed to crawl beneath Dean’s red skin. “So why did you?” The wobble in his voice suggested that holding himself back was causing him great discomfort.
“Food,” Freddie replied, still shaking. “W… we need food.”
Turning to George, Dean threw him the keys. “Bring me a chocolate bar.”
The large bunch stung as George caught them in his cold hands. He then looked at Dean for a moment; he wasn’t his bitch. But if he didn’t do it, the boy would surely pay the price.
Returning from the cage, George held the chocolate bar out for Dean. When the semi-naked sociopath grabbed it, George held on longer than he needed to. They stared at one another. Whispering so only Dean could hear, George said, “I ain’t your bitch. Next time, go and get it yourself.”