On the broken old street, two vehicles stained dark red with blood sat idle while several men moved about. The armored truck's new tire had been mounted, and two of Brook's crew were inside, reorganizing the scattered guns and ammunition. Others stood watch along the road, eating as they kept guard. Brook was still cursing from the driver's seat—two failed attempts to hotwire the truck had left him seething.
"Goddamn it, where the hell is Durand? Go get him, now, damn it!" Brook leaned out of the cab, glaring up at the seventh floor of the building beside them, his temper burning holes through the air. The young Black man beside him jumped down from the cab without a word, slinging his rifle as he headed into the shop and ran up the stairs.
Inside, Christine's face was wet with tears, and Liam could see through the smeared makeup to the real emotion underneath. Her shoulders trembled just slightly, a detail that might go unnoticed by someone not looking for it. She was leaning against the wall, and between her lower back and the concrete was just enough space for her bound hands to work. Slowly, awkwardly, she was slicing the ropes with the scalpel Liam had passed to her.
The scalpel was sharp, but Christine's position was clumsy, her wrists bound, her movements strained. Her shoulder twitched with the effort. The others were tense. Her movements were too visible—she was risking it.
Narkov, the short, heavyset old man leaning against the roll-up door, watched them while smoking, his shotgun loosely held in one hand. His red nose and narrowed eyes gave him a perpetually sour look. He was scanning the group one face at a time, slow and patient.
Then he stiffened.
He stood upright. Stopped smoking. His squint focused in on Christine. He dropped his cigarette to the floor. Silence pressed in on the room as his grip tightened on the shotgun.
Christine, sensing something, lowered her head further, her shoulders trembling a little more.
Narkov started moving. His boots crushed crumpled snack bags as he stepped forward. Crunch. Crunch. Every step loud in the quiet store. The others held their breath. Liam was already shifting his hands down to the ground behind his back, ready to spring.
"Hey, sweetheart," Narkov said gruffly, raising the gun as he walked, "what are you doing?"
He was halfway to her now.
"What's up?" asked Murray from near the doorway, where he'd been ogling Manila like a starving wolf. He turned but got no answer—Narkov was locked on Christine. He stopped right in front of her. His shotgun hovered over her forehead.
Christine looked up, face contorted, lips quivering, cheeks streaked with tears.
"I'm scared…" she said, voice trembling, eyes wide with fear. As she spoke, she began to sob—softly at first, shaking with each breath. But the way her sobs timed perfectly with the twitch of her shoulders—it was like her body was only shaking because of the tears. Her act was seamless, perfect. It made the shoulder movements seem like nothing more than grief.
Even so, no one relaxed. Narkov didn't back off. He stared at her like he was trying to read her bones. And if he decided to check behind her…
Christine met his gaze with wide, glassy eyes. The shotgun was inches from her face. Her lips trembled. She looked down slightly, but not enough to draw suspicion.
Would he grab her? Pull her up and check?
Liam tensed, ready to leap.
"Picking on a little girl now, huh? That's what you're good for, huh? Cowards!" The voice was low, gravel-thick, but cut through the air like a whip. Brook's uncle.
Everyone turned toward the old bull in the corner.
Narkov, face tight, turned around. The old man's expression shifted immediately, turning grave.
"Come here," he said, calm and serious. "I've got something to tell you."
Narkov hesitated, then stomped over to him, annoyed. "What is it?"
"Look," the old man said, nodding toward Christine.
Liam's pulse spiked. The old man's positioning gave Narkov a clear diagonal view of Christine's back. Liam had no way to block it without drawing attention. If the bastard looked closely, he'd see everything.
But as Narkov turned his head—
Boom.
The old man moved fast—too fast for someone his age. Bound as he was, he thrust backward with his hands for leverage and kicked both legs up into Narkov's knee. Narkov howled, stumbling back and collapsing into a heap, clutching his leg.
"You son of a—agh!" Narkov yelled, his face red with pain, raising his shotgun in a shaking hand.
"Shoot me! Come on!" the old man barked, chin raised defiantly. "Let's see if you've got the balls!"
Narkov didn't pull the trigger. He couldn't. Everyone knew it—Brook's uncle was untouchable. Brook hadn't killed him when he'd gone against him before. Narkov definitely wasn't going to be the one to cross that line.
A man burst through the door, gun raised. "What's going on?"
"Nothing, nothing," Murray said with a laugh, stepping up to explain, voice hushed. The other man smirked and walked back out.
Even Murray didn't help Narkov up. The old creep had become a joke. He stood eventually, limping, mumbling curses, and slumped by the door again.
The moment had passed.
Christine leaned toward Laura, sobbing softly. "Can I rest my head for a bit?" she whispered.
Murray glanced their way, but didn't care. As far as they were concerned, she was just a scared little girl.
Christine nestled against Laura's shoulder. Her eyes were bloodshot, staring blankly at the floor, her hands carefully hidden.
"It's going to be alright, sweetheart," Laura whispered, holding her close.
Christine nodded. "Mm-hmm," she whimpered.
Outside, the truck engine whined and sputtered again. No luck. Brook swore. His hotwiring skills were trash.
"Kid," Laura said suddenly, glancing toward Jason, "you want to lean on me too?"
"Auntie," Jason mumbled. He leaned over, resting on her other shoulder. For a moment, the three of them sat quietly together like a little family huddled in the dark.
Then they pulled away, one by one. Christine sat up, calmer now. Jason looked more solemn.
He turned to Mike suddenly and said, "Uncle, I want to apologize. If I don't say it now, I might not get the chance. I've been a little shit to you. I'm sorry."
Mike blinked, stared at Jason for a long moment. "Kid… I've made mistakes too. You don't need to say sorry."
"No," Jason said seriously. "You have to accept it. Or I'll die with regret." He slid closer, shoulder pressing against Mike's.
Mike smiled. "Alright. I accept." He gave Jason's shoulder a bump.
Then—
"Ahh!" Manila screamed.
Everyone flinched. Even Murray and Narkov jumped, guns ready.
"What the hell?!" Murray snapped.
"A bug!" Manila shrieked, voice full of panic, eyes locked on the trash heap near her feet. She kicked her legs, scooting frantically toward Robby. He slid toward Mike in turn. It looked like pure instinct. A woman terrified of bugs clambering to safety.
And somehow, it was entirely believableChapter 32: What You Call Acting
On the broken old street, two vehicles stained dark red with blood sat idle while several men moved about. The armored truck's new tire had been mounted, and two of Brook's crew were inside, reorganizing the scattered guns and ammunition. Others stood watch along the road, eating as they kept guard. Brook was still cursing from the driver's seat—two failed attempts to hotwire the truck had left him seething.
"Goddamn it, where the hell is Durand? Go get him, now, damn it!" Brook leaned out of the cab, glaring up at the seventh floor of the building beside them, his temper burning holes through the air. The young Black man beside him jumped down from the cab without a word, slinging his rifle as he headed into the shop and ran up the stairs.
Inside, Christine's face was wet with tears, and Liam could see through the smeared makeup to the real emotion underneath. Her shoulders trembled just slightly, a detail that might go unnoticed by someone not looking for it. She was leaning against the wall, and between her lower back and the concrete was just enough space for her bound hands to work. Slowly, awkwardly, she was slicing the ropes with the scalpel Liam had passed to her.
The scalpel was sharp, but Christine's position was clumsy, her wrists bound, her movements strained. Her shoulder twitched with the effort. The others were tense. Her movements were too visible—she was risking it.
Narkov, the short, heavyset old man leaning against the roll-up door, watched them while smoking, his shotgun loosely held in one hand. His red nose and narrowed eyes gave him a perpetually sour look. He was scanning the group one face at a time, slow and patient.
Then he stiffened.
He stood upright. Stopped smoking. His squint focused in on Christine. He dropped his cigarette to the floor. Silence pressed in on the room as his grip tightened on the shotgun.
Christine, sensing something, lowered her head further, her shoulders trembling a little more.
Narkov started moving. His boots crushed crumpled snack bags as he stepped forward. Crunch. Crunch. Every step loud in the quiet store. The others held their breath. Liam was already shifting his hands down to the ground behind his back, ready to spring.
"Hey, sweetheart," Narkov said gruffly, raising the gun as he walked, "what are you doing?"
He was halfway to her now.
"What's up?" asked Murray from near the doorway, where he'd been ogling Manila like a starving wolf. He turned but got no answer—Narkov was locked on Christine. He stopped right in front of her. His shotgun hovered over her forehead.
Christine looked up, face contorted, lips quivering, cheeks streaked with tears.
"I'm scared…" she said, voice trembling, eyes wide with fear. As she spoke, she began to sob—softly at first, shaking with each breath. But the way her sobs timed perfectly with the twitch of her shoulders—it was like her body was only shaking because of the tears. Her act was seamless, perfect. It made the shoulder movements seem like nothing more than grief.
Even so, no one relaxed. Narkov didn't back off. He stared at her like he was trying to read her bones. And if he decided to check behind her…
Christine met his gaze with wide, glassy eyes. The shotgun was inches from her face. Her lips trembled. She looked down slightly, but not enough to draw suspicion.
Would he grab her? Pull her up and check?
Liam tensed, ready to leap.
"Picking on a little girl now, huh? That's what you're good for, huh? Cowards!" The voice was low, gravel-thick, but cut through the air like a whip. Brook's uncle.
Everyone turned toward the old bull in the corner.
Narkov, face tight, turned around. The old man's expression shifted immediately, turning grave.
"Come here," he said, calm and serious. "I've got something to tell you."
Narkov hesitated, then stomped over to him, annoyed. "What is it?"
"Look," the old man said, nodding toward Christine.
Liam's pulse spiked. The old man's positioning gave Narkov a clear diagonal view of Christine's back. Liam had no way to block it without drawing attention. If the bastard looked closely, he'd see everything.
But as Narkov turned his head—
Boom.
The old man moved fast—too fast for someone his age. Bound as he was, he thrust backward with his hands for leverage and kicked both legs up into Narkov's knee. Narkov howled, stumbling back and collapsing into a heap, clutching his leg.
"You son of a—agh!" Narkov yelled, his face red with pain, raising his shotgun in a shaking hand.
"Shoot me! Come on!" the old man barked, chin raised defiantly. "Let's see if you've got the balls!"
Narkov didn't pull the trigger. He couldn't. Everyone knew it—Brook's uncle was untouchable. Brook hadn't killed him when he'd gone against him before. Narkov definitely wasn't going to be the one to cross that line.
A man burst through the door, gun raised. "What's going on?"
"Nothing, nothing," Murray said with a laugh, stepping up to explain, voice hushed. The other man smirked and walked back out.
Even Murray didn't help Narkov up. The old creep had become a joke. He stood eventually, limping, mumbling curses, and slumped by the door again.
The moment had passed.
Christine leaned toward Laura, sobbing softly. "Can I rest my head for a bit?" she whispered.
Murray glanced their way, but didn't care. As far as they were concerned, she was just a scared little girl.
Christine nestled against Laura's shoulder. Her eyes were bloodshot, staring blankly at the floor, her hands carefully hidden.
"It's going to be alright, sweetheart," Laura whispered, holding her close.
Christine nodded. "Mm-hmm," she whimpered.
Outside, the truck engine whined and sputtered again. No luck. Brook swore. His hotwiring skills were trash.
"Kid," Laura said suddenly, glancing toward Jason, "you want to lean on me too?"
"Auntie," Jason mumbled. He leaned over, resting on her other shoulder. For a moment, the three of them sat quietly together like a little family huddled in the dark.
Then they pulled away, one by one. Christine sat up, calmer now. Jason looked more solemn.
He turned to Mike suddenly and said, "Uncle, I want to apologize. If I don't say it now, I might not get the chance. I've been a little shit to you. I'm sorry."
Mike blinked, stared at Jason for a long moment. "Kid… I've made mistakes too. You don't need to say sorry."
"No," Jason said seriously. "You have to accept it. Or I'll die with regret." He slid closer, shoulder pressing against Mike's.
Mike smiled. "Alright. I accept." He gave Jason's shoulder a bump.
Then—
"Ahh!" Manila screamed.
Everyone flinched. Even Murray and Narkov jumped, guns ready.
"What the hell?!" Murray snapped.
"A bug!" Manila shrieked, voice full of panic, eyes locked on the trash heap near her feet. She kicked her legs, scooting frantically toward Robby. He slid toward Mike in turn. It looked like pure instinct. A woman terrified of bugs clambering to safety.
And somehow, it was entirely believable