Kickass Anthology (26 page)

RIO CURSED when he found the basement empty the next morning. It was barely light outside, but Jack had beaten him to the punch, had already disappeared as suddenly as he had arrived weeks earlier. And it didn't look as if the boy was planning to come back.

The thick woollen blanket he'd brought down for Jack before he left on his trip lay neatly folded on top of the air mattress and Rio's old sleeping bag, but Jack's backpack and his few belongings were gone.

Rio swallowed around the lump that clogged his throat when he saw that the spare key was back on its hook on the back of the door. That, if nothing else, told him how much he'd fucked up. The offer he'd made the previous night had driven the kid into leaving. Not quite in a panic – Jack had packed and tidied neatly – but not far away from one.

He'd never meant to turn the boy away from the safety he'd found in this bare basement. On the contrary, he'd been fully prepared to offer Jack a home, no questions asked. Jack's resourcefulness and determination appealed to Rio as much as the boy's magpie mind. Jack had devoured the books Rio left for him, and he was a quick study.  He was street smart, too, and didn't panic easily, but Jack had misconstrued his meaning during the previous night's conversation, and Jack's reaction told Rio in no uncertain terms what the boy was running from.

In the face of Jack's terror, Rio had kept his temper. Now Jack was gone, Rio felt rage so pure it could have been traded as a commodity. What was the point of the government sending him all over the world to rescue people, if he couldn't rescue the ones landing on his doorstep?

The thought brought him up short.

Jack might steadfastly believe that he didn't need or deserve to be rescued, but that didn't mean Rio couldn't do it anyway. Jack was like a feral cat, wary and distrustful and not to be convinced by words. Only action might convince him in time. So, Rio would take action, starting with finding the annoying brat and dragging him back by his hair if necessary. Kid needed a haircut, anyway.

Determined, Rio turned his back on the basement where barely a hint of Jack's presence remained, returned upstairs and set to work: he called friends working for social services, he talked to charities running homeless shelters and he cruised the backstreets of Clapham at all hours looking for Jack, praying for a little bit of luck or guidance to aid his search.

He couldn't explain why it was so important that he find the boy and make him understand that Rio would keep him safe. He only knew that it was.

November segued into Advent, the weather grew unexpectedly wintery, and still Rio looked for Jack. He'd turned down two assignments already and knew he couldn't do that indefinitely, but he had a feeling that Jack hadn't left Clapham, that he was still close enough to be found. And that reporting Jack's disappearance to the police would be the wrong way to handle this.

On December 10th he was proven right when he quite literally tripped over Jack as he went down the underpass leading to Clapham Junction railway station. It was draughty and the paving slabs were slick with moisture. Water ran down the walls and pooled in the gutters, but the bricks kept the worst of the wind out and maybe that was all Jack was hoping for.

Jack's olive green parka was streaked with dirt and dark with moisture, as were his jeans and boots and even his pack. Without the neon green tags on the backpack, Rio might not have recognised the boy at all.

Jack didn't run when Rio stepped close to him. He didn't react when Rio called his name. He sat slumped on the wet concrete, his back against the clammy bricks, and stared into empty air. Sweat slicked his skin and a deep flush heated his cheeks despite the chilly damp of a December afternoon. He was barely conscious, but when Rio slid one arm around his shoulders and the other beneath his knees to lift him, Jack fought tooth and nail. The knife came out just as Rio had taught him and Rio had to squirm like an eel to avoid the blade without dropping Jack in the process.

It never occurred to Rio to disarm the boy. Instead, he wrapped his hand around Jack's wrist and kept the knife away from his skin.

"You're safe, Jack. I'm trying to help," turned into a mantra that Rio repeated over and over while he carried the feverish, weakly struggling boy through the streets back to his home, while he called a GP friend and asked her to come and treat Jack, while he held Jack against the pillows to stop him trying to escape.

He kept saying the words to soothe Jack when the fever turned him delirious, and when he helped him bathe and change into fresh clothes after the fever broke and Jack was too weak to stand on his own. 

He stuck to his mantra when Jack fought off sleep while Rio was near, when he let nobody close unless he held his knife.  And he said the words a final time as he handed a finally fever-free Jack a key to his room.

Rio would have denied it under torture, but it hurt when Jack took the key and immediately locked himself in. It would have hurt more had he not installed a camera in Jack's room, had he not seen that, after locking the door, Jack curled up in bed and went to sleep. And though he'd have denied that, too, that tiny sign of Jack feeling safe made Rio feel better.

THE KEY turned in the lock to Jack's door shortly after eight the following morning. Jack stepped out a few quiet moments later, as if taking those steps across the threshold had needed a deep breath and a prayer. Jack was pale, but he'd changed into the clothes Rio had bought for him: black jeans and a thick, deep green fleece hoodie. He even looked up at Rio with something hinting at a smile.

"May I please have some breakfast?"

"Sure." Rio didn't tease Jack about his very pretty manners. The wary look was still there in the silver-green eyes and like a suspicious, feral cat Jack was poised to run at the first hint of a threat. No, Jack wasn't ready to be teased. So Rio merely picked up his coffee mug and turned towards the kitchen. "I'll even let you watch me cook it for you."

Watching Jack sit at the breakfast bar, unable to decide between cornflakes, porridge, eggs and toast, shoved another lump into Rio's throat. He swallowed it down, squeezed three oranges and handed Jack a glass of juice.

"Do you like scrambled eggs?" he asked, voice gruff, as he picked up a carton.

Jack nodded.

"Good. Michelle said your stomach might be delicate for a while after all the pills she had to give you."

Jack nodded again, accepting that without a question. "I like hot chocolate, too," he confided after a while, almost as if he was trying to make conversation. "And fresh bread, and baked potatoes with cheese. And pizza."

"Not one for fruit and veg are you?" Rio chuffed, before realising that – living on the streets – fast food would have been easier to come by than fresh vegetables. He wanted to take back the words or apologise for his ignorance, when it dawned on him that Jack wasn't in the least bit bothered by what he'd said. The boy was examining the pineapples and mangoes Rio had ripening in a bowl with bright interest and little else.

"The green one's a mango, in case you're wondering," Rio said when Jack picked the fruit up carefully and sniffed at it. "They need a couple more days until they're good to eat."

Jack shrugged and put the mango back. "I like apples," he said.

"Well, help yourself," Rio waved a hand around the kitchen. "To anything you feel like eating, okay? You don't have to ask or wait until I'm around."

"Why do you even bother with me? I'm a zero."

"Really? That's good to know."

Rio broke three eggs into a bowl and reached for a whisk. Jack hadn't been well enough for any kind of discussion beyond being told – firmly – that he would stay at Rio's house for the foreseeable future. Of course the boy would question that as soon as he was better. And judging by the frown, he definitely didn't enjoy being teased.

"What?"

"Why is that good to know?"

"Zeroes are important," Rio explained, pouring the beaten eggs into a frying pan. "A one is a very lonely thing. Add a zero an' you've got a party. Add a few zeroes an' you've got a crowd. There's no maths without zeroes, an' computers wouldn' work at all. Zeroes change things. That's how powerful they are."

Jack didn't comment. He drank his juice and ate most of the eggs Rio dished onto his plate, lost deep in thought.

"Jericho always said I was worthless," he confided finally as they washed the dishes. "He called me a zero."

"Jus' goes to show how little the man knows, eh? Bein' called a zero... well, in my book tha's a compliment."

"Who. Did. This?!"

Rio remembered at the very last moment how much overt aggression and sudden loud noises bothered Jack and he tempered his ire. His shout lost force and venom, despite his conviction that he had good reason to yell. Jack had come home with his face a sea of angry purple bruises. His left eye was shut, the right one nearly so. It was a wonder the boy could see enough to walk straight. 

Worried about other, hidden injuries, Rio ached to reach out, close his fingers around Jack's chin and check for broken bones or a concussion. Instead, he remained still. Not moving closer was hard, but he had learned that lesson way back in January.  When he was hurt, wary or tired, Jack's hold on reality was a tenuous one.

And never more so than right at this moment.

He had a white-knuckled grip on the handle of his knife and fine shivers washed through his frame as he stood otherwise motionless in the middle of Rio's living room. He'd grown more comfortable around Rio over the last five months, comfortable enough – at any rate – not to hide when he was hurt.

Letting himself be touched, for whatever reason, was a wholly other ballgame.

Rio dug his teeth into his lower lip and stayed on the couch, letting his concern show only in his voice. "Jack. Who did this?"

Jack shrugged. "Some moron."

"Moron have a name?"

Jack didn't even bother to shake his head. "'s not important."

"Not important? What the fuck? Jack, he-"

"He didn't touch me."

"Yeah, right. And your face looks like a psychedelic carpet because you walked into a door."

"He only hit me," Jack insisted. "He didn't
touch
me, Rio. Or any of the other boys. It's okay."

Ice slid down Rio's spine at the earnest assurance. He would have sworn that he had heard every word Jack had ever said. But he clearly hadn't listened. If he had, he'd have heard much sooner that... he looked down and swallowed at the sight of Jack's bruised hands and swollen knuckles.

"Oh, Jack!" Rio sighed. This boy, skinny, tough and stupid brave with a too-old look in his grey-green eyes, was going to be the death of him. He knew that much without asking. "Sit yo' scrawny ass down," he ordered before he went to the kitchen in search of ice and bandages.

Jack perched on the very edge of the couch as Rio returned. His back was ramrod straight and his shoulders close to his ears. Rio held out a tray of ice packs wrapped in dish towels. "Will you lemme help you?"

It took forever for Jack to agree to let him come closer. It took even longer for Jack to hold out one bruised hand for Rio's inspection, the other fist tight on the knife.

"You can't protect me," Jack said quietly when Rio had finished checking for broken bones, his ministrations gentle and careful.

"I can," Rio grated through his teeth while he wrapped each hand and handed Jack another ice pack for his face. "But tha's no' the point.
You
don' want me to protect you. You rather take a beatin' from some asshole than ask for help. In what universe does tha' make sense?"

Jack was silent and Rio finally got up and left the boy on the sofa. He'd grown used to the fact that Jack never asked for anything, and was making sure that food and money were easily to hand whether he was home or away on assignment. It hadn't occurred to him that Jack wouldn't even ask for help when someone
threatened
him.

Or that he would so readily go to someone else's aid.

"You're really somethin' else," Rio grumbled to himself as he filled the kettle and set it to boil. He was a highly trained operative, smart and fast and one of England's best hackers. So why was he struggling to anticipate a 12-year-old? Why could a boy as damaged as Jack Horwood change the way Rio saw the world with a single sentence or just one look? As always, the answer eluded him.

He returned to the living room a while later carrying a tray with a mug of sweet, hot chocolate for Jack and a triple shot of neat rum for himself. Jack was sitting where he had left him, holding the ice pack to his swollen face.

"Why didn' you use your knife?" Rio wanted to know as he settled on the other end of the couch, leaving a few feet of space between himself and Jack. "You're good with it."

"Didn't want to scare the kids," Jack muttered after a moment, head down.

"You ... what?"

"There would have been blood and...," Jack contemplated his bandaged hands. "It would have scared them more."

Rio had never met anyone who could be as still as Jack. The army had taught Rio how to hide and outwait would-be attackers, but while he could disappear into his surroundings if he needed to he'd never had Jack's stillness. It reminded him of a small animal hiding from a predator, so quiet that the bigger beast would move right past without an inkling of the meal it had just missed. But then he looked at the bruised face and bruised knuckles and realised how wrong that image was. Jack wasn't a small animal hiding. He was a young predator, wounded but determined to do anything necessary to survive.

Rio reached for his glass and downed the contents in one go. The fiery liquor only sharpened his resolve. "If you won't let me help you at least let me teach you how to fight."

OCTOBER 1996

Rio Palmer could hold his own in a scrap; even against an opponent who was a head taller, a good few inches wider and outweighed him by at least 20 pounds. Jack knew that and yet, his heart was in his throat as he kept the younger boys out of the way, pressed his back against rough bricks and watched Rio land blow after blow on the bouncer's head and torso.

This wasn't Rio's fight.

Rio shouldn't have been anywhere near the small corner store. He should have been home, watching Jamaica play cricket on the big screen in his living room. But no sooner had Jack gotten into trouble that Rio had arrived like an avenging angel. Without a word, the Jamaican had come steaming down the alley, past Jack and the boys he was trying to protect, and gone straight for the bouncer.

Jack wanted to yell a warning, but he didn't know how to explain succinctly enough that Dirty Dave hadn't gotten his name because of an aversion to hot water and soap. He yelled anyway, right at the moment when Dave's spinning kick caught Rio's ribs.

A heavy boot met flesh with a dry, dull thump.

Rio's shoulders curled forward and his head dipped down before the force of the blow rocked him back onto his heels.

Dave followed up with a punch, but he wasn't nearly fast enough.

By the time his fist came flying at Rio's face, Rio had regained his balance and ducked out of the way. The kick to his ribs had to have hurt, but Rio barely slowed. If anything, his attacks grew more determined, driving the bouncer further down the alley, away from Jack and the other boys, until the man had nowhere left to go.

Jack watched as Rio's hand grabbed the man's hair. Dave's head smacked the wall once, twice... and then it was done. The bouncer lay in a crumpled heap at the base of the wall and Rio turned and stalked down the road, making it hard for Jack to catch up to his fast, long-legged stride.

"Are you gonna throw me out?" Jack thought the question was justified. The big Jamaican had a temper, but Jack had never seen it blazing like this. Rio was trying so hard to keep it together it was scary.

"Why?"

"I broke the law."

"You did."

"You're not gonna tell me it's wrong?"

"Why bother tellin' you somethin' you know already. ‘sides, you did somethin' far more stupid than break the law."

"What?"

"Come on, Jack," Rio snapped, the comforting accent gone as if it had never been. "You refuse to ask for help when you're almost dying, but you let some idiot use you to get free booze?"

"Are you mad?"

"No. Disappointed is what I am."

That stung.

Rio had reason to be disappointed, Jack knew. The man had looked out for him ever since he'd found him squatting in his basement. He'd never once made Jack do anything Jack didn't want, he was teaching Jack, helping him... and now he'd waded into a fight for Jack and got hurt.

"I'm sorry," he offered.

"Don't be sorry. Stop being an idiot and start using your head!" Rio snarled. His long, angry strides took him away from Jack and Jack had to hurry to catch up if he wanted to hear what Rio was saying. "If you wanna protect the other kids, do it, but not at cost to yourself, understand? You let an enemy use you and that's stupid."

It was a quiet Sunday evening, so when Rio suddenly stopped and turned on Jack there was nobody around to even look their way. Rio was furious and he loomed over Jack, wider and taller by a mile, but for the first time in forever Jack didn't feel the need to step back or fight. The knife was a comfortable, comforting weight in his hand and Jack held it loosely, for reassurance rather than defence, while he waited for Rio's words.

"He won't leave the other kids alone just because he gets you stealing stuff for him until the cops arrest you. You realise that, right?"

"Yeah." Jack dropped his gaze to inspect his boots. Hearing the disappointment and pity in Rio's voice was hard enough. He didn't need to see it. "I didn't know how..."

"Then you fucking ask! How hard can it be?"

"Very."

And just like that, Rio's anger was gone. His shoulders drooped and he wrapped one arm protectively around his middle.  "I know it's not easy, Jack," he growled softly. "But can't you trust me at least a little? I don't need to know the details, but you
can
ask..."

"And what if my questions make you disgusted with me?" Jack found it easier to talk about these things when Rio wasn't looking at him. Right now, in the middle of the street, in the semi-darkness between the yellow pools of street lights, it didn't seem so hard to voice what bothered him.

"You've never done anythin' to make me disgusted in you," Rio affirmed. "I don' think you can. 's not the sort of person you are." He drew a breath and grunted in pain. "Doesn' mean I'll jump into every fight you start, geddit?"

"Got it."

Jack's breath huffed out in a long, relieved exhale when he realised that Rio was pissed off at him, but not enough to throw him out. That he still had a place to stay. That Rio didn't even object to him looking out for the other kids... just to the stupid way he'd gone about it.

Which brought another thought close on the heels of the first one. "How did you know what I was doing?"

Another pain-filled grunt came in answer. "Have you paid
any
attention to what I've been telling you recently or is your head totally stuck up your ass?"

"What?"

"Surveillance, Jack. CCTV? Ever heard me mention that?"

"Here?" Rio had been teaching him about surveillance techniques and the equipment local councils and private companies used to monitor premises and employees. Surveillance equipment didn't come cheap, so Jack's mind had connected it automatically with banks, large corporations and multi-million pound homes in Richmond.

"Oh yes. Right here." Sarcasm dripped from Rio's words. "'s not the rich an' famous that need watchin', Jack. It's scum like that bouncer who need an eye kept on them. Him, an' all the others who think violence is a way to get what they want."

Rio started walking again and Jack fell into step beside him.

"So have you known all along? That he was... that I traded booze for him not hitting on the kids?"

"Not all along," Rio admitted, his voice now low enough not to carry past Jack's ears. "I don' spy on you, Jack. But there were reports of break-ins with only booze taken, an' every single report said that the alarm system had been disabled. It's my neighbourhood, so I kept an eye on the security feeds. An' who did I spot?"

"Shit." If anything, Jack was angry with himself. He'd taken such care to make sure he was neither caught nor suspected. "I really didn't think of that."

"That's sorta obvious."

"Will I get arrested?"

"If you pull stupid shit like that again..."

Rio's voice was a soft growl in the darkness and Jack knew that the big Jamaican was still looking out for him. He didn't know what to say in reply. Thank you seemed too inadequate a response.

"Remind me to dig out
1984
for you to read," Rio said as they turned into his street and the distinctive shape of the black Citroen DS came into view. "An' do me a solid an' remember what I've taught you: before you go breakin' the rules, make fuckin' double sure you don' get caught!"

THE JAMAICAN had no idea how to deal with bruised ribs. Jack knew how carefully Rio moved when he was so exhausted that every muscle hurt. He'd seen Rio with migraines and hangovers and sporting cuts, bruises and black eyes, but right now the man was out of his depth.

"Wait!" Jack stopped Rio before he could settle himself on the couch. "It's gonna hurt worse if you do it that way." He grabbed one of the fat, stuffed cushions from Rio's favourite reading chair and pushed it between Rio's back and the arm of the sofa.