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Andrew finds Neil’s rucksack and racquet four gates down from the one they left through. That’s when he knows – isn’t sure what he knows, but knows, because Neil would never willingly surrender his bag or racquet, would keep a white-knuckled grip on them even if the world were ending. It feels like the world is ending, and if it isn’t Andrew is going to end it himself, is going to rip and burn and tear and cut until there’s nothing left of this stupid hunk of rock. Neil is gone.
His phone buzzes in his back pocket. Andrew ignores it. He doesn’t have time to deal with Kevin or Renee or Nicky or anyone else pestering him about where he is and what he’s doing. Right now there’s only one thing on his mind, and that’s-
The buzzing stops.
It’s only as the call times out that Andrew snaps back to sense with a jolt. Neil’s phone wasn’t in his bag. Which meant he could have-
Andrew fishes his phone from his pocket, chest emptying itself of air when he sees Neil’s name flash across the display. His hands are shaking as he hits return call, shaking like they haven’t done since he went off his meds, and in many ways the lurch of loss in his gut feels like withdrawal.
He thinks the call is about to time out, when, suddenly, connection.
“Neil,” says Andrew, and it sounds dangerously close to a prayer.
“Stop it,” Neil’s voice cracks over the phone, and in the black wash of memories that follows it takes Andrew a moment to realise that it isn’t him Neil is talking to. The voices are muffled as though reaching the mic through layers of fabric,and Andrew crushes the device against his ear. Most of the crowd has dispersed in the aftermath of the riot, but still he finds himself scanning the surroundings for somewhere quieter, somewhere he can listen, think-
“Stop me,” taunts a cool, female voice that has Andrew’s train of thought stalling in its tracks. “I told you to keep still, didn’t I?”
“Where are you taking me, Lola?” Neil says, loud and, in Andrew’s opinion, far, far too obvious. The bitch – Lola? – laughs. Andrew would thank Neil for giving him the name if he wasn’t determined to kill him for everything else.
“Where the fuck do you think? Daddy’s waiting. Speaking of which, I can’t take you to him with such a stain on your face. Rome?”
The image that springs to Andrew’s mind is inconceivable. Or, it would be, if he hadn’t lead the kind of life that provides plenty of material for a blackened imagination to work with. His feet are moving before he’s aware of it, and he’s biting his tongue to keep him from shouting Neil’s name down a phone where at best the sound would go unheard and at worst it would get Neil killed. The stadium grounds flash past, and something clicks on the other end of the line, followed by a breathless “You’re sick,” that turns Andrew’s blood to slush in his veins.
He’s jogging up to the team bus when Neil starts to scream. He stumbles, doubles over as though feeling the pain himself, and this time a noise that might have been Neil’s name slips through. Neil is making too much noise on the other end for the word to have made it through, but regardless a rush of fury has Andrew biting down on his cheek so hard he tastes blood.
He drops the bag and raquet as soon as he’s in range of the bus to slide a blade into his free hand. Nicky is the first to see him, staggers back from whatever he sees in Andrew’s face, mouth hanging open around an exclamation that never makes it past his lips. Noone is stupid enough to lay hands on him as he climbs onto the bus, and their questions go unheard. All Andrew can hear is screaming.
Abby is checking Kevin over when he reaches them, medical kit open at her side. Andrew shoves her from his path with the flat of his knuckles and she staggers back, diagnostic torch clattering to the floor. Kevin barely has time to look up before Andrew is throwing him up against the bus window.
“Tell me where Neil’s father is or I’ll slit your fucking throat,” Andrew says in a voice that isn’t his.
There are shouts behind him, someone get coach and don’t touch him and it’s Kevin, he won’t, will he?
Kevin’s eyes are glassy, but they sharpen as a gutteral noise buzzes through the phone still crushed to Andrew’s ear. It’s followed by gulping, frantic breathes, pained, but evidence, at least, that Neil isn’t dead.
“Is that-?”
Andrew presses the blade against Kevin’s throat. “Where is Neil’s father?”
Kevin goes white. “Prison.”
“Not anymore.” There’s that clicking again, and Andrew’s gut twists on reflex like some kind of fucking pavlovian reflex. This time he knows what to expect, but Kevin doesn’t, and he flinches as Neil’s scream echoes down the phone.
“Baltimore, then. He’s from Baltimore, he-”
“Renee,” Andrew says without looking away from Kevin. She’s right there behind him- he expected no less.
“Andrew.”
“I need a car. Something fast.”
He doesn’t have to turn to see the moment she shifts from Renee to Natalie: he can hear it in her answer. “I’ll be back.”
His brother throws himself into one of the seats as Andrew passes, as though he thinks he’s next on Andrew’s interrogation list. Andrew can’t blame him: he himself isn’t sure what he’s capable of right now, the knife in his hand twitching as though it has a mind of its own.
“Andrew,” Kevin says, “You can’t.”
He flips the knife in the palm of his hand as he hops the last step down from the bus. “Watch me.”
Neil’s voice on the end of the line has turned thin and scratchy like old sheets, garbling what sounds like she’s dead, she’s dead, I swear she’s dead.
“Do we believe him?”
“Might as well be sure.”
A scuffle, and Neil is screaming again. Andrew wants to join him.
Renee roars up to the bus at the same moment Wymack arrives at a brisk jog, presumably summoned by one of the well-meaning idiots hiding on the bus.
“Minyard-!” he yells, then his mouth drops open when he catches sight of Renee behind the wheel of a sleek, obnoxiously orange car. Maybe she stole it from one of their fans. “What in the flying fuck?”
“Andrew,” Nicky pleads, “Whatever’s going on, the police-”
“Half the police are his men,” Kevin says. “And he could buy off the rest if he wanted to.”
“Who?!”
“Nathan Wesninski. Head of the Baltimore crime family.” Kevin’s voice cracks. “Neil’s father.”
“Text Renee his address.” Andrew says, ignoring the reaction of his teammates as he pulls open the car’s passenger door. The glass is missing, due to the riot or Renee’s carjacking it’s hard to say.
The door doesn’t shut behind him when he pulls it, and when he looks up it’s Aaron’s hand blocking the way.
“Andrew.”
Andrew yanks at the door, but it won’t give. Neil is begging now. Begging like Andrew used to, and it’s working as well for Neil as it did for him. Whoever this Lola is, she’s going to die slowly.
“Let go,” Andrew grits through his teeth, not trusting himself to say more.
“What the fuck are you doing, Andrew? Are you going to try and kill a mob boss? You’ll die.”
“So?”
Aaron doesn’t answer, but his grip on the doorframe tightens. “I can’t…” he starts, chokes, starts again. “Don’t leave me.”
Andrew throws himself back out the car with violent speed, grabs Aaron by the collar before he can react. “You arent the only person I made a promise to.” Andrew grinds out through clenched teeth. “I intend to keep them both.”
Aaron’s eyes widen. At last he swallows, lets go of the door, and Andrew snaps it shut behind him before anyone else can intervene. Aaron’s face could be his own reflection, were it not for the absence of glass in the window and the absence of fear on Andrew’s face.
It’s only as they pull away from the stadium that Andrew remembers Neil called their deal off. Just that day. As though he knew.
If he thinks that will stop Andrew- fuck him.
They’re on the road with impressive speed – Andrew thought he was reckless, but Renee’s driving puts his own to shame. Horns blare and brakes screech as they merge onto the highway, but the roar of the engine not quite covering up Neil’s sobs echoing down the line.
Neil is crying. Torture, Andrew has no trouble imagining, but Neil crying…
“Faster,” he says. Renee accelerates.
Even at such alarming speeds, their progress is agonizingly slow. Renee is smart enough not to ask any questions, and Andrew leans away from the howl of air blasting through the broken window. There’s shuffling, the clicking of – handcuffs, he’d recognise that sound anywhere – and then Neil is talking. To pigs, by the sound of it, the shitty kind, the only kind, and he addresses them as though reading their names off their badges, loud and clear for Andrew’s ears. Andrew doesn’t need to make an effort to remember their names, but still he repeats the syllables with a bite that has Renee glancing his way.
“Do you have anything?” Andrew asks.
“A penknife. Nothing worthwhile in a real fight.”
“I’ll give you some of mine.”
Renee nods, fingers flexing around the wheel. If the prospect of death worries her, she doesn’t show it, gaze steady on the road ahead despite the furious roar of the car engine.
The rustle of fabric against fabric, and Andrew is biting back bile as-
“You could almost me my type if you weren’t so young, hmm? You look just like your father.”
Andrew doesn’t hear Neil’s response, his mind whiting out like television static. He doesn’t realise his blade is back in his hand until Renee leans over to bat at his fist. Blood leaks from his palm where his blade sliced it open.
“If you fight me, I’ll cut you off at the knees,” Lola hums in his ear. Andrew drops the knife to the footwell before he can damage himself any further, a swirling montage of horror hazing over him. He knows a viable threat when he hears one.
“Chloroform,” Neil says, then, “I can’t-”
Whatever he’s trying to tell Andrew is cut off, and the phone falls silent save for the faint sound of police sirens.
Andrew drops the phone into the footwell after the knife and punches the dashboard with everything he has. The plastic cracks under his fist, and he’s drawing back to take another swing when Renee slams the breaks, bringing the car to a gut-punching halt. Andrew’s seatbelt cuts into him as car horns blare furiously behind them.
“Keep going,” Andrew barks.
“You won’t be any use to him with a broken fist,” Renee answers, infuriatingly level.
“Keep going,” Andrew says once more, then, when it gets no reaction, “I won’t do it again.” He fishes the phone out from the clutter of magazines and takeout wrappers in the footwell and holds it like a promise.
Andrew thought Neil’s screams were the worst thing he had heard. But, as the following hour proves, his silence is much, much worse.
When the voices return, Andrew can tell by the echo that they’ve moved somewhere different. Tiled walls, if he had to guess, but beyond that, it could be anywhere. Muttered snatches of, where do you want him and dump him anywhere coming through with such dispassion that for a heart-stopping moment he thinks they’re talking about Neil’s corpse. But then the voices move off, and finally, a low, near-unrecognisable voice.
“Andrew.”
“Neil,” Andrew says, as though there’s any chance of Neil hearing him.
“I don’t know… I don’t know if the call connected. I hope it didn’t. I hope you didn’t have to hear…” Neil interrupts himself to hack up what sounds like half a lung. “I couldn’t hold it in. I’m sorry.” The plastic of Andrew’s phone casing cracks under the pressure of his grip. He barely notices Renee taking the exit from the highway.
“I don’t want to die a lie,” He continues, and Andrew has never hated him more for it. Will never hate anything or anyone as much as this for as long as he lives. “My name is Nathaniel Abram Wesninski. And I wasn’t thanking you for the game earlier. I was thanking you for the keys, the trust, the honesty, the kisses. I was thanking you for everything.”
Andrew stares ahead without seeing a thing. “No,” he whispers.
As though by some miracle he heard, the other end of the phone falls silent.
Then a door opens.
“Renee,” Andrew says urgently.
“We’re close.”
“Not close enough.”
“Hello, Junior.” A pause. A thud. A gasp of pain. “I said, hello.”
Neil’s voice – Andrew doesn’t care for Nathaniel, doesn’t care to let Neil slip from his grasp so easily – sounds as broken and terrified as Andrew has ever heard it. “Hello.”
“Look at me when I’m talking to you.” Neil’s father speaks with the same self-assured authority Luthor did, the same cool detatchment as Proust, the same subtle satisfaction as Drake. “Who told you that hiding in plain sight was a viable option? You had to know I would find you eventually.”
I did. The thought comes unbidden to Andrew, settling in his chest like a heartache that will choke him until he dies. Andrew doesn’t believe in regret, but this is as close as he’ll ever come. He didn’t know. He didn’t know Neil’s father was this. He wants to kill Neil for lying to him almost as much as he wants to kill himself for believing him.
“The only question that remains is how I’m going to kill you. I’ve had a couple of years to think it over but now I’m indecisive. I might skin you alive. I might take you apart one inch at a time and cauterize the wounds. I think no matter what I choose we are going to start by slicing the tendons in your legs.”
Metal scrapes against stone. There’s shouts, a clang, scuffling, a thump.
“Maybe we’ll do both,” Neil’s father continues. “Skin you an inch or two at a time and carve the flesh out from underneath. If we do it right, you might last all night.”
Andrew is thrown back to a crisp winter morning on a cold rooftop, surrounded by the smell of cigarette smoke and the icy burn of Neil’s eyes. I think about carving the skin from your body and hanging it out as a warning to every other fool who thinks he can stand in my way.
And what about the other ten percent of the time?
The answer doesn’t matter anymore. Andrew hit zero long ago.
“No,” Neil says.
“Lola, would you like the pleasure of crippling him?”
“Please,” says Neil. The word nearly stops Andrew’s heart. “Please don’t.” Then, “Andrew-”
And the line goes dead.
And something inside Andrew goes with it.
The phone hits the floor of the car with a distant thunk. Renee’s voice is white noise, syllables devoid of meaning.
“Keep going,” Andrew says.
The house is a hive of flashing lights when they arrive, police cars and ambulances and the flash-bulbs of photographers following the scent of blood. Bodies are being carried out on stretchers under white sheets, and Andrew tears through a police baricade like tissue paper.
Renee buys Andrew enough time to reach the nearest body, and the EMTs stumble back but can’t do anything to stop him without dropping the body. He hauls back a sheet, and his mind goes deadly blank as he sees piercing blue eyes, familiar auburn hair flecked with blood-
“Andrew?”
He turns.
Sitting in the ambulance at the bottom of the driveway, caked in bandages beyond recognition- but he would know that voice anywhere.
Andrew is lost.
Andrew is lost.
Andrew is found.
He flows to Neil like the river to the sea.
“You heard,” Neil whispers. There’s barely a part of him that’s safe to touch, so Andrew settles for the back of his neck, which is sticky with blood but otherwise untouched. “I’m sorry.”
“I’ll kill you,” Andrew replies, grip tightning, and Neil smiles, even though it must pain him to do so.
“Couldn’t let anyone else have the pleasure, could you?”
“Neil.” It’s as though every other word has flooded from his head at once.
Neil’s smile, already fragile, looks set to shatter. “My real name-”
“I don’t care.” The officers have made it past Renee, but they aren’t interfearing, which is good, because being arrested for assaulting an officer right now would be deeply inconvenient. And, because Andrew means what he says, he leans down and presses a kiss softer than he believed himself capable of to Neil’s lips.
Neil sucks in a breath, but not from pain, hands coming to rest on Andrew’s shoulders, too heavily bandaged to gain purchase. He pulls Andrew back in, and they kiss through the taste of blood and sweat and tears until there’s nothing left in his world but Neil.
“Neil Abram Josten,” Andrew repeats. It sounds like a prayer answered and a promise fulfilled.
Which it is.