Consequences

[Pretty Boy]

Okay, I'm really nervous about posting this. I've never posted anything I've written on the 'net so please, while criticism is actively encouraged (believe me, I need all the help I can get) and needed, being a total jerk-off isn't.

The story's basic premise is explained in the prologue. Sorry if any of it gets offensive-I tried to alter most of the foul language, but since its the Warriors universe, I couldn't eliminate it entirely.





Prologue
The Truce Shattered

Nine delegates from each gang on the ?Riffs network had been sent to that Conclave.

The strongest of their gangs-their families-these delegates were expected to return home with the news that a truce had been agreed upon. Celebration had been expected-after all, it wasn?t every day that the world they knew changed irrevocably for the better as the streets reclaimed what it saw as its own by right.

None of that occurred.

Because the enigmatic leader of the city?s strongest army-the Gramercy Riffs-was shot before his vision could be forged into reality.

All it took was one bullet. And one pistol. Plus one schizophrenic and easily moulded Warlord.

And one gang to be the scapegoats.

But this isn?t the tale about that outfit from Coney Island. Sorry if that was what you were expecting, boppers, but that tale's already growin' old.

No, this is the tale of why that insane Rogue went and shot magic Cyrus. It's about who turned him against the streets that nurtured and cradled his psychotic urges.

This is the story of what the consequences were after that failed Conclave....


PART ONE: CONCLAVE NIGHT


Chapter One
Allied Armies


Three young men regarded each other with weary eyes over the low table.

The silence was palpable. The biggest of the three, a young fellow with narrowed grey eyes and wearing an expensive dark green suit, lit a cigarette with an ornate Zippo lighter, casually bringing it to his mouth as he made eye contact with the bruised but perfectly composed young Asian man seated across from him. The two kept their stares locked until a silent understanding was reached and as one, turned their eyes to the shivering and coughing figure seated at the end of the table.

The third man finished his coughing fit and reached for his beer. Before the bottle could reach his lips, the green-suited man spoke.

?Don?t you touch a drop. Not tonight.? The suit tapped cigarette ash into a crystal ashtray nearby and took another long drag. ?We want you sober.?

?Tough call,? the young Asian man commented laconically, his bruised lips twisting into a hard smile.

The sweating and still coughing young man reluctantly put down the bottle.

?Good boy,? the Asian guy said in a condescending tone, crossing his lean, muscled arms over his black-and-white striped t-shirt.

The suit laughed, blowing smoke into the air. ?We all know how important tonight is. Let?s not f--k this up, huh??

?I can?t believe they did it,? the nervous guy commented, pulling off his black sweatband and wiping at his forehead. ?I can?t believe they blew away Cyrus.?

The Asian guy frowned, his angular eyebrows furrowing in a menacing way as he leaned back in his chair, lowering his chin so the white fedora he wore tipped forward to obscure his face.

?Believe it. Ain?t like we didn?t have enough warning. Question is-who really did it?? he said, his voice perfectly cool and calm.

The sweating man gulped visibly, giving up the attempt to mop up the sweat. The suit snickered, and took another long drag, his grey eyes assessing the situation with more confidence than he really felt.

?I think we all know the answer to that. What we need to know is who they got to pull the trigger.?

?It wasn?t the outfit from Coney,? the Asian guy stated, nodding in the direction of the stereo, where a mysterious female DJ?s voice smoothly teased and taunted that unknown gang, the Warriors.

The suit sniffed with self-importance. ?I think that?s obvious enough for a blind man to see. Between us, we had twenty-seven sets of eyes there. Didn?t anyone see anything??

?One of my boys saw the Rogues packin? heat,? the third guy volunteered quietly, gazing longingly at the bottle. ?I tried to send the ?Riffs a runner, but it was f----n? chaos in there man. There wasn?t any way to get to ?em without getting near the cops man.?

?Cops were everywhere,? the suit agreed calmly. ?Don?t be hard on yourself. None of us could get a runner through. But we have to send one now, before this all goes too far.? He sighed, pulling off his black hat and scratching at his red-gold hair. ?We take too long, there?s bound to be questions.?

?And trouble,? the Asian added from under his hat.

?Damn man, we don?t need trouble! Not when things are finally workin? out so f----n? well?? the jittery guy whined, slumping onto the table. ?Why did Cyrus have to stir ?em up? Shoulda been more quiet about it?now they all freakin? out, lookin? to f--k us over??

?Getting prepared for war,? the Asian added in a monotone.

?Well then gentlemen, consider this our war council, the first of what will be many.? The suit stood, his cigarette hanging from his lip as he replaced his hat with a slight flourish. ?Our truce will be official. The other Warlords will have to be informed and a War Council called.? He sighed, thinking of the effort all that would require. "What a f---n' hassle"

?The lawyer has to be there,? the nervous guy interrupted. ?They won?t believe us if he ain?t there.?

?Sebastian will be there, don?t s--t yourself. You know as well as I do how much he?s got invested in all this. If we lose, he?ll go down too. F--k, he was warning us about this months ago.?

?Shoulda believed him?shoulda trusted him?.f--k it, why didn?t Cyrus listen to the lawyers? warning? He knew sumpin? was gonna go down?s--t, we warned him too. Sent the word when the damn messengers arrived yesterday.?

?Shut the f--k up,? came the cold voice from behind the hat. ?My migraine?s getting worse and if I have to get up-?

?Cat?s right. You should chill, friend. Think of your soldiers-?

A snort of disdain came from beneath the fedora.

?-seriously, how are they going to react if they see their Warlord shaking like a pussy? Get your s--t together and be a man for f--k?s sake.? The suit shook his head and stubbed out his smoke. ?Big things are goin? down, and I?ll be f----d if we don?t have the upper hand for once. S--t, we play this straight with the other sets and there?s a chance we might survive to continue enjoying our recent success. Now, send one of your boys to the ?Riffs.? He nodded in the direction of the stereo. ?That clique?s gonna be doin? it tough out there until the record?s set straight.?

?What if the ?Riffs jap my scout?? The nervous young man pushed himself up and started coughing.

?Don?t fret my friend. There won?t be any reason for them to wreck your boy. They want these Warriors. No one else. At least, until they know who sold them out to the syndicates.? The suit smiled, a charming but intimidating gesture full of straight white teeth. ?Then they?ll be wantin? the Rogues-and be more partial to actually listening to Sebastian this time.?

The man stopped his coughing, and scratched his scruffy growth, watering and reddened eyes focusing on the bottle again. ?I hope so man. Those ?Riffs scare me almost as much as those suits downtown. Like nothin? else brother.?

?Don?t say that ?til you?ve met a Dingo,? the suit muttered, brushing at his lapel. ?The ?Riffs can be reasoned with if you know how to deal with them. There are crazier sets in this city that can?t be. I want you to keep that in mind during the real war council.?

?He?ll just keep his mouth shut,? the Asian commented dryly. ?And watch real War-leaders in action.?

?Hey! I?m a f----n? Warlord, just like you f----s! This alliance is supposed to be equal, that?s-?

?Play nice, soldiers,? the suit interjected. ?There?s more at stake now than just the club or rep. We have to keep our alliance and prove that it can be done. Show that alliances are the only way any of us are gonna survive what's been planned for us.?

?You got it,? the Asian replied, pointing laconically in the suit?s direction.

The suit frowned, his grey eyes focused on the final member of their alliance.

?Well??

?Yeah yeah,? the nervous guy sniffed. ?Just make sure those ?Riffs don?t kill my scout. We?re gonna need every man?right??

?There?s smart thinking,? the cool voice added. ?Like a Warlord.?

?I?m sending Hound to collect Seb,? the suit said, standing and straightening his suit jacket. ?He?ll get your boys out of lock-up, cool cat. Just relax and take it easy. And you-? He pointed to the nervous guy, who was rubbing at his eyes. ?Get that runner sent. The ?Riffs don?t like delays. And neither do I.?

Sentry, the Sentinel leader, nodded and pushed himself onto his feet, lurching towards the door with staggering steps. When he had left the suite, Roulette, Warlord of the High Rollers, turned to his chilling companion, pulled out a pair of aviator sunglasses and slipped them on.

?You think these Warriors are gonna survive long enough for the Sentinel?s scout to reach Gramercy Park?? Roulette asked.

Talon, Warlord of the Alleycats, shrugged.

?Doubt it,? he replied emotionlessly. ?Traffic?s hell this time of night.?

[Pretty Boy]

Chapter Two
The Lawyer

One man sat on an apartment floor, surrounded by stacks of paper, manila folders and cardboard cartons.

Lilting classical music filled the lounge room, dipping and rising hauntingly as Mars-the Bringer of War played on the record. The dark-haired man hummed along as he flicked through the statement, his round, boyish face placid despite the violent material he was reading.

BAM-BAM-BAM!

The bashing at the door made the man frown. Pulling off his reading glasses as he navigated his way through the mess, he tripped up twice before reaching the door. Unhooking the chain without a glance through the security peephole, the man found himself face-to-face with a green-suited and black-shaded High Roller.

?You know opening your front door without checkin?s dangerous, right?? the ?Roller asked, crossing his arms over his chest. ?F--k, I couldda been anyone.?

?No one bangs at my door like that but you,? the man replied good-naturedly. He moved and gestured for the ?Roller to enter. ?Come in. Just mind the mess-I?ve been getting myself up to date on this new case I got dumped with. I hate last-minute briefs, especially cop-killers. There?s so much god-damned paperwork.?

The High Roller shook his head regretfully. ?Not tonight man. I?m on official business for the House.?

Sighing, the man tucked his glasses into his shirt pocket. ?The Conclave,? he guessed correctly.

?Cyrus got shot,? the ?Roller said. ?He?s dead. All hell?s broke loose.?

?Ah s--t.? The man?s friendly face twisted into a snarl. ?I warned him just two days ago?arrogant?Who did it? Is there any news yet??

?Word is that the Warriors were packin? heat,? the ?Roller replied. ?Least, that?s what the ?Riffs are puttin? out. The House and the other cats aren?t so sure.?

?Warriors?? The man frowned. ?I?ve never heard of them. Certainly aren?t on my father?s payroll?I?ll have to check the records of course?You sure it?s these Warriors, not the Rogues or the Knockdowns??

?Chick on the radio says so. Guess the ?Riffs are convinced,? the ?Roller gestured to the stereo, still playing the strains of Holst. ?You?d know if you listened in.?

?I can?t work to that crap the rest of you listen to,? the man replied, pulling on a dark-coloured jackets and reaching for a sleek leather briefcase nestled atop one stack. ?I need art, culture to counteract my work?not the constant reminder that more briefs are headed my way. Anyhow, you going to tell me why Roulette sent you here, Nate, or am I going to have to guess??

?Alleycats got jumped by the 24th pigs,? the ?Roller answered calmly, despite the fact his gloved fists clenched and flexed at his sides. ?And the bosses are requesting that you-?

?Use my connections and uncommon talent to spring them free, right?? the man finished. ?What were they doing on the other side of the park anyway? That?s Zulu?s territory, not to mention the Furies over in Riv-?

?Everyone?s scouts are on patrol-s--t, Shuffler and Craps caught a pair of Apaches slinking about on our turf, lookin? for those Warriors. Rumour?s goin? ?round that the Furies struck out, so every gang?s got soldiers stomping around Uptown. Talon and his ?Cats went to check it out for themselves, but it turns out the entire West Side?s crawling with cops lookin? to polish up their shields. Everyone?s gettin? done-?Cats reckon the 96th subway station?s got pigs posted all over the place. They had to haul ass-the Zulus saw them and forgot all ?bout the truce-but the cops interrupted the rumble midway, got two of ?em. The big ?Cat don?t look too happy ?bout it either. Think he wanted to start cutting open pigs, but there wasn?t much choice from the sound of things. Roulette called the meeting, so he had to be there.?

The man switched off the stereo, picked up a sheaf of papers and headed back for the door. ?Tell Talon not to muss his fur over it. His boys will be out by nine tomorrow morning-if not earlier. I?ll head down there now and deal with it. I?ll even grab Ursula along the way. She comes into good use at these city precincts.?

?Thought she?d be helpin? ya. That looks like a big case you got there,? the ?Roller said as the man shut the door and headed for the elevator.

?It?s not that bad. Dad?ll pull a few strings and most of those eyewitnesses will disappear. Huh, wouldn?t be surprised if the old bastard finds a way to have the entire case thrown out altogether. One of daddy?s pals got a little trigger-happy down in Little Italy, knocked off a few uniforms. Won?t have to break a sweat in court, but the paperwork?s a pain in the ass.? He pushed the button and then turned to face his younger brother, a playful smile on his face. ?Haven?t seen you for a while Nate. Keeping out of trouble I trust??

?The name?s Hound,? the ?Roller said, trying to sound tough but having a hint of childish exasperation in his tone. ?You f----n? know I hate being called Nate.?

?My apologies,? the man said, not losing his playful grin. ?I forget what you all call yourselves now. Hound it is. So, still making a profit out of the Friendly Fire??

?You better believe it,? Hound said, stepping into the elevator and pressing the button that would send them to the parking garage. ?You should check it out now. Cage rumbles every night, music that shakes the paint off the walls, art from nearly every gang on the network?? He paused, and for a moment, the man thought he?d stopped speaking, but Hound?s dark eyes were slightly glazed over. ?Chicks all over the place, shakin? their asses on the dance floor and willin? to be friendly?? He sighed deeply, and then chuckled under his breath. ?F--k, I love that place man.?

?Glad it?s worked out. Proves that soldiers can set aside their differences to secure a common objective.? The man sighed himself, staring at his distorted reflection in the metal panelling of the elevator car. Dark circles around tired eyes, a five o?clock shadow and very pale skin?he wasn?t looking his usual classy self. The tired man in the reflection wasn?t the same lawyer who made judges and DAs groan in frustration whenever another client got off.

The past few months had been more stressful than any other period he could remember, and he?d been working three jobs simultaneously-respected defence attorney, syndicate advisor and Judas. It all had to take its toll eventually, he reasoned. If he thought about it, he was lucky just to look like s--t-he knew men not much older than him but with far simpler responsibilities that had died of heart attacks and other interesting medical specialties caused by stress.

?Too bad Cyrus didn?t listen to you man,? Hound said, smoothing his dark-green jacket. ?Might not have been offed if he?d been a bit cautious, huh Seb??

?I knew he wouldn?t listen to me,? Sebastian said quietly. ?Cyrus wasn?t the sort of man to back down, not even to the syndicates. He was a visionary?just not as practical as he should have been. The ?Riffs will suffer without his guidance.?

?Masai?s Warlord now,? Hound offered. ?Network?s already buzzin? about it.?

?Let me guess, he?s got the whole city hunting down these Warriors?? Sebastian hazarded.

Hound nodded and clicked his fingers. ?Every gang in the city?s after ?em. ?Cept us of course. Sentinel scout saw what went down. Too bad. Wouldn?t mind a crack at ?em-sound capable of putting up a decent fight if they got past the Furies.?

Sebastian raised an eyebrow. There was a shade of respect in Hound?s voice. ?Do tell.?

?Nah. I?ll let the House tell you ?bout all that. Needless to say, we?ve already sent a scout to Masai and the ?Riffs. The House wants to make it clear we?re playin? straight with them.? Hound shrugged, seeming not to care much. ?Doubt the runner?s gonna get there before this other set?s wasted. Long way back to Coney.?

?Certainly is,? Sebastian agreed, his mind considering the miles of enemy turf the unfortunate Warriors would have to traverse.

Oh well Cyrus, you have your wish-albeit posthumously. They?re all allied, they all share one aim. It?s just too bad it isn?t what any of us had in mind when we discussed this.

?Think Dad?s havin? a party over this s--t??

Sebastian snickered. ?Where do you think Ursula is now? The lot of them are at some charity function on Fifth Avenue, no doubt toasting to their own cleverness over caviar and champagne while plotting connections. I sent Ursula to suffer through it-I?ve got that new case anyway. Didn?t need to see my clients wine and debauch themselves. Makes me sick at the best of times.?

?So you sent our baby sister to endure it instead?? Hound raised his eyebrows over his shades, a quirked smile playing on his full lips. ?That?s harsher than a night in the Cage, man.?

?She handles the old connivers better than I do,? Sebastian offered by way of explanation. ?The old b-----ds can?t seem to think around a good-looking young woman. And the fact that same young woman is capable of deceiving them is something that continually eludes them. Don?t be concerned-Ursula can take care of herself.?

?I know. I taught her, remember?? Hound replied.

?Something she lets none of us forget,? Sebastian retorted in a low, dark voice. ?She?s threatened half the lawyers at the firm with physical violence.?

?That?s my girl,? Hound said proudly. ?What about the other half??

?She didn?t bother with the threat. She just laid into them. Don?t get me wrong-those men should keep their hands to themselves-but they don?t find it as endearing as Dad?s syndicate colleagues. Believe me, it?s a constant chore keeping them all from filing assault charges. You and your friends have a lot to answer for.?

Hound chortled delightedly, clapping his gloved hands.

?So all that university education can?t take the brawler out of her,? he commented with more than a hint of smug satisfaction. ?I knew it. She?ll always be one of us.?

?Don?t forget that Ursula?s a lawyer now, and she has to play her part like the rest of us, no matter how badly your gang consider her their pet soldier. She?s got responsibilities now, ones that go beyond the High Rollers. S--t, if the truce is renewed and the war begins, she?ll be responsible for making sure the gangs are well informed. Do you understand what that means? The syndicates won?t hesitate to tear her down if they suspect she?s with the streets rather than the suits.? Sebastian gave a humourless grin. ?Same goes for me, but I?ve always lacked Ursula?s predilection for trouble.?

?If it finds her?? Hound trailed off as the elevator doors opened to reveal the parking garage dimly lit with fluorescent tubing-and the rows of shiny new, expensive cars that filled the spaces. Dark eyes widening, then narrowing, he tilted his head in the direction of a silver Mercedes.

?Let me take the Merc??

Sebastian snorted and pulled out his car keys. Approaching a rather plain black BMW, he shook his head, dark hair falling into his eyes. ?Sorry Hound. This baby came out of my trust fund. You want to trash one, go buy your own. In any case, this is supposed to be a business mission and I like that car in one piece. I could give you a ride back to the club??

?Nah. You?re right, I?m on duty. Gotta patrol the rest of this block. Just make sure the ?Cats are released. We?re gonna need every soldier we can get from what the House says. The big war?s comin? our way.? Hound tipped his hat and pushed the elevator button. ?Catch ya later, brother.?

Sebastian waved before unlocking the car door and jumping in. He waited until the elevator doors closed and his younger brother was out of sight before starting the engine, letting the car sit idle while he fumbled for the tuner, adjusting it until he found the right station.

?This next track is dedicated to all you boppers out there with one set in mind?be sure to keep it real.?

Sebastian reversed sharply in the garage, a weary grimace on his lips as he considered the night?s events.

?I?ll try,? he said aloud to no one. ?I?ll try.?






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BaseballFury100- Thank you for the encouraging review on the last chapter!

[Pretty Boy]

Chapter Three
Mistaken Identity

Four young teenagers raced past the elderly bum, their sneakers slapping against the pavement as they bolted furiously, loud gasping and panting stirring another sleeping bum from his place in front of a nearby factory.

?We lose ?em yet??

?Not yet, not yet, keep runnin?!? a young female voice squealed.

?Don?t stop ?til we get to the fences,? another instructed even as she panted and struggled for breath. ?Janie, go with Lurch and find the others. Spotlight, you?re with me.?

The others didn?t have to acknowledge the instructions. The sounds of their pursuers hollering and screaming a block behind them urged the kids to merely run faster, their arms cartwheeled around as they pushed for greater speed. The dirty white rags tied about their forearms only made them stand out in the yellow streetlights.

They ran recklessly across the wet road, splashing through puddles and disturbing more bums and vagrants with their racket. The fastest of the four-a teenage boy who looked younger than the others-reached the chain-link fence first, his feet clearing it?s top with millimetres to spare before he landed on the dirt easily. Not pausing or even glancing to check if the others were following, he sprinted into the darkness, disappearing from view.

The second cleared the fence, landing as easily as the first, but the third and fourth struggled, the wet soles of their sneakers slipping on the chain-links. Losing valuable time, the third-the girl who had barked the orders-swore and scrambled up and over, a heartbeat before the fourth landed behind her.

?The apartment,? the leader barked.

?But there?s too many of them!? the other gang member gasped. ?We can?t lose them that easily!?

?The f--k we can?t!? the leader spat furiously, jumping onto a dumpster, then onto a rooftop. Somewhere behind them, there was a metallic crash before the roar of a truck could be heard making its way up the alley. Darkness hiding their movement, the pair began to climb up the roof?s partition, readying themselves for a leap.

?Don?t f----n? die,? the leader ordered, then began to run towards the yawning gap between the rooftops. Timing her jump just right, she landed on the next roof still running, losing her footing on the wet concrete and falling onto all fours.

Behind her, the other member landed with more grace, keeping his balance and reaching down to help regain hers. There wasn?t even time for a glance; they started running again, this time keeping to the shadow of a shorted-out billboard as they reached their next objective.

?After three,? the leader instructed, holding up three dirty fingers. ?One. Two??

The sounds of their pursuers resounded through the alley below, echoing off the brick buildings. The two finally exchanged a look.

The leader?s fierce pale blue eyes were narrowed but undaunted. The same couldn?t be said for her companion. His wide dark eyes were impossibly wider, his lower lip trembling as he stared at his leader.

?Don?t go gettin? pussy on me, Spotlight,? the leader whispered. ?I?ll f----n? kill you myself, I swear it.?

Her companion nodded reluctantly, fear and doubt still written across his face.

??Warriors?f----n? Warriors??

?Three!? the leader hissed, and jumped.

Time seemed to slow as she fell through space, but when her hands slapped against the bricks, her fingers instinctively grabbed at the ledge. Dangling precariously three storeys above the alley, the leader had to pull herself up until she was able to bring one leg up to brace against the window sill, giving her the leverage she needed to hoist into the empty apartment room.

Spotlight was seconds behind her, doing his best to conceal grunts of effort while scrabbling his way into the room. Certain he was safe, she motioned for him to stay low while she crept quietly through the rubbish to one grimy window and peered through the obscured glass.

The battered and graffitied pick-up rumbled through the alley, its one working headlight illuminating the trash and debris that littered the wet dirt. She counted nine soldiers in the back tray, their weapons clear and visible in the light. Another two sat on the roof, clinging to the larger spotlight mounted there, swivelling the lamp about randomly. There had to be five in the front, two sitting on the doors, another three crammed inside. All were baying for blood.

Warriors blood.

Having seen enough and not recognising the gang?s colours, the leader ducked back down, crawling back to Spotlight. They said nothing as the taunting continued to echo though the alley.

?We?ll find you, chickens--t f--ks!?

?You?re gonna get put down like the pathetic toys you are!?

?Can?t hide forever?we?re gonna find ya eventually and rip your f----n? heads off!?

?Yeah, we?re gonna slice you Warriors, haha!?

The insane taunts and laughter was unnerving Spotlight, making him shake harder than a person had a right to during a New York summer. The leader leaned forward and took his hand, trying to keep her expression reassuring even when she wanted to shake the jitters right outta him.

It seemed to help. What probably helped more was when the pick-up kept going, continuing further up the alley, smashing through another chain-link fence on its way to the next block.

The leader stood and checked the window. Not seeing anything but still not trusting the bastards not to return, she motioned for Spotlight to keep down anyway.

?What the f--k was that about man?? Spotlight demanded, his voice getting high-pitched. ?I?ve never had to run so fast in my f----n? life, not even when the Mothers were after our asses.?

The leader shrugged, wiping the sweat from her forehead and neck with grimy hands. ?I got no idea, Spotlight. You hear what those f--ks were callin? out? They thought we was Warriors.?

Spotlight laughed shakily. ?But how? We don?t wear their colours Warchick!?

The leader nodded, her ponytail falling over one shoulder. ?You know that. I know that. Any f----n? Warrior would know that. But I don?t think anyone told those dicks we ain?t Warriors.? She hissed under her breath, an unconscious habit she reverted to when uncertain of what to do. ?Who the f--k were they anyway? I didn?t recognise their colours, did you??

?Nuh-uh. Wish Lurch were here. He?d know.?

The leader leaned against the graffitied wall. Above her head, Mongrels was written in white spray paint, sloppy and bold and without the usual flair or style found about the city. In the dark, her stained and torn white singlet appeared grey, and her dirty pale skin a shade or two darker than usual, her elfin face thinner. She?d torn her jeans when she?d fallen on the roof, and the graze beneath was beginning to stain the edges with dark blood.

Spotlight stared at her admiringly for a second. The adrenaline and the fright wearing off, he was beginning to turn his attention back to his Warchick with the usual gleam in his dark eyes.

?You know, no one?s around??

?Don?t even,? the young girl replied, giving him a flat glare. ?Not now. I?ll f----n? throw you out to ?em right now if you start with that s--t. We?re bein? hunted by dumb f--ks who think we?re those Warriors. Now is not the time to start thinkin? with your dick.? She punched a nearby crate in frustration, her small fist sending the nearby debris flying, but not stirring the actual crate.

?What the f--k?s wrong with these dumb s--ts anyway?? she hissed. ?Can?t they read a map? Gravesend ain?t Coney...We?ve had the crap beaten out of us enough times to know that.? She sighed heavily. ?We better get outta here. I think they?ll come back and we should find the others before they do. F--k knows what orders Lurch?ll be handin? out.?

Spotlight grumbled, but climbed to his feet obediently. ?Ready for some more jumpin??? he asked.

Pretty Boy, Warchick of the Gravesend Mongrels, nodded and smiled grimly. ?Ain?t I always?? she replied, pushing herself up. With Spotlight sticking close by, she headed for the apartment building?s central staircase, where another stairwell would take them the apartment?s roof. Both Mongrels ignored the distant hollering and taunting, and focused on finding their siblings.

After all, that was what family was for.



Chapter Four
Recruiting Drive

The scout leaned precariously from his vantage point, trainers slipping on the slick concrete as he pushed his balance to its limit. Leaning three storeys from the ground-not enough to make Hot-Foot feel uneasy, but certainly enough to cause some real harm should he fall-he squinted out over the rooftops to the wet street, where a large war party was marching towards him.

Hot-Foot frowned, pulling back just in time to avoid detection. He didn?t recognise the intruding gang?s khaki green jackets and funny military-style hats. He silently counted their strength and grimly noted their weapons before slinking back into the shadows, carefully making his way across the burnt-out roof to where four other young men waited.

?How many?? the tallest-Wrangler-demanded in a low voice.

?I counted thirteen,? Hot-Foot whispered, ?but there could be a few scouts I?ve missed.?

Two of the others snickered. Hot-Foot gave Plato and Lunk a dirty look before turning back to Wrangler. ?Looks like a war party to me-they all carrying some nasty lookin? gear.?

?Like what?? Switch asked.

?Chains, poles, that leader?s wearin? some sort of weird spike thing on his hand...some real painful lookin? s--t.? Hot-Foot nodded in the approaching army?s direction. ?Don?t recognise their colours either. Army stuff, jackets, hats-?

?Panzers?? Lunk guessed.

Hot-Foot shook his head. ?Nope. I know a Panzer when I see one.?

Plato scoffed as loudly as he dared. ?Yeah, right. When have you ever seen a Panzer??

?Shut up already,? Wrangler ordered. He opened his mouth to ask Hot-Foot another question, but Switch held one hand up for silence. The others watched on. Crouching as he crept to the vantage point, being careful not to lose his footing on the exposed beams, Switch navigated his way to Hot-Foot?s perch. He made the enemy gang and returned, his almond-shaped dark eyes alight with self-satisfaction as he jumped the gap between the beam and the roof tiles.

?Howitzers,? he informed Wrangler. ?They?ve travelled a long way.?

?Never heard of them,? Lunk said.

?Of course you haven?t. They?re a Manhattan set?used to war with the Huns until Ghost made it clear they weren?t wanted in Chinatown.? Switch gave Hot-Foot a sympathetic smile. ?Don?t sweat it. I doubt anyone in this set has rumbled with them before.?

?Great,? Plato commented darkly.

?So why are they here?? Lunk wanted to know.

?Why do you think, dumbass?? Plato sneered.

?Lay off,? Switch countered, standing up for his friend. ?It?s a good question.?

Plato snorted, which made Lunk clench his huge hands into fists and take a menacing step. Hot-Foot had to credit Plato for his courage; Lunk had to weight at least twice what he did and could probably snap Plato?s neck with one hand. The two had been bickering all night, even before the trouble had started. But since West had gotten himself wasted by a patrol of punk JSBs the pair?s antagonism had been growing.

?Try it,? Plato offered, giving a taunting gesture. ?I?ll smash your fat skull in.?

Lunk took another step and made a grab, but Switch and Hot-Foot got in between them, Hot-Foot doing his best to restrain the enormous Lunk and Switch using his quick reflexes to get Plato into an arm-hold.

?Quiet, all of you,? Wrangler snapped. ?We?re on the same team, remember??

Lunk and Plato continued to glare sullenly at each other. Hot-Foot?s grip was broken easily when Lunk shrugged him off, but he made no move to attack Plato. After a tense moment, Switch finally released Plato, giving the other newblood a smack on the back of the head for good measure as he pushed him away.

?No more fighting like a pack of chicks,? Wrangler instructed them firmly. ?Now, while you were all having your catfight, I was deciding what to do about them.?

?Oh yeah, so what?s your big idea?? Plato demanded, wiping the sheen of sweat from his brow.

?Switch, still got the cash form that mugging we did earlier, you know, before the first brawl??

Switch nodded. ?Sure. Ain?t like we?ve had a chance to spend it.?

?What, you?re gonna bribe ?em are ya?? Plato asked, smirking. ?Pussy.?

?Shut up Plato,? Hot-Foot said, speaking up for the first time since the tussle.

?Oh-hoh.? Plato raised his eyebrows in mock surprise. ?Are you actually talking back to me, runt??

?Yeah,? Hot-Foot said with more bravery than he felt. Plato might be smaller than Lunk, but he was still a full head taller than Hot-Foot, not to mention he actually had some muscle, whereas Hot-Foot was a human toothpick on the best of days.

?Cut it out, or I?ll bop ya myself,? Wrangler said in exasperation. ?Now, Switch, hand over some cash to ?Foot. He?s goin? on a recruitin? drive.?

Hot-Foot groaned under his breath. The other three-Lunk, Plato, and Switch-had to stifle their laughter. No one liked recruitment duty, and it was usually the smallest and weakest who got sent out to scour the alleys for bums willing to fight for a few dollars.

?How many do you want?? Hot-Foot asked, stuffing the bills into his jeans pockets.

?As many as you can find brother. At least enough to even the odds.? Wrangler pointed to the next building, a boarded-up Laundromat on the street corner. ?We?ll be in the alley behind the ?mat. I want you and your army of bums to start wastin? those fools. We?ll attack when they?re distracted.?

Hot-Foot?s mouth fell open in indignation. ?Hey-that means I?m the only one doin? any f----n' work!?

?Keep it down,? Plato hissed pointedly.

?Get your ass down there and find those hobos,? Wrangler ordered.

Muttering darkly under his breath, Hot-Foot sulkily reached the broken and rusted stairs that led down to the alley, careful to tread lightly on the weakened steps. When was the last time Wrangler or Plato went out lookin? for bums? He asked himself bitterly. He was sick of being pushed around ?cos he was the smallest?after all, who had led them up here in the first place? Sure as hell wasn?t Plato or Lunk, that?s for damn sure.

He could hear the Howitzers smashing something that sounded like glass and metal-probably a car. Glad they?d found something to distract themselves with, he dashed across the patch of lit alleyway. Only when he was safely in the shadows did he breathe again. Sticking close to a vandalised wall, he followed the alley until a dimly lit recess yielded results.

Huddled in a group were four winos, one still clutching a bottle of booze in a four-fingered hand, another?s nose showing traces of white Flash dust. Pulling out a handful of dollar bills, Hot-Foot crouched near the closest and gave him a rough shove. When the hobo didn?t stir, Hot-Foot gave him another shake, this time more insistently.

The hobo still didn?t move. Worried that maybe he?d found himself a corpse, Hot-Foot began to pull away. But he inadvertently knocked the bottle from the wino?s hands, sending it clanging to the ground.

The hobo awoke instantly, cursing incoherently and swinging wildly at Hot-Foot. Not a little alarmed, the teenage boy fell on his butt directly in a puddle.

?What the fu-? he began, but the hobo?s noise had stirred the other three up, making them grumble and slur as they blinked dully about them. Hot-Foot got to his feet just as the hobo grabbed his bottle again, sucking back the alcohol fiendishly. Not content just to glut himself, the hobo burped and vomit dribbled down his front.

?That?s sick,? Hot-Foot commented without thinking. A metallic smash rang through the air, making the hobos peer about curiously. Reminded of the Howitzers, the newblood knelt down next to the hobo again and slapped the bottle from his hands.

?Ay!? the hobo shouted in protest.

?Shut the f--k up. Now, if you?d focus those bloodshot eyes of yours, you?d see I?m holding some cash in my hands,? he said urgently but clearly. ?You wanna make some bucks? How ?bout you? And you?? He nodded at the the other bums. ?Up for a rumble??

??pen?? one of them slurred.

Hot-Foot shook his head. ?Not tonight. This rumbles? for real.? He rubbed the bills together so they rustled tantalisingly. ?In??

One of the hobos rubbed his nose and somehow managed to drag his sorry as to his feet. Hot-Foot grinned at the others. ?Your buddy obviously has needs. Whadda ?bout you??

The other three climbed to their feet. ?So, got any friends around here?? he asked the one scrambling for the bottle.

?Uh?yerrr?down?near the shacks,? the hobo slurred.

Hot-Foot slapped the bills into each hobos? held-out palm. ?Follow me,? he instructed, feeling a little more in control. He was forced to a blood-thumping crawl with the four staggering hobos following behind him like some dysfunctional patrol, but when he reached the derelict shack at last, he could still hear the Howitzers destroying the car. While he instructed the four hobos to wait for him in the shadow of the dilapidated wooden structure, Hot-Foot could hear a woman shouting obscenities down at the Howitzers, so he knew he had a little more time left before the enemy patrol moved on.

The door creaked too loudly when Hot-Foot pushed it open, making the kid wince. Loud snoring and drunken babble echoed hollowly around him, and the dark forced Hot-Foot to squint as he scanned the shack?s only room for its inhabitants.

Counting five, Hot-Foot prodded one bulky character curled up beneath a boarded-up window. The hobo woke immediately, glaring up at Hot-Foot with lucid anger.

?Wanna earn some cash?? Hot-Foot asked, pulling out some more bills.

The mean-looking vagrant sat up, keeping his gaze on the money.

?What you got in mind?? he asked in a deep, scratchy voice.

All nine waited for Hot-Foot?s instructions in front of the shack, all wavering and coming dangerously close to losing their balance. Hot-Foot scratched his head, wondering how the hell he was supposed to create a decent diversion with such a group.

?Look, all I want is for you to follow me and waste the toys in green,? he instructed, a hint of self-importance coming into his tone. ?You with me??

There was only silence. Then it was broken by the loud snore of one recruited vagrant who had fallen asleep leaning against the wall.

It was the lucid, mean-looking hobo who spoke, breaking the uneasy silence.

?Do what the brat says,? he growled. ?And we?ll have a party tonight. Hangovers all ?round.?

The hobos gave a pathetic, broken cheer.

Hot-Foot strode towards the street with false confidence, the hobos again slowing him down when his base instincts were screaming at him to run. Reminding himself that he was the diversion, he paused briefly to pick up a beer bottle from an overflowing trash can.

Not stopping once he hit the street and saw the Howitzers still trashing the car-ripping the doors right off their hinges, the newblood flung the bottle as hard as he could in their direction.

It arced through the air, time seeming to slow as it descended. Hot-Foot and the hobos waited.

The bottle landed on the head of the nearest Howitzer, a fellow who was paying too much attention to the car?s front lights to notice. When he did it was too late-a face full of shattering glass sent him to the ground.

?Wreck ?em!? Hot-Foot shouted, running forward to intercept the first two Howitzers that attacked. Swinging wildly, he hardly noticed that his rag-tag army was also stumbling forward, some running almost on tip-toes, others at that same lurching pace that frustrated Hot-Foot. He was too busy ducking to avoid being grabbed from all sides to see that the hobos were certainly earning their handful of dollars; a few were surrounded by shouting and weapon-wielding Howitzers, hopelessly outnumbered. Others were yet to connect a hit, swinging with no sense of direction.

He jerked back an elbow to knock down the guy behind him, and then jumped back to avoid the Howitzer in front from grabbing him. The Howitzer went sprawling on his face, lending Hot-Foot a few precious seconds to get in a combination on the guy to his right.

Getting in a kick to the fallen Howitzers? face before grabbing another, Hot-Foot brought the guy?s head down as he rammed his knee up into the guy?s face. The satisfactory crack made Hot-Foot hoot with glee before letting the guy drop and moving on to the next.

A swinging chain made him pause momentarily amid the madness. The Howitzer wielding it made Lunk look small, a brutal grin on his face promised pain. Swallowing-and hoping to God the others would arrive before he got japped-Hot-Foot began to approach the huge Howitzer.

?F--k yeah!? a sudden shout rang.

Hot-Foot was forced to leap back as a molotov cocktail splashed its fiery cargo down on the street, setting the enormous Howitzer alight. The man howled furiously, swinging the chain desperately as he blindly tried to find Hot-Foot and failed.

A fist to the kidneys made Hot-Foot drop to his knees crying out in surprise and pain. He rolled to avoid the sharp kicks being aimed at him seemingly for all sides. One caught him squarely in the chest, winding him and making him gasp in a real wimpy way. Ashamed, he forced the cries down and rolled again before trying to push himself up. A kick to the face ended that idea and sent him flying onto his back.

The sole of a Howitzer?s boot was all he could see. Before he could react, it descended.

It didn?t land. The Howitzer was suddenly jerked back, choking and scrabbling at his neck. Spitting blood and ignoring the god-awful pain in his back, chest and face, Hot-Foot climbed to his feet.

Wrangler was standing behind the Howitzer, pulling something taught. He could see the metallic glint in the streetlight and it registered that Hot-Foot was using the wire again. He didn?t know why the older boy used it during rumbles; there had to be better weapons to carry around, like Switch?s blade. With a sense of detachment he noted that the skin around the Howitzer?s throat was beginning to turn a raw red, and blood was beginning to seep down, staining that jacket of his. It wasn?t until the Howitzer?s face began to turn purple that Hot-Foot was forced out of his daze by a rough smack in the back of the head.

?Snap out of it!? Lunk growled, stepping in to intercept the Howitzer who was trying to sneak up on Hot-Foot. ?Pay attention you pussy!?

He grappled the Howitzer, pulling the man?s arms so roughly that Hot-Foot thought his shoulders would dislocate. Hot-Foot drove his small fists into the Howitzer?s face in a well-practiced combo. Lunk let the guy drop, turning away to charge at where a hobo was surrounded by three Howitzers.

Hot-Foot picked up a discarded lead pipe and swung at another Howitzer. His swing was too wide, and opened him up to a few ear-ringing blows that made him stagger back and almost trip over a fallen body. The advancing Howitzer tried to pull the pipe from his hands, but Hot-Foot held on tightly and jerked the Howitzer forward.

His punch landed on the side of the guy?s head, but the Howitzer stubbornly refused to let go. Hot-Foot was about to resort to the old tug-of-war favourite and let the pipe go, but the guy suddenly cried out and sank to the ground slowly. A mute Hot-Foot met Switch?s satisfied expression over the fallen guy?s head. Switch gave him a small smirk and wink before moving on.

The group around Wrangler and Lunk was so dense that Hot-Foot couldn?t see either of them, but could hear Lunk?s taunting calls and Wrangler?s grunts of effort. He ran towards the group, cracking the pipe on the back of one Howitzer?s head before jabbing it at another?s side. Fists began to rain on him, splitting his lips and threatening to knock him senseless to the ground. But Hot-Foot kept swinging the pipe wildly, not knowing if he was connecting and not caring.

?Don?t swing that s--t at me!? Lunk was yelling at him.

That made Hot-Foot stop and focus on his surroundings. Lunk was standing right in front of him and Wrangler was not two feet away, choking another Howitzer to death with his wire. There were still about six or seven Howitzers fighting-Plato was driving one fool?s skull into a wall, Switch was deftly slashing another?s face and Lunk was fighting two at once, throwing back elbows at one while directing heavy combinations at another. The few remaining hobos were clustered around the final two.

Wrangler twisted the wire around the Howitzer?s throat and kicked him in the back, sending the guy sprawling and scrabbling for his neck. The newblood then crouched over one of Lunk?s victims and started beating him unmercifully.

Hot-Foot limped over to help the hobos. The big, nasty-looking one was still alive, his face covered in blood that dripped to the ground as he pounded the Howitzer against the car?s stripped frame. He saw Hot-Foot and dragged the Howitzer into place. The kid brought the pipe down hard enough to make the guy?s eyes roll up into the back of his head and slump heavily to the ground. The pipe now beaten out of shape and rendered useless, Hot-Foot threw it at the Howitzer still fighting Switch. It missed, but forced the guy to look up in distraction, opening him up to Switch?s blade.

The shrill scream made Hot-Foot wince slightly, so did the sight of Switch twisting the blade deeper into the guy?s throat, blood bubbling out over his hands and arms. Hot-Foot wanted to be sick-for some reason the sight of blood always made him feel nauseous- but forced the weakness down. Now was not the time to start acting like a wimp.

He turned away, deciding to help the hobos finish off the last Howitzer. Cornered and outnumbered, the Howitzer was using a fallen car panel to smack any hobo who came near him. The big hobo was throwing car parts at him, missing more often than not, but Hot-Foot could see he was wearing the guy down. The last two staggering hobos also didn?t stay down very long-with the single-minded determination of zombies, they kept getting back up, in spite their terrible injuries. Hot-Foot looked down and noticed the chain carried by the huge Howitzer earlier, dropped sometime during his crazed fire-dance. He picked it up and began to swing it above his head, hoping to God his aim would be better than last time.

The big hobo threw the trunk door at the Howitzer, forcing him to twist in Hot-Foot?s direction. That was when Hot-Foot let the chain free with a cry.

The chain hit the Howitzer on the chest, forcing him to drop the car panel and clutch at his jacket. The hobos didn?t need any encouragement; they were in there, kicking and stomping the Howitzer until he was silent.

Hot-Foot wanted to drop in exhaustion. The others had finished with their opponents, and the street was scattered with fallen Howitzers and hobos. Wrangler uncoiled his wire from around a Howitzer?s neck and began to loop it around a gloved hand, his dark eyes scanning the scene. Switch was checking fallen Howitzers, driving his switchblade into any that showed signs of breathing. Plato leaned against the car chassis and had pulled a cigarette to his lips and his brown aviators over his eyes. Lunk was going over his injuries-and like normal, despite being covered in superficial wounds, he wasn?t really hurt. Hot-Foot gingerly touched his face, already feeling his swollen lip and left eye. There was also a bleeding graze along the entire length of his face that stung in the open air. Wiping the blood from his nose on one terry-towelling wristband, he turned to Wrangler.

?You sure took your time,? he accused, sounding more like a whiny brat than a newblood supposedly capable of taking care of himself.

Lunk and Switch laughed. Plato shook his head in disgust. Wrangler merely smiled and indicated the carnage around them.

?From what I saw, you were handling yourself okay,? he said, tucking the wire into the pocket of his dark jeans. ?At least, ?til that big one made ya.?

Plato now laughed openly and tapped his ash contemptuously onto a Howitzer?s upturned face. ?Really s--t yourself, didn?t ya Hot-Foot? Bet you thought your days were over, huh?? His sly grin revealed a newly missing front tooth.

?Course not,? Hot-Foot lied. ?I was just worried you pussies were gonna miss out on the all the fun. Who had the Molotov anyway??

The others all turned to Plato, who was giving Hot-Foot a smug look as he took another drag. Hot-Foot swallowed the thanks he?d been intending. Thanking Plato only encouraged him to be more of an asshole.

?Anyone hurt?? Wrangler asked.

Everyone shook their heads predictably. Even if their limbs had been taken off, a newblood refused to acknowledge any weakness in front of the others. Only serious injuries would be ventured, and then only if it was life-threatening or a liability to the patrol. Lunk and Switch were cracking jokes at Plato?s expense, wondering aloud if the teenage girls who sighed over him would still think him pretty now he was missing a tooth. Plato didn?t seem bothered by it, but was insulting both back with his usual dry humour.

?Good. How ?bout you?? Wrangler asked the big hobo, who was slouching against a shop security grill. ?You ?kay??

The hobo looked up and silently nodded before looking back down. Hot-Foot suddenly felt bad-only three of his rag-tag army had survived the melee. He glanced over meaningfully at Wrangler, who gave a slight nod.

Hot-Foot approached the hobo cautiously. When the guy looked up with his blood-covered and battered face, Hot-Foot offered the remaining bills.

?For an extra bottle,? he ventured, smiling weakly. ?You?ve earned it.?

The hobo snatched the money and pushed up with a low groan. ?Damn right we did,? he said in a rusty voice. The money disappeared into a hidden pocket and he staggered over to his fellow vagrants, helping one to his feet before shouldering the other.

Hot-Foot watched the trio stagger off towards the alley and the shack feeling slightly guilty. He hadn?t expected to lose so many of them-or to feel bad about getting them killed.

?So what now?? Switch asked, wiping his switchblade on a Howitzer?s jacket to clean off the blood.

?Yeah, we gonna keep lookin? for another patrol?? Lunk wanted to know. That had been their earlier course of action, after West fell to the JSBs. But after their small victory, the newbloods no longer felt the desperate need to be in the company of older soldiers. They?d taken their own initiative, had won a battle without cooler or more experienced heads in their company.

?Do we really need to go runnin? back to another patrol like a pack of chicks?? Plato asked, taking another drag of his smoke. ?I don?t know about you ladies, but I?m not up for being laughed at.?

?Oh yeah, and what do you reckon we should do?? Hot-Foot asked.

?Go lookin? for more invaders,? Plato returned. ?Smash more heads.?

Lunk?s face lit up at that, but Wrangler or Switch didn?t appear at all impressed. Hot-Foot knew what he wanted to do wasn?t an option. Heading back to the hangout and resting up would be laughed at, so he kept quiet and waited for Wrangler to speak.

Their unofficial leader was about to say something when his focus settled on something further up the street. Lunk and Switch also saw it too, standing straighter and their expressions becoming set with determination. Even Plato flicked his cigarette to the street, his eyes widening slightly behind brown lenses. Hot-Foot turned-and wished he hadn?t.

They filled the street. Led by a short, dark-haired guy wearing a yellow-and-black striped jersey that was visible even at a distance, the war party turned into the street, swarming like the bees they reminded people of. For a brief second, the JSBs didn?t notice the newblood Warriors standing in mute shock, but when they did, a loud shout went up, echoing off the nearby shops and making dogs nearby to bark and howl.

None of the newbloods had ever seen so many Jones Street Boys in the one place.

?There you go,? Hot-Foot said to Plato in a forced tone. ?Go smash ?em now hotshot.?

Plato gave him a filthy look before pushing off the car and standing next to Wrangler.

?F--k,? Switch whispered under his breath, then said something in rapid Vietnamese that none of the others could understand.

?Where the hell did they come from?? Lunk demanded.

Wrangler turned to the others, knowing that there was no chance of confronting the far superior numbers head on. They were gonna need real reinforcements, not just a handful of hired bums. The rest of the gang had to be told about this next invasion.

?Find the other patrols! ?Foot, get to the hangout!? They were still frozen. ?Scatter!? he shouted furiously.

And they did, although both Plato and Lunk gave the approaching force longing looks before finally taking off.

As Wrangler ran for the nearest alley, he was already beginning to doubt his plan.

If there were so many Jones Street Boys and Howitzers invading here?what was happening elsewhere in Coney? Who else was attacking? What had happened to the other patrols and lookouts?

Wrangler wondered if he really wanted to find out.





Okay, I know the Prologue says there weren't going to be Warriors, but I didn't count the five newbloods since they're not involved in the whole adventure to get back.
BTW, really, really sorry about the length. I know its too long and I apologise.
"Pretty Boy" is a nickname I pinched from Land of the Dead. Kinda thought it was appropriate for a warchick

[Ash-Mckean]

This is great, Dosnt your shoulders hurt from writing so much.

[Pretty Boy]

Chapter Five
Charmed Lives


One young woman wearing a black cocktail dress stood surrounded by dull old men drinking champagne and smoking cigars, her expression one of disdainful boredom while she studied her peers. Even this late, the room was filled with people.

?Not enjoying yourself, my dear??

Ursula Harper suppressed the urge to yawn rudely in the elderly inquirer?s face. Instead, she affected a false smile and giggled girlishly.

?No, not all. It?s just that I was thinking of all the work I have waiting for me. Makes me feel guilty, drinking cocktails when I should be working.? Hoping the old man would swallow the trite bull, she smoothly turned away and focused her attentions on the group of large men seated at one table. Well-dressed in what Ursula liked to dub ?mob uniform?, they were all mask-faced as they surveyed the ballroom with sharp eyes.

Sipping from her champagne flute, Ursula wondered if Big Johnny had any idea that the carefully constructed war he and his syndicate friends had organised wasn?t going to go according to plan. Even now, as the city?s elite indulged themselves in another gilded illusion, the armies of the streets were allying for once and for all under Cyrus? inspired leadership.

Ursula turned away, unable to stop a nasty little smirk from crossing her lips. She?d grown up amid this luxury, had been given the best education and the finest things?but deep down, she wanted to see it all shatter apart, reveal the hypocrisy for what it truly was.

Then let?s see how far Big Johnny and his boys get before they?re wrecked, she thought with some measure of satisfaction. Without his corrupt cop pets and heavies, that fat b-----d would be wasted in seconds.

Lost in her vindictive thoughts, Ursula didn?t notice when a middle-aged man wearing a dark grey suit approached her, a self-absorbed smile on his face.

?Watcha thinkin? about?? he asked.

?Go away Dale,? Ursula said without looking up and making her annoyance clear from the expression on her face. ?You shouldn?t be seen with me.?

?Worried your Daddy won?t like me playin? about with ya?? the man asked, slightly slurring on his words. He leaned forward in what was obviously supposed to be a suave gesture, but ended up coming clumsily close to elbowing Ursula in the face.

She fought not to screw up her face in disgust. She could smell cigars overwhelmingly on his suit, and his breath stank heavily of scotch. Normally, Ursula wouldn?t have minded either of these things-but she did this time.

?It?s not my father I?m worried about. Like he?d care. It?s the fact you?re the DA and I?m a defence attorney for one of the city?s largest firms that bothers me. Not to mention the fact that there are journalists present? It?s not a great combination, if you catch my drift.? She took a long drink from her glass, hoping he?d just go away before she said something she?d regret. She had a tendency to do that a lot, open her mouth when she?d be better off keeping it shut. Had gotten her into a lot of trouble during her teen years.

?Hey, don?t worry ?bout it. The commissioner?s over there groping your father?s assistant, that blonde-haired witch. Nothin? ever gets out about these parties?? Dale Bennett leaned closer, his wavy brown hair falling into his eyes, licking his lips unconsciously as he stared down the front of Ursula?s designer dress.

Snorting under her breath, Ursula looked up, dark eyes veiled behind her heavy lashes. ?Really Dale. Go away before you embarrass us both.? She took the opportunity to duck beneath his arm and head for the bar.

?I?m not finished with you,? Dale snarled behind her, grabbing Ursula?s forearm and turning her to face him.

Ursula?s expression set firmly, her demeanour becoming more hostile as she stared back at the District Attorney. Deliberately and slowly, she pulled her arm free of his grasp, aware from the corners of her eyes that a few of the guests were watching the exchange with avid interest.

She was about to open her mouth and say something crude and cutting, but was thankfully interrupted when her older brother Sebastian arrived unexpectedly.

Looking haggard and worn, Sebastian was a contrast to the other guests as he wound his way through the crowd. He ignored all attempts to gain his attention. Glad that his entrance briefly distracted Dale and the other guests, Ursula took the chance to slip away and approach her brother. But with each step, a strange sinking feeling began to settle in her belly. It seemed to take more concentration than usual to walk in her designer heels, more control to keep the anticipation from showing on her face.

?You should have changed,? she commented, gesturing about them. ?There are supposedly standards at these sorts of places.?

Sebastian snickered and took the glass from her hand, knocking the champagne back hastily before handing it to a passing waiter. Pushing his longish hair out of his eyes, he took his sister?s arm gently and guided her to a darkened alcove.

?What?s happened?? Ursula asked, not liking how ruffled her older brother looked. Sebastian was the most composed character she knew, the only other person she knew capable of turning any possible situation to his advantage. He should be smug tonight, not flustered.

?Cyrus,? he simply said. That was all he needed to say. The sinking feeling in Ursula?s gut hardened and turned to ice. Her mind began running with the possibilities-what gang, how, what syndicate connection had lured them into betraying them all-and inadvertently, her attention turned to the suits.

?Who did it?? she asked. ?Who betrayed Cyrus??

?I?m about to find out. The House wants me to stop by the club later and update me on what the scouts on ground saw. I?m not going to wait that long though-where?s Dad? I thought I?d ask him about it.?

Ursula face tightened into a dark mask. ?He?s off charming the Mayor and his simpering wife by the piano. I thought you warned Cyrus, told him everything. How did any of them get near enough to kill him?? Ursula?s mind cast back to the one time she?d met the enigmatic Warlord of the Gramercy Riffs. He had been surprisingly respectful and courteous, stunningly eloquent and devilishly handsome, a combination that had left Ursula reeling in an unprepared fluster, particularly when he revealed that cunning mind of his during the negotiations.

He had been worthy of the awe in which he had been regarded. With his leadership, the Riffs had begun to reveal the kind of calculated offensive that the syndicates had always specialised in. Cyrus had refined the ?Riffs, encouraged the martial arts training and the fledgling network until both became the ?Riffs most staunch defences. More aware than other Warlords of the syndicate threat-likely because the ?Riffs came into contact with the organised operations more often than other gangs-Cyrus had seen the wisdom in allying the city?s gangs into one army willing to confront the enemy face on.

?Someone brought a gun with them,? Sebastian told her. ?It was a clear cut assassination. The ?Riffs believe that some small-time outfit from Coney are responsible, but?? He trailed off, following Ursula?s gaze to the suits. ?I doubt it. It had to be a gang stupid enough not to see the benefits of the truce, but one involved enough to have had prior contact with one of the syndicates in order to gain any profit from the act.?

?That could be any of them,? Ursula countered, turning to face him. ?Shit, in the short time I?ve worked for the firm I?ve represented dozens of soldiers, of all different colours. How are we going to narrow it down from all the possibilities??

?That?s why I thought I?d simply ask,? Sebastian replied, managing a small grin as he turned. ?Father can only lie to me after all, and we both know how that turns out. The old guy should be in a smug mood, probably busting at the seams to boast.? He gestured towards a pale-haired woman flirting with an obviously drunk Commissioner of Police. ?Eva?s not in his ear, so now?s my chance.?

?Want any help?? Ursula offered. ?The Pisani boys over there keep eyeing me off. Maybe Big Johnny knows something about it he?d be willing to share??

?No, I don?t want you anywhere near that devious old b-----d. My car?s parked downstairs. Wait for me there.? He started to move, but Ursula pulled him back.

?What? Why? Seb, I?ve got to stay, especially now! I could ask-?

?No.? Sebastian?s round face set into the cold, aloof mask he used in court and when on business. ?I need you down at the 24th precinct, not here. Someone?s stirred up a hornet?s nest over there and some Alleycats got arrested. Besides, I can?t run the risk of anyone here getting suspicious. You hardly ever stick these functions out ?til the end and rarely speak to the Pisani?s except for business; it won?t be unusual for you to take off but it will be noticeable if you start chatting up the mob. If you stay??

He jerked his dark eyes in the direction of Big Johnny and his men. ?They?ll wonder why. Particularly tonight of all nights, after all that?s happened. We can?t risk anything, not now.? He handed her something warm and metallic. Glancing down, Ursula realised he had pressed his car keys into her palm and clutched them tightly enough for her neatly clipped nails to dig into her skin. ?I won?t be long.?

Ursula looked back up at him, doubt shading her features.

?I promise,? he added under his breath, steering her in the direction of the exit.

?I don?t like this,? Ursula admitted reluctantly. In the muted light, she looked younger than she was, with her dark eyes lit with emotion for once, one pale hand reaching to tug at her cocktail dress? strap as the other balled into a fist.

Sebastian?s expression didn?t change, or become more reassuring; despite the fact he suddenly wanted to tell her to run, to leave the city and never return. Brotherly duty quashed and his business rationale returned, Sebastian gestured towards the exit.

?Neither do I,? he answered in a hard voice. ?But we have to know. Having the information come right from the horses? mouth would be more reliable than any conjecture. Don?t worry about me, Ursula. I?ve been playing this game since before you decided that playing rough with the street boys was far more interesting than being daddy?s pet. Please don?t have any concern for me. Go downstairs and wait-I won?t be long.?

Sebastian shrugged off his younger sister?s concerned look and steadily moved through the crowd, his attention entirely upon the overweight, middle-aged man standing beside the grand piano with a tumbler in his hand. Chatting congenially with the short, dumpy gentleman wearing the horrendously expensive suit, Sebastian?s father was unaware of his son?s presence until Sebastian was literally inches away.

?Ah, Sebastian, glad you could make it,? William Harper greeted with false warmth. ?I was just telling Harold here about your dedication to the job. Spends most of his nights holed up at that apartment of his or the office. Sometimes I wonder if I?ll have to get security to drag away from his work.?

Harold Greene, Mayor of New York, laughed along with William, as did his much-younger wife. Sebastian managed a tight smile and laughed weakly along with them.

?It?s a wonder that you?re so dedicated,? the mayor remarked. ?If only my James could be mature. You should be commended, Bill, for raising such a level-headed and admirable son.?

William beamed at the praise, but Sebastian?s thin-lipped smile didn?t move from his face. Tempted to laugh out loud, he forced the mockery deep down and thanked the mayor modestly.

?I think it?s because Sebastian has always understood family loyalty,? William boasted, drinking from his glass. ?Unlike Nathaniel and Henry, Sebastian and Ursula understand the value of an education, and were actually grateful for the advantages offered to them.? As if the very names of the two sons he considered traitors tasted foul, William made a disgusted face.

?I wholeheartedly agree,? Harold said, obviously seeing an opening for serious kiss-ass points. ?It wasn?t like we didn?t offer James everything he wanted. We gave him everything and look at how he turned out. Really, I wonder where I went wrong??

Bored out of his mind and getting frustrated, Sebastian let his guard slip and revealed some of his impatience. William caught the look and frowned slightly, his dark eyes hard with authority.

It?s no mystery why James, Nate and Henry chose the ?Rollers over this life, he thought with a hint of uncharacteristic sullen childishness. I imagine fighting, drinking and no responsibilities look more appealing than a life of dull ritual and power games. How many people even know that the Warlord of the High Rollers is the son of the city mayor?

He already knew the answer to that question.

?Well, hopefully things will change for you,? William said with insincere consolation. ?Perhaps James will soon understand the futility of continuing his immature lifestyle. Ursula did, so there has to be hope for young James. It isn?t too late to make something of his life.?

Sebastian thought of Roulette, and his flashy smile and sharp mind for business. I wonder if the good mayor would be proud to learn about the Friendly Fire? It is a viable business after all?and with it, the ?Rollers influence grows daily. Shouldn?t that make you happy, Uncle Harry? James did learn something from you. Maybe more than you realise.

?I honestly hope so. Oh Carmen look, there?s Joseph and Beverly. Pardon Bill, but do you mind??? The mayor gestured towards the elegant couple standing amid a gathering crowd.

?Of course not,? William said graciously, making a sweeping gesture of his own. ?I know Joe promised to tell you all about his trip to Washington. It?ll give me a chance to catch up with Sebastian.? The old man made a pitiful expression, convincing the mayor at once of his paternal concern. ?It?s so rare that we catch up these days.?

Sebastian stifled a snort, disgusted at both his father?s display and the mayor?s gullibility. The mayor?s wife even made some kind of maternal clucking sound that turned Sebastian?s stomach. The woman was younger than he was, and only a year or two older than the Mayor's youngest daughter.

When the mayor was gone, Sebastian opened his mouth immediately to speak. But faster than a junkie on a Flash packet, his father spoke calmly and casually.

?I have arranged a meeting,? he informed Sebastian.

?Will all of them be there?? Sebastian asked, pushing his glasses up.

?Of course. They?re all here now.? To Sebastian?s irritation, William didn?t reveal any of the smug satisfaction he knew the old b-----d had to be feeling. He kept controlled, taking another drink. ?I trust you heard??

?The entire city knows,? Sebastian reminded him. ?It wasn?t exactly subtle.?

William grinned.

?It wasn?t intended to be,? he said vindictively, stirring his glass in his hand. ?I wanted him dead.?




Ash-Mckean- Thanks for the review! And yeah, they hurt a lot but not as much as my eyes. Cool avatar. Furies rock!

BTW, the Conclave was at Van Cortlandt Park, right? The game mentioned it somewhere, but the movie hints it could be Pelham Park. Does anyone know which one it was supposed to be?

[Pretty Boy]

Chapter Six
The Underlying Threat


Five suited men reclined about a round marble table, their guarded expressions as cold as the busts that decorated the wall behind them. Another younger, but more haggard-looking man stood behind his father, his expression deliberately neutral.

?It was a success,? the eldest man announced simply.

The other four muttered and nodded. None were surprised. When William Harper set himself a goal, he always achieved it. This time was no different.

?You have outdone yourself,? an overweight Italian man complimented sincerely.

?I still have my reservations,? the middle-aged Chinese man said respectfully. ?Perhaps it may have been better to approach this?problem?with more caution. The gangs are an unpredictable foe.?

?Nonsense,? a hulking man said, speaking with a heavy Russian accent. ?These gangs are no true opponents to our goals. You have acted decisively. That I can admire.? He then grumbled low in his throat, a habit Sebastian had noticed the Russian exhibit when uncomfortable. ?However, I must protest the cowardly action of using a third party-a gang no less. We should have sent our own men to deal with this Cyrus.?

?There was only one clear solution to end this threat without revealing our hand,? William explained, leaning back in his upholstered chair like a king. ?And that was to involve the leader of one gang to eliminate the other. If my choice upsets any of you?? William offered both palms in an appellant?s gesture. ?Forgive my presumption. But keep in mind that I wanted our relationship to continue unknown and hidden. I wanted us to remain capable of defending ourselves and escaping the wrath of the uncouth criminal element of this city.?

The four nodded their agreement, although some were reluctant.

?There have been unexpected developments in the situation, however.?

That caught their attention. The Russian sat upright in his chair, the Chinese man began to slowly stroke his beard, and the two Italians exchanged a dark look over the table.

William was undaunted. Sebastian reluctantly admired his father?s persuasive skill. These were four of the most important men in the city, representing the most influential syndicate factions in New York. Each man held sway over his community, accompanied by a different kind of fear than what the gangs enjoyed.

These men held real power over life or death. Not the brutal power men like Roulette or Talon wielded, but a more pervasive, insinuating power. The kind that offered salvation and respect with one hand, and threatened long, slow death with the other. Using a more sophisticated method of garnering support for their illegal ventures, these men treated crime for the lucrative business it was, not the reckless rampage the gangs indulged themselves with.

And his father had made them all his lap-dogs.

?Is our involvement suspect?? The other younger, more vital Italian man inquired.

?No, nothing like that. There is no need to worry about our involvement in this affair. No one will ever know except us. After all, each of you gentlemen has just spent the night at a benefit for orphaned children. The mayor himself is in attendance. There will be no questions from the authorities.

?No, the change in the plan is this-the gang I approached executed the plan perfectly, but they have fingered another gang for it.? He glanced over his shoulder to Sebastian. ?What was the name again??

?The Warriors,? Sebastian said without emotion. ?From Coney Island.?

The other syndicate leaders acknowledged this fact and William continued.

?Therefore, as of yet, the Rogues are still alive,? William stated. ?That may become a problem in due course-presuming that the police or the Gramercy Riffs believe their claims of our involvement. But I trust that they will be dealt with as simply as the Riffs.  Perhaps I might send a police raid their way.? There was laughter around the table, echoing off the ornate walls.

?What of this other gang?? the Russian asked. ?If they are from Coney Island, then it would be in my interest to learn something about them.?

?I am having a portfolio compiled as we speak,? William said. ?My assistant Eva will have it delivered personally to you all within the hour. What has resulted from the Rogue?s unexpected act of cunning is that this other gang has become the ?Riffs targets. An act of deflection we should regard with a healthy degree of reservation, I?m afraid.?

?This should have been a consideration from the beginning,? the Chinese man insisted. ?I don?t like the fact you did not consult with us on this detail. It makes me suspect what other?liberties?you have indulged yourself in at our expense.?

?That?s enough,? the overweight Italian objected. ?Mr. Harper has shown a true dedication and loyalty to our cause, hasn?t he? Might I remind you all that without his assistance, many of us would be at the mercy of the feds? Without his connections, we?d all still be fighting one another and the cops instead of the real enemy!?

?I?m touched by your passion, Big Johnny,? the younger Italian commented dryly. Sebastian focused his attention on the young man, aware that if anyone was going to be trouble, than this was the person.

Carlo Esposito leaned on the marble table, resting his chin on his ringed fingers. A thoughtful expression tempered his hawk-like good looks, but did nothing to detract from the crafty gleam in his dark eyes. It was a gleam Sebastian recognised from long association in and out of the courtroom.

?My esteemed colleague Mr Tran has brought an interesting point to the table for debate,? Carlo said. ?What other deals have you been plannin? behind our backs, Bill? I?d just like to know, so there ain?t no more unpleasant surprises.?

His father took the criticism with good grace, even going so far as to nod his agreement with the arrogant Esposito Family heir?s suggestion. Sebastian admired his father?s diplomacy with a sense of detachment, noting how the young mob boss was taken aback.

?You are right to have reservations,? he said, using that formal court voice that convinced everyone that he was being entirely sincere. ?It would be remiss of me to not admit that I respect any misgivings any of you have at this moment. It has been a rather delicate operation, and has required great leaps of faith from all concerned. Particularly in trusting me. If you would care to decline any further involvement, I would understand entirely.?

?I?m not backing out,? Carlo said, losing some of his hostility at the mention of leaving the group. ?I just wanna know what else you got in store for us.?

?In due time,? William answered. ?For now, we must now focus our efforts on the coming cleansing. I already have the full support of the Mayor and the Police Commissioner for the next phase. In three weeks, the laws should be passed and our journey will truly begin.? He stood smoothly, stroking his grey moustache with a theatrical air. ?This is the beginning of a new era.?

The others clapped, as did William. Sebastian silently wondered if they were clapping for the plan-or for themselves.

Three weeks. Three weeks to motivate the network and prepare an adequate defence. Had he been alone, he might have succumbed to rare anger and smashed something priceless.

That surge of anger was followed by despair. His hands twitched at his sides.

It?s not possible. If Cyrus couldn?t do it, how can I?

He thought of Hound and his twin brother Tips, both wearing ?Rollers dark green and flipping William the bird when he threatened to disinherit them, and was gripped by an unfamiliar wave of emotion that had to be suppressed before he could identify it.

It was fear. For the first time since he was a small boy, Sebastian Harper was scared.

[Pretty Boy]

Chapter Seven
Level Crossing


A pair of Mongrels navigated their way through an empty lot strewn with weed-filled ditches and mounds of trash. The drizzling rain forced Pretty Boy to squint in the dark and misjudge her footing. She cracked her knee as she went down.

The sudden pain made her cry out sharply. Spotlight, who was a few feet ahead stopped and turned to check on her. Muttering something under her breath, the teenager got back to her feet and with squelching feet in sodding sneakers and a dismissive wave to show she was alright, continued her way through the lot.

         It had been Spotlight?s idea to cut through the block and avoid the streets, but now Pretty Boy wasn?t so hot on it. Hobbling until the ache went away, she wondered if they might have been better off keeping to the streets. At least she wouldn?t be testing the limits of her co-ordination.

And the dark houses surrounding them made her feel uneasy. The neighbourhood was quiet; no traffic on the streets, no dogs barking, no shouting or hollering. Nothing. Spotlight might be calmer now their pursuers were out of sight and hearing range, but Pretty Boy?s anxiety grew with every moment.

She climbed over the rusted frame of a burnt-out car and landed behind Spotlight. He half-turned and shrugged. She knew what he meant. The wet street was empty and through the drizzling rain, neither could see any house lights on nearby. Pretty Boy rubbed at her knee and stared out at the street.

?Okay, but we?ll stick to the yards until we hit the crossing,? she instructed, straightening. ?I don?t wanna get caught on that street. If they?ve still got that pick-up, we?ll be road-kill.?

Spotlight didn?t answer. He just jumped over the low wooden fence that surrounded the lot. Pretty Boy frowned and climbed after him. Maybe it was because she was annoyed, but when she jumped down, she let go a moment too late and the dilapidated palings drove splinters into her palms. Again swearing and cursing, she had to half-jog after Spotlight, who was crossing the street.

?Wait a second would ya?? she called after him.

?Hurry up,? Spotlight retorted, picking up the pace. Pretty Boy tried to pick out the splinters but couldn?t, not in the dark. Giving up, she ran after Spotlight, catching up with him and giving him a push so he stumbled into the gutter.

?What was that for?? he demanded, giving her a playful smack in the face.

?We need to stop. I?ve got splinters,? she replied, holding her palms up for him to see. ?Gotta get ?em out before they get infected.?

?We can?t stop. We?ll find Doc first.? Spotlight then frowned. ?Talkin? of Doc, have you seen her at all tonight??

Pretty Boy shook her head, thinking about it as she followed Spotlight into a nearby front yard. ?I sent her to grab more supplies. She mentioned she was runnin? out and I figured with everyone else preoccupied that she?d score big if she hit the drug stores. You don?t think anything?s happened to her do ya??

?I dunno,? Spotlight answered honestly. ?Maybe she got back to the Kennel after we left. But if she went alone?? He didn?t have to say it. Both of them knew Doc always went on supply raids alone and had a tendency to ignore gang boundaries if it meant she could grab more bandages or drugs.

?She left hours ago. I?m sure she?s with the others right now.? Pretty Boy?s optimism even sounded flat when she said it. They hadn?t come across any of their fellow Mongrels yet. ?Bet she?s arguing with Lurch and Toy right now.?

Spotlight answered, but a sudden band of light blinded both of them and an engine roar drowned out his words. Spotlight threw a hand over his eyes to shield them, but Pretty Boy resisted the urge. She knew what that light meant, what the engine meant. Grabbing Spotlight?s arm with one sore hand, she started running.

?Found ya!? someone screamed.

Both of them began to run. Pretty Boy?s vision began to clear and she was glad to see she?d been heading in the right direction. Not two houses away was a small signal-box.

?What time is it?? she panted at Spotlight.

?How the f--k should I know?? he panted back. ?I don?t wear no watch.?

Behind them, the pick-up roared. It could have been Pretty Boy?s imagination, but there was another sound that echoed after it. She sprinted faster, heartburn threatening to tear apart her chest. Spotlight must have heard it too, because he started running faster, his sneakers hardly hitting the pavement.

Spotlight got to the train tracks first and jumped as the boom-gate began to lower and the signal began to ring. He cleared the tracks just as the gate lowered entirely. A few paces behind, Pretty Boy could hear the approaching train now, the carriages rattling against the tracks and it?s lights illuminating the dark stretch. The teenager risked a glance over her shoulder.

The pick-up was missing some occupants, but there were still more of them than her, so she took a chest-burning lungful of air and sprinted with all her might. The boom gate forced her to slow and duck, skidding across the tracks on wet-soled sneakers. For a terrifying moment she thought she was going to fall and the train light illuminated her form as she dove across the tracks.

She landed on the wet concrete face-first and rolled, the train shrieking as it began to come to screeching halt. Another loud, metallic crash deafened her but she pushed herself up on grazed hands and took a few staggering steps away. The pain was so intense she that she thought she?d faint-her head rang dizzyingly, her vision blurred and for a moment she fought not to throw up. Falling onto her ass on the cracked pavement of a nearby driveway, Pretty Boy stared dumbly at the scene in front of her, trying to make sense of it.

Spotlight was shouting something at her, trying to pull her back up but she resisted. The strange lights and funny colours didn?t make sense and it hurt to concentrate on them. The twisted metal carriages no longer resembled a train-car and there were funny shapes being illuminated by the flickering light. The noise had stirred the neighbourhood around them; lights were switching on in the windows around them, people were pulling up their shades and opening their front doors to see what the commotion was all about.

?Get the f--k up!? Spotlight was shouting at her, shaking her by the shoulders. ?We caused a fucking accident! Get up!?

Pretty Boy blinked and tried to shake her head, but that hurt too. She tried to weakly push Spotlight away and attempted to stand by herself but couldn?t. Her legs gave out from under her and she crumpled on the pavement with a cry.

?Don?t do this now! We?ve gotta go before the heat gets here!? Spotlight shouted angrily, ignoring her injuries and pulling her up. ?You don?t get up I?m gonna leave ya here!?

Pretty Boy sat up, concentrating her blurred vision on the tracks. The twisted metal made more sense now-their pursuers had gone right into the train, knocking it off the rails and onto its side. The strange light had to be the fluorescent lighting, and the shapes moving about had to be people?

?Up! Up! Up!? Spotlight was shrieking at her, forgetting to form whole sentences.

She let him pull her up and leaned heavily against him as he began to drag her away from the accident they?d just caused. Exhausted-and tired, oh f?k was she tired now-Pretty Boy fought to take every step. It wasn?t until the sweat from Spotlight?s shoulders began to sting the side of her face that she realised she?d grazed the entire length of her left side. The pain made her wince, but she didn?t pull away. It seemed a small price to pay for the help.

?Hey-those kids!? someone shouted from a house across the street.

?Where you brats think you?re goin??? someone else shouted after them. ?We?ve called 911! She?s injured-?

Spotlight tried to pick up his pace but was struggling with Pretty Boy?s weight. Both were of a size and height, so he was finding it hard to keep her from losing her balance.

?Come on, I can?t do this alone,? he complained. ?You?ve got to walk yourself.?

She knew he was right. If they kept going like this than neither of them were going to get away before some helpful resident mistook them for wreck victims. She focused and stumbled along on her own, pushing Spotlight away and making for the darkened dirt alley between two houses. They didn?t stop, not even when Pretty Boy fell and tried to rest repeatedly against a dead tree. Spotlight forced her to keep moving, shouting and slapping her whenever she faltered.

?Wish Doc was here,? he complained. ?I think you?ve got a concuss-oh, whatever the hell she calls it when you go all funny after hittin? ya head. I dunno what to do with you.?

?I?m okay,? Pretty Boy lied, pausing at a dumpster at the end of the alley. ?Just?give me a second, yeah??

?No,? Spotlight retorted, pulling her by the arm into the street. ?We?ve got to find the others. Now those wannabe jarheads won?t be comin? after us we should look for the others. Or at least find Doc.?

?I don?t?I don?t think that?s happening,? Pretty Boy breathed. Her attention was caught by a car sitting beneath a nearby streetlight. Its engine wasn?t running and Spotlight hadn?t paid it any attention because it wasn?t moving. But while she watched, the doors opened and figures began to climb out. Spotlight glanced over his shoulder-and paused.

Both Mongrels recognised the white-trimmed wifebeaters and silver chains. Pretty Boy took a deep breath and Spotlight swallowed.

?Saracens,? Spotlight whispered. ?What are they doin? here??

Pretty Boy let go of her breath and pushed off the dumpster with unsteady strides.

?Why don?t we find out?? she suggested, beckoning for Spotlight to follow.