Apologies for the slow update- life has been... hectic, to say the least. Anyways, here's the next chapter, finally :0) Thanks soooooo much for all the absolutely lovely reviews. I wish I had a better response, but I never know what to say. Just knowing that there are people out there reading this really does mean the world. And when someone takes the time to leave a comment, it makes my day. So thanks again to all of you! Happy reading X

PS. I probably should put a language warning on this chapter. And possibly for the next chapter too.

CHAPTER FIVE

The vehicle mounted the curb and slammed down again as Penhall planted his foot on the brake and brought them to a standstill outside Barry Stevenson’s house. Booker grunted as the motion threw him forward in his seat, but Penhall didn’t give a shit and roughly elbowed open his door, trying unsuccessfully to launch himself from the car before he’d undone his seatbelt.

Sonofabitch… The seatbelt was wrenched free and he stumbled onto the asphalt, slamming the door and pushing his unruly hair from his brow before he rounded the vehicle. Booker followed, unfolding himself from the passenger seat with an air of stiffness and a slightly unsteady gait.

Penhall shot him a look. “Is this the place?”

Booker hesitated, swayed, and then looked up at the house. It was plain from his expression that he’d never been here before. “It’s the address I remember from Barry’s file,” he said finally.

Penhall didn’t reply. It was good enough. Ignoring his urge to ram the front door, he charged up the garden path and rapped a knuckle against the freshly painted white timber. A cute, hand-painted sign beside the door read ‘welcome’, and his eyes wandered until they found the button for the doorbell, which he jabbed numerous times.

Booker waited beside him, his hands buried deep in his coat pockets. He was still swaying, despite the fact that they were standing still.

He needs a hospital, Penhall thought, recalling but refusing to look at the injury he’d noticed earlier upon the taller man’s brow. Any other situation and he’d take Booker straight to a medical centre; but today wasn’t ‘any other day’, and he had a feeling Booker wouldn’t go even if he was given the opportunity. Booker was stubborn, egotistical, and a right royal pain in the ass. But if there was one thing Penhall felt he could be sure of, it was that Booker wanted to find Hanson too. In order to do so, they needed to work together. “You good?” he grunted, eyeing his fellow officer suspiciously.

Booker didn’t smile. He barely nodded. “I’m fine,” was all he said. His voice was tense.

Penhall pounded the door once more. They waited, but the only sounds came from distant traffic and a handful of birds watching them from the trees. Penhall’s impatience rose and he spun around, knuckles flexing. God damn these manicured houses with their fucking white picket fences and their clipped rose bushes. An angry couple of steps saw him trudging through a soft garden bed, craning his neck to peer through the nearest window. What if the kid wasn’t home? Booker went the other way, checking out the window on the opposite side of the front door. Neither of them seemed ready to voice the concern. We don’t even have a plan B, Penhall realized suddenly. Damn it, Hanson was stuck somewhere and with every second that ticked by, they had less and less chance of getting him back.

In a pocket between heartbeats, Penhall recalled the first time he’d met his best friend. Hanson had been clean-cut and by-the-book, uptight and uninteresting. Penhall’s initial reaction to his partner had been Do I seriously have to work with this guy? But, despite first impressions, they’d hit it off, and eventually Hanson’s annoying traits had become bearable. They’d spent so much time together over the past couple of years that they’d learned to overlook each other’s differences. They had personal jokes, they knew how to stir each other up, and sometimes they even finished each other’s sentences. The idea that they could be seriously injured or killed on a job wasn’t one that they cared to entertain. Penhall knew, for his part, that it was a reality that lingered in the back of his mind like a shadow; but one that he never really looked at. Why on earth would he want to look at it? Even now, with Hanson missing and possibly already dead, he refused to look at it. Life can’t do that to me, he thought, recalling how he’d lost the various members of his family. Life can’t take away every single person I’ve ever cared about. And he did care about Hanson; as unmanly as it sounded. He held no doubt that if they failed to find Hanson alive, he’d fall apart… and possibly even shatter.

The glass was cold and lace curtains covered the window on the inside. It was infuriatingly impossible to see anything, and Penhall moved further along to a set of French doors, cupping his hands and peering into the gloom of the house. A rosebush snagged his jeans, and he swore loudly at the same time as Booker’s voice rang out. Penhall pricked his finger trying to escape the clutches of the garden. Booker was moving now, running towards him. Finally Penhall made sense of what he was saying.

“… saw him go out the back door, come on!” For someone with a head injury, Booker sure moved fast.

Penhall leaped from the garden and scrambled across the lawn. Booker disappeared around the corner of the house and when Penhall followed, it was in time to see Booker vault over the tall fence and into the neighbour’s yard. Skidding to a halt, he reversed his direction and shot back towards the street. He swung left and charged up the sloping front lawn of the property next door, ready to intercept Barry when the kid emerged.

Barry sprinted down the side of his neighbour’s house, his eyes going as wide as saucer’s as he caught sight of Penhall. He tripped over himself, trying to change direction. But Booker was right behind him.

Penhall didn’t try to stop Barry. He didn’t have to. With a lot more force than was probably necessary, Booker slammed into the kid, grabbing him around the middle and tackling him roughly to the ground.

Penhall slowed. Booker had Barry pinned on his stomach, the kid’s face planted into the earth and his arms hooked behind his back. Booker’s eyes rose, and Penhall nodded.

“Hi Barry,” Booker hissed, leaning close to Barry’s ear. “Remember me?” Without trying to be gentle, he jerked Barry into a sitting position.

Penhall stepped in front of the kid, holding his badge so that it was clear to see.

Booker spun Barry around and skewered him with a molten glare. “We need to talk,” he stated, his tone fiery. He reached into his coat and withdrew his own badge. “You need to tell me what that fuck-head Gavin has done with my partner.”

Barry’s expression cracked, and then withered. He trembled violently.

“You need to start talking,” Booker stated. “You need to start talking right now.”

Penhall found that he was holding his breath. He was glad that Booker was the one holding Barry, because with all that had happened, he was ready to kill something, and Barry would probably be it.

Hanson was caught in a dream. He was six years old, sitting on his father’s lap. His head was leaned back against his father’s chest and they were beside the ocean, watching light bounce off the water as gulls twirled and squawked. The air was heavy with salt and the greasy smell of burgers and fries. They were sitting on a wooden bench; the sun warming the tops of their heads, and their shoes kicked off. It felt like they could sit forever. It felt like time itself had ceased to exist. It felt like there was nowhere else they had to be.

“Dad?” Hanson mumbled, raising his head.

His father’s face was gentle, carved with lines that came from smiling; not stress. It was an honest face.

“Do you ever get scared?”

The gentleness never wavered. His father nodded, gathering Hanson into a tighter hug. The hug was warmer than the sun.

“If I never got scared,” the older man said. “I wouldn’t be human.”

Hanson felt simple reassurance in the words. He closed his eyes.

“It’s okay to be scared, son.”

Hanson let his body relax. It really was okay.

Suddenly, he was jerked away and the dreamscape shattered. His eyes flung open and his mind was left reeling as the image of his father was replaced by a mass of confusing blurs of light and shadow. Frantically, he blinked water from his lashes and tried to clear his vision. His chest ached and he couldn’t suck enough air into his lungs.

He was freezing, and dripping wet. As far as he could tell his limbs were tied and he was strapped to a chair in a sitting position. He was gagged. He shook his throbbing head, trying to unstick the hair that clung to his brow. He was in a room. It was dark apart from a single lamp that burned on a low table. There were three boys glaring at him. One of them held a dripping bucket. One of them was Gavin. Another was Andy. Hanson had no idea where they were, or how they’d got here.

The boy with the bucket stepped forward, snarling. “Hello princess.” It wasn’t a voice Hanson had ever heard before. “Do you know who I am?”

Hanson didn’t know who he was. He didn’t know much of anything at all. What had happened to Booker? What time was it? There were too many gaps in his memory.

Bucket-boy stepped closer still, his teeth flashing menacingly. Gavin and Andy stayed where they were, hovering.

“My name is Simon.”

The breath against Hanson’s ear was a burning hiss, and he wanted to pull away but couldn’t. A strong hand clamped his jaw and tilted his face upwards.

Simon’s eyes were dark and unforgiving. His expression was cold. “Simon says…”

Hanson swallowed convulsively. The dark-eyed boy grinned wickedly. Gavin snickered in the background.

“Simon says… you’re in trouble.”

And Hanson had a feeling that it wasn’t a lie.

Booker’s head was aching. He felt like it was about to split and spill his brains. He wasn’t in the mood for Barry’s cowardly whining. He wasn’t in the mood for the harsh fluorescent light that burned above them as they stood in the colourful kitchen of Barry’s house, trying to squeeze the kid for answers. Barry was sitting on one of the dining chairs, balled up like a frightened animal. Booker towered over him, and Penhall paced irritably back and forth, back and forth, back and forth. The clock was ticking, and Booker couldn’t help but worry that Hanson’s time was running out. Gavin and Andy weren’t known for taking detours. They’d waste no breath on pleasantries. Booker didn’t know what they were planning to do with Hanson, but he was sure it wouldn’t be good.

Barry whimpered again, and wrapped his arms around his torso. He looked like he was about to vomit. “I can’t believe you’re a cop,” he blubbered.

Booker had had enough and stepped forward, seizing the kid’s shoulders. Barry needed to wake the hell up. “You need to get over that,” he spat. “Yes, I’m a cop. And yes, Tom’s a cop. Get a grip on yourself before you piss your pants and for fuck’s sake, start talking before I put you through a wall.”

It was the wrong thing to say. Barry gagged and shook more violently. From behind him, Booker heard Penhall curse.

“Get out of the way, I’m gonna rip his teeth from his skull-”

Booker spun around in time to stop Penhall from charging their suspect. As much as they both wanted to take their anger out on the kid, they had to follow the rules; at least, most of the rules. “Just… give me a second,” he begged, and Penhall growled some more before finally backing away.

Again Booker turned to Barry. He knelt down, so that he was on the kid’s level. “Listen to me,” he stated firmly.

Barry refused to make eye contact.

Booker gripped the chair and jerked it so that Barry was looking right at him.

There was a tense moment, in which Barry fidgeted and breathed jaggedly through his nose, his nostrils flaring.

Booker took a steadying breath. His muscles twitched with the need to pound something; preferably the boy in front of him. But he resisted. “You’re in a lot of trouble, my friend,” he said stiffly.

Barry flinched.

“Now, I’m guessing your parents will be home soon, and I doubt they’ll be too impressed to find their sweet, innocent son being interrogated by the police.”

Barry swallowed roughly, his eyes flicking to Penhall.

“An officer is missing, Barry.” Booker’s words were so heavy that they threatened to sink through the floor. “I don’t have to tell you how serious this is, or how much shit you’re sitting in. I think you know.” He leaned closer. “And I also think you know what we want to hear. Where have Gavin and Andy taken Tom?”

Barry began to shake his head.

But Booker’s reaction was lightening-quick, and his hand shot out to cup Barry’s chin. Barry could no longer shake his head. “Don’t give me that bullshit.”

Penhall’s patience was at breaking point. “Seriously Booker, step aside and I’ll get the answer out of him. We’re wasting time.”

Perhaps Barry realized that he was in grave danger of having his teeth ripped from his skull. He opened his mouth, babbling incoherently at first; the words broken and tumbling from his lips. Booker released his hold and the words finally took shape.

“M-my parents…” Barry stuttered.

Booker stood up, listening intently. “What about them?”

Barry’s voice was so small it was embarrassing. “Th-they have a c-cottage, about forty-five minutes out of town.” His teeth chattered as he spoke.

Penhall was upon him before Booker could intervene. “Is that where they’ve taken Hanson? Tell me, damn it-”

“I-I-I-I-I think so!” Barry was obviously terrified of the larger officer.

If Booker wasn’t so angry he might have felt sorry for the kid. “How do you know that? Were you involved?” The questions were like darts, and Barry flinched at every syllable.

Penhall was like a bull, and he was seeing red. “If they’ve hurt him, so help me…”

Booker shoved Penhall aside. “Barry!” He said firmly, willing the kid to focus. “You need to tell us right now where this cottage is.”

Barry’s head was bowed, his shoulders hunched. Sobs racked his skinny frame. “I-I didn’t know,” he admitted, his words full of shame. “Gavin didn’t tell me what they wanted the keys for. I-I didn’t know you guys were cops. I just wanted them to like me...” He lifted his red-rimmed eyes. “I’m sorry if they hurt you, I didn’t know they were going to do this, I swear!”

Booker bit his lip, reaching forward and snagging Barry’s shirt. He hoisted the kid up from the chair. “You’re coming with us.”

“M-My parents will kill me,” Barry stated breathlessly, stumbling over his own feet as Booker dragged him towards the front door.

“They’re the least of your concerns,” Penhall snarled. And then he said to Booker, “You get him in the car. I’ll ring Fuller and let him know where we’re headed.”

Booker spun Barry to face Penhall. “Tell him the address,” he demanded.

Barry obeyed.

Penhall disappeared to find a phone and Booker continued to haul Barry.

“Pull the door closed behind you when you leave-” Barry called back to Penhall. “Hey, you’re gonna tear my shirt,” he grumbled to Booker.

But Booker couldn’t care less. Once they reached the car he all but threw Barry inside. “Try to run and I’ll tear your legs off.” He slammed the door and let himself in the front passenger side.

Once he sat down, his head throbbed even harder and a wave of vertigo brought black to the edges of his vision. He squeezed his eyes closed for a moment, before turning to face the pale figure in the back seat. “And just for the record,” he said, his voice raw. “If anything’s happened to Hanson-” He nodded back towards the house. “My friend there wont be the one you’ll have to look out for.” He paused to let his words sink in.

Barry paled even further.

Booker returned his gaze frontwards and leaned his aching head back against the seat. He stared hard at twilight sky. “It’ll be me.”

Hanson couldn’t believe this was happening. His cheek stung from Simon’s last blow and his wrists were raw from the prickly rope that dug into them. He knew who Simon was now. Simon’s older brother Tyson had been the leader of a gang who’d been busted for dealing drugs and firearms, back in October last year. Hanson had been planted in the school alone and had been responsible for Tyson ending up behind bars. It wasn’t a case that had stuck in Hanson’s mind, nor was it one that had been particularly long-winded or eventful. But, obviously, it had meant a huge upheaval in Simon’s life; one that the impressionable young man hadn’t forgotten. Hanson had often wondered how the actions of the kids he’d busted had affected the families involved. He’d often hoped that any siblings like Simon would have learned from their brother’s or sister’s mistakes. Obviously, he’d been disastrously wrong.

“You cops,” Simon declared. “You’re pigs.” He turned and spat on the floor.

Hanson was shaking. The cold air inside the cottage was clinging to his wet shirt.

“You know nothing, yet you think you know everything.”

“Damn straight,” Gavin grunted. He was perched upon the arm of a couch. “Fucking jackass know-it-alls. You came to our school thinking you’d bust us. But you were wrong.”

Hanson’s eyes wandered about the room; sizing it up, assessing his situation. Things looked pretty grim.

“You come along and you interfere, but you have no idea what’s really going on.” Simon’s paused in front of the lamp, his large frame silhouetted against the light. He was as beefy as Andy was tall. “You know nothing about family. You know nothing about honour.” He turned and kicked at the couch and Gavin barely managed to suppress a startled flinch. “You don’t know what it’s like to have to support your family because your old man’s a fucking drunk and your mother’s a loony from being belted so many God damn times by the man she married.” His eyes bored into Hanson’s. “I bet you had a perfect upbringing. I bet your mummy tucked you into bed and your daddy took you to baseball games. You wouldn’t understand why my brother did the things he did, because I bet your family always had food and money. You probably thought your daddy was a hero.” He paused, before adding, “I’ve heard about him, you know.”

Hanson’s stomach had clenched at the mention of his father. Now he just felt sick.

“This city thought he was a hero, too.” Simon’s tone was mocking; nasty. “But he was a pig, just like you. He was scum. And he died like a coward.”

Something inside Hanson snapped. He wanted to yell at Simon to shut the hell up, but the sour gag in his mouth prevented him from doing so. All he managed was to rattle the chair.

Simon threw his head back and laughed. “Oh, you’re so pathetic.” The light brought a sickly glow to his ugly features and shadows pooled around his sunken eyes. He turned to Gavin and Andy. “Isn’t he pathetic?”

They nodded, like trained dogs; Gavin’s features cracked into a measured smile while Andy’s stony expression remained as lifeless as ever.

Hanson’s breath came jaggedly through his nose. He wanted to take Simon around the throat and squeeze until his fingers broke. He wanted to punch the ugliness from Simon’s features and rearrange his face until he was unrecognizable. He wanted to hurt something, because he was so desperately panicked about being so vulnerable and alone. His eyes kept darting to the doorway of the room, and he found himself unconsciously hoping that Penhall or Booker would burst in. He’d never been one to pray, but he was beginning to think that perhaps it wouldn’t be a bad idea. He saw the fire in Simon’s eyes. He knew there wasn’t going to be a happy ending to this story.

“You make me sick,” Simon stated, stepping forward and catching Hanson across the jaw with a heavy blow.

The impact was so great that it sent the chair backwards, and before Hanson knew what was happening, the back of the chair hit the timber floor with a crack, jarring his hips and shoulders. He squeezed his eyes closed and let out a groan. When he opened them again, his vision swam for a moment. Simon was over him; a dark shape against the backdrop of the high ceiling. Hanson couldn’t do anything but blink back. His ankles were bound, but as far as he could tell they weren’t tied to the chair legs. The impact with the floor had loosened the rope that passed around his chest and shoulders and the back of the chair. He focused on the rope around his wrists. If he could loosen it as well, he might have a chance to break free.

Simon seized his shoulders and threw him upright again.

Hanson’s teeth smashed together as the chair legs slammed down upon the floor. God, he’s going to give me whiplash… Again his vision swam. As subtly as he could, he moved his shoulders, making sure that the rope around his chest was still loose.

Simon appeared before him.

“So,” Gavin said, glaring at Hanson but directing his words to Simon. “What are we going to do with him?”

It was clear that Simon was the ‘head honcho’ of this whole operation. Hanson returned Gavin’s glare, refusing to be intimidated. You can go to hell, he thought bitterly, resting his gaze a moment longer on the school bully before returning it to Simon.

Simon didn’t turn to look at Gavin. He remained where he was, looming over Hanson. His expression betrayed no fear. He was a kid who felt he had nothing to lose. “We teach him a lesson,” he stated, his tone definite.

Hanson stared back into Simon’s soulless eyes. God, what wretched life had made him this way? Hanson struggled with his emotions, desperately drawing upon his training and what he’d been instructed to do in situations like this. The books make it sound so easy. The books said nothing about how to deal with fear.

And Hanson was afraid, no matter how hard he tried to hold it together. He hoped like hell his friends were on their way, and that they would find him before Simon dealt him a blow that he couldn’t wake up from. But he couldn’t assume they knew where he was. He couldn’t even assume Booker was alive. People died from head injuries all the time, and the last he’d seen of Booker, his temporary partner had been bleeding and unconscious upon the ground.

His thoughts drifted to Penhall. They’d planned to catch up this weekend. Sickeningly, his stomach turned. They probably wouldn’t get to.

In fact, it was possible he’d never see his best friend again.

“What sort of a lesson?” Gavin asked eagerly.

As a response, Simon just grinned.

Ioki had a map sprawled across his lap, and he struggled to read it in the dim light as the car he was in flew along a road that would lead them out of the city. Hoffs and Fuller were in the front, throwing conversation back and forth. The atmosphere in the vehicle was tense and heavy. Fuller was in a frightening mood, and Hoffs sat stiff in her seat with an anxious and troubled expression painted across her normally calm features. Ioki had looked up the address of the cottage as soon as Penhall had given it to them. It was isolated and out-of-the-way, and a perfect location for a bunch of goons wanting to avoid detection. He was worried about Hanson. He was worried that something terrible was going to happen to him. Perhaps they were already too late…

With a shake of his head, he wiped the thought from his mind.

They’d find Hanson. They’d get the guys who did this. Penhall and Booker were already a good ten minutes ahead. It had been less than an hour since Booker had called to say that Hanson had been taken. In some situations, and hour was a long time. But it only took a second to kill someone…

Again Ioki shook his head. No. Hanson was not dead. And as far as he was concerned, his friend and fellow officer was not going to die tonight. Not if they could help it.

He glanced out the window. The moon was rising; a yellow orb shivering into view above the lowest buildings. Fuller’s dark eyes flicked to meet his in the rear-view mirror. Ioki pulled himself straighter and nodded. Stiffly, Fuller nodded back.

They’d find Hanson.

And he would be just fine.

tbc