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Jack
As Frankie's sickening laugh fills the small park entryway, I punch him hard in the face and knock his gun away with my free hand. He staggers back, but I don't give him time to recover before kicking his legs out from under him. Frankie lands hard and coughs loudly, so I climb on top of him and punch him tirelessly.
I punch him so badly that his blood splatters all over my face and arm from his nose. My vision becomes red with rage, and I wrap my hands around his neck. He kicks out his legs, writhing around beneath me like a worm. I let out a roar of heartbreak similar to Heather's this morning, banging his head on the concrete.
I won’t let him take another person from me. But somehow, Frankie pulls out another gun from under his jacket, and I must roll off him to avoid being blown a hole in. Scrambling to my feet, I lunge at him again before he can regain footing. His hand is tiny in mine—like the small, little man he really is. Kneeing him hard in the gut, I yank back his arm to dislocate his shoulder, and he cries out in pain.
“I’m gonna enjoy it,” I hiss, spitting as I throw him back, and he drops onto his ass once again. Wrapping my hands around his throat, I watch, unblinking, as his eyes boggle and his lips pucker. He claws at my hands, but I ignore the sharp burn of breaking the skin. “Die, you goddamned motherfucker. Die a horrible, lonely death and know that no one will miss you. You won’t even get a funeral like your father did.”
Frankie opens his mouth, but only bloody bubbles of saliva come out. I watch the capillaries in his eyes burst, the veins popping in his forehead and the top of his jaw. Holding my breath, I relish the sensation of his blood struggling to pump under my palms.
“Jack!” Faintly, I hear someone yelling my name, and my eyelid twitches in aggravation. Now, of all times, someone wants to interrupt me? “Jack! Boss! Heather’s gonna die!”
Blinking out of my trance, I notice Jimmy hovering over Heather, his eyes desperate and shining. I let go of Frankie's neck, and he slumps back to choke and gag. Crawling over to her, I gradually regain my composure. Heather. Bleeding.
"Shit," I mumble, my tongue numb and thick and out of place in my mouth. I examine Heather's face while pressing my hands against her wound. She's awake, her eyes wandering listlessly as she becomes paler by the minute. "Shit- shit- shit- shit."
“I got Frankie, Jimmy,” Someone says from behind me even as my world shrivels to the body underneath me. “Get them out of here!”
“Drive! Damnit, drive!”When did we get to the car?I look up from Heather to find myself in the back seat, still putting pressure on her wound. But now, when I look down, she’s unconscious, her face pale and greenish. “The mansion! Right now, Charles! You better be there when we get there, or I’ll shoot you myself, damnit!”
“Jack,” Jimmy’s voice surrounds me, echoing in the darkness that envelopes my mind. Hands grip my shoulders. “Jack, let her go. They're going to operate on her here. Let her go. It’s okay, Boss.”
“Here? In the car?” I ask, my voice trembling, but suddenly, Heather’s not near me anymore. Glancing around panicky, I breathe shallowly, and Jimmy wraps his arms around me.
“Stop—stop, Boss! You got her here! You got her here,” he murmurs, and I stumble back. How’d I get outside the car? Where am I? Jimmy and another set of arms grip me, holding me back. “Boss!”
“Surgery,” I echo hollowly, and the world spins as I look at Jimmy. He nods, concern dribbling from his expression. “Where’s Frankie?”
“We got him. Robert’s got him, Jack. You finally got him.” Jimmy replies gruffly, and relief sucks the energy from my body. Stumbling back onto my ass in the driveway of my mansion; I gasp for air. My heart suddenly starts to beat again. Gripping my head, I palm my eyes as tears gather.
Finally, I avenged my sister... but at what cost? I put Heather in mortal danger for a dead person. Wasn’t I the one that said dead people are dead, and their wants and feelings and all that shit doesn’t matter? At the time, I was even talking about Madeline. Yet, I turned a blind eye to my bullshit because I thought I could manage it all.
From the moment I met Heather, nothing had gone right. How could I be so stupid? If Heather dies...
I’ll never forgive myself.
“Where—where is he?” I croak, climbing laboriously to my feet, and Jimmy grips my shoulders hard. Wiping my face with my palms, I sniffle harshly. “Where’s that motherfucking bastard?”
“Robert’s taking him down into the basement. But, Boss, you gotta leave him,” Jimmy replies. “Heather needs you.”
"Heather's in surgery," I growl, my conviction sears a path through my chest slowly. "I'll be useless to her... but Frankie—Frankie's not going to wake up, but Heather will."
“We don’t know that, Boss. She was shot through the side and lost so much blood," Jimmy says solemnly, and my lip curls in a snarl. I clench my hands into tight fists by my sides as I storm towards the house. “Boss!”
“She’ll wake up, damnit! And in the meantime, I'll keep myself busy!" I yelled hoarsely, and Jimmy came up behind me but didn't try to stop me. I'm relieved; I'm not sure I have the energy to fight him. No, I need to save as much energy as possible for Frankie. “She’ll wake up. She’s too fucking snarky to die without chewing me out! Damnit! Get me a fucking bottle of wine!”
My roar through the mansion rattles the chandelier—or is that just my imagination? Anything to keep me from thinking about what's going on in the house. Heather is undergoing emergency surgery, and I am powerless. I can't do anything for her.
“Boss,” I pause by the door leading down to the basement, and Mary rushes over to me to grab my hands. “Let me do something about your hands before you go down there.”
"Go wait for Charles to ask for something," I jerk away from her, and despite her worried expression, she takes a mute step back. I flex my hands as I walk down the stairs, wincing at the sharp sting in my knuckles. “Fuck, he’s got a hard face.”
"He's still unconscious, Jack," Robert says as I enter the cellar, and I acknowledge him with a low grunt. The basement is beneath the gun range, and he's ascending as I go down. "You should take a moment to breathe and collect yourself."
“I’ll wake him up,” I snarl nastily, and Robert frowns under his glasses. He turns to follow me down the stairs, and I emerge into the cellar to grip the top of the ceiling that hangs over the steps. Frankie’s tied up, slumping over, bloodied and bruised, and my skin crawls in disgust. “You’ll only get in my way.”
“I’m staying,” Robert replies, putting a hand on my shoulder, and I crane my neck. Rolling my shoulders, I crack my knuckles and stalk forward towards Frankie. Tiling his head back, I examine his bruises and a broken nose. “Let’s wake him up?”
