One to Dawn

“Hey, wake up,” Ducky says, followed by, “He ain’t wakin’ up, J.”

“Move,” Jack grumbles.

From my hiding place, crouched down at the edge of the thick brush-line, I watch Jack drop to one knee and lean over the incapacitated man before doing something to his face. Ducky carelessly twirls his gun in his hands, whistling a low tune.

The man on the ground jerks, then falls into a coughing fit and Jack stands.

“Why you even wanna wake this asshole pig up? He ain’t deserve last rites,” Ducky complains. He’s a cherry little bastard. Body dumps like this are his favorite. Gives him the biggest thrill, he says. I’ve had to tag along on a few before, though I never jump at the opportunity like Ducky—it’s just part of the job.

“Shut your mouth and learn some damn respect.” And that’s Jack. The only hitman I’ve ever heard of that has any shred of respect for a human life. Even after decades on the job. He’s a quiet type. Old school. Loyal to the Marchetti Family—our employer. His friendship is one of the few I value.

I don’t think he likes certain aspects of this job, same as me, but you don’t easily walk away from this life.

The unconscious man’s coughing fit slows until it dies out completely. Jack leans in and talks to the guy, and I hear rough, disoriented responses. Not surprising. We worked him over good back at the warehouse for days. When it was my turn to have a go at him, Dean called me out for going easy on him. Had to play it off as an old injury bothering me.

The truth was in our mutual recognition, though he recognized me before I him. His battered face an egregious contrast to the easy-going smile I grew up around. Knowing what was at stake, he played dumb until we were alone, then all he asked me was, “Why, Hunt?”

Hunt.

I don’t go by Hunter Carnes anymore. I’m Danny Thomas.

When my oldest friend, Leo, called me by the only name he knew for me, I slipped a finger up to my lips in a silent plea for him to stop talking. And he did. Especially once I started throwing the punches, aiming for less vital areas that would only bruise him.

Jack is trying to steady Leo on his knees, but he continues to sway, making Jack’s job impossible. Ducky is getting antsy, his darkening silhouette dancing with anticipation.

I make a quiet dash from the brush and around the three men, until I am behind Ducky. He is too busy complaining to Jack to register my presence, giving me the opportunity to ease the blackjack from my waistband and strike him over the head. He collapses into a heap and Jack drops Leo in surprise.

Jack has trouble getting to his feet and even more trouble wrangling his gun from its holster.

Squaring my own gun at him and shaking my head, he eventually sticks his hands up in compliance.

Smart man.

“Keys?” I ask.

“Ignition.”

His assessing stare sweeps up and down my body, but the mask conceals my identity, leaving my unremarkable eyes the only feature visible.

At my insistence, Jack removes the bindings from Leo’s hands and feet, and tosses the two lengths of rope to me. I advance on Jack, securing his hands behind his back, then kicking in his left knee—his bad knee. He drops to the ground, tipping over onto his back. Ducky doesn’t receive the same courtesies as Jack does from me. Still unconscious, he gets hogtied.

I drag Leo from the lakeshore, back to Jack’s car, depositing him in the backseat and laying my jacket over his naked form before climbing in behind the wheel.

Leo’s in bad shape. Every breath is a labored wheeze, with the occasional cough, and he is out cold again. There’s no telling what damage my guys did to him. Considering they knew Leo’s a cop when they brought him in, odds are not great.

Once we’re back in the city, I park in the first deserted alley I come across and climb in the backseat. “Leo, buddy, wake up.” Tapping his cold, ashen cheek a few times, he refuses to stir. Which is clearly not a good sign. “Come on,” I plead, brushing his hair off his sweaty forehead.

Specks of blood appear on his lips following a particularly bad round of coughing.

“Shit. No, no, Leo…” Returning to the driver’s seat, I get us headed to the only person I think will help.

***

“Marla, it’s Hunt.”

“What do you want?” her angry voice sounds out from the intercom beside the entrance to her apartment building.

“Can you let me in? Leo’s with me…he’s hurt.”

The only response she offers comes in the form of the building door buzzing open. If there’s one thing Marla likes about me it’s that I care about Leo. I can’t blame her, though. He’s a good man—a great man. The best friend I’ve ever had. On any other matter, I am pure evil in her eyes.

“Hunt, what in the world?” Both hands shoot up to cover her mouth. Her pale, blue eyes filling with tears and worry when she meets us at the entrance to her unit.

“Help him?”

She forces her horrified gaze from Leo’s bloodied face over to mine, simply nodding once.

Leading me into her small apartment, back to a guest room, she has me lay Leo on the bed. I remove my jacket from his torso and pull a sheet over his lower body. Marla immediately jumps into doctor mode—well, nurse mode. She’s a hell of a nurse, I know that without a doubt. It’s why I brought Leo here. And because she understands discretion.

Shooing me back out of the room, she ducks into the ensuite bathroom, hauling a large bag to Leo’s bedside. Medical supplies, I discover, by watching from the doorway.

“Wait in the living room,” she orders.

Grateful she didn’t tell me to leave entirely, I make my way to Marla’s plush couch and take a heavy seat.

He'll be okay. I chant the mantra over in my head, willing it to come true, because I can’t lose Leo. Not him, please.

***

“He should be in a hospital.”

Her shrewd voice startles me awake. Marla is standing in front of me when I open my eyes, hands on her hips, her expression a mix of that disdain she reserves for me and worry for Leo.

“Can’t do, Mar. You know that.”

She throws her hands up and blows past me, into the kitchen.

I stand and follow, falling behind to give her space. “How is he?”

“How do you think, Hunt? He’s hurt! Bad! Because of you! All you do is hurt him, you selfish prick! I don’t understand why he still sticks up for you.”

The words don’t sting like they should because I’ve heard them before. And I know they’re true. Leo has fearlessly stuck by me for years, despite my own proclivity for trouble. Even after mixing him up in some of that trouble in our youth. And I don’t attempt to explain to Marla what actually happened. No point. She won’t see it any other way but my fault.

“Please, Mar. How is he?”

She shrugs this time, turning her back to me. “Go ask him yourself.” Pure venom in her low voice.

When I step in the bedroom, I find Leo propped back against a stack of pillows, bent at his waist. A pained look pinned on his face and eyes closed with his brow drawn way down the middle.

I quietly drag a chair over to the bed and take my seat. The lamp on the bedside table illuminates his beaten face. Stitches beneath the one eye I can see. A catheter is secured with tape in his chest. He’s clean of his own blood now, at least.

“Hunt?”

“Right here, brother.”

He carefully turns his head to better face me. There are more stitches on the other side of his face, some near his temple and butterflies along his jaw. Bruises everywhere.

He forces a small smile, his eyelids drooping. “You look like shit.”

I chuckle. “Better than you, ya ugly bastard.” He gifts me with his own chuckle. “What’s the prognosis?”

“Diagnosis,” he corrects and I roll my eyes. “I don’t know. Mar used too many big words.” His speech is slow and slurred.

“What kind of worthless ass medic are you?”

“Former medic, jerk.” His languid grin negates the insult. “Couple of broken ribs, I guess. My head is pounding like crazy. And my shoulder’s definitely dislocated. Everything else just scratches an’ bruises.”

“What’s the thing in your tit for?” I ask, tipping my head towards the catheter.

A confused look blooming on his face, he glances down at his chest. “Oh, shit. Didn’t even see that. Pneumothorax maybe?”

“Marla get you the good stuff for pain?”

“Yeaaah. Don’t think I’d be so cheery without it.”

“I’m sorry, Leo. So damn sorry.”

“No worries, man. Part of the job.” He shrugs his good shoulder and smiles again.

Job.

He’s a decorated Army medic, turned respected police detective.

I’m a fucking henchman for a crime family. My job? Keep the local drug-ring functioning.

“How'd they get you?” I ask.

“Makin’ an arrest on one of your coworkers and that squirrely prick didn’t agree.”

Ducky.

If he’s responsible for Leo getting nabbed, I’ll end the little shit myself.

“Why, Hunt?”

He asks the same, simple question every time we hangout. This time, all the humor leaves his expression and there is more pain in his voice. Not entirely physical pain, either. He resents the path I’ve chosen, but I never lie to him; I can’t walk away.

You never walk away from this life.

“I’m sorry, brother.” I look away.

“They’re coming after you guys, Hunt. Top brass is putting together a new task force aimed at coming down hard on the local drug-ring—shoot first and ask questions later kind of hard. I don’t want that for you. Not you, Hunt, please…”

I brush the hair back off his forehead as he struggles to stop a bout of coughing. “I’ll be alright, man. You know me, I always take care of myself.”

He shakes his head, eyes taking on that look I only ever see after our conversations regarding my life choices; disappointment laced with grief.

Talking becomes painful for Leo, so we fall into familiar silence. Never needing to say much to each other, it’s peaceful and easy between us. An hour passes and Leo’s blinks slow down as he fights unconsciousness. “Hunt—” he rasps.

“Marla said you need rest,” I interject. “I’ll come check on you in a bit, alright?”

He briefly closes his eyes and takes a strangled breath, then nods. “Think about it, brother. I love you.”

“Love ya, man.” His eyes finally slip closed for good and I leave the room, then the apartment entirely, not sparing Marla another word.

Leo’s in good hands and I’m already late for work.

***

“Yo, Danny boy, Boss wants to see you,” Dean hollers as soon as I set foot in the warehouse—the Marchetti Family’s headquarters. I beeline to the small office our boss keeps, offering one courtesy knock before stepping inside.

Ducky is leaned against the wall to my left, cigarette hanging from his lips and he’s shaking his head at me. A smile stretched across his face like he’s got some big secret he wants to hold over me.

Then there’s Jack, sitting in the chair next to Boss’ desk, repeatedly running a hand over his mouth. He won’t look at me.

“You wanted to see me?”

“Danny, let’s take a little drive,” Boss says, his tone calculating as he pushes up from his chair.

Behind me, a hand lands on my shoulder and something digs into my back.

Sorry, brother. You don’t walk away from this life.