Arcanepath.net

THE FAMILY

The boy was fourteen. He wore jeans and a checked shirt over a white T. His brown sneakers were of a good quality, matching his clothes.

He had had an argument with his father this morning and had stormed out of their apartment and got on the overhead that stopped just outside their building.
He had sat in the crowded carriage fuming at his father. He got at one station and straight onto another. Finally after an hour he got off the train with no idea where he was.
This part of the city was run down. Many of the shops that lined the street outside the station were boarded up, the wooden shuttering covered in graffiti. The boy didn’t care, he shoved his hands in his pockets and walked west along the litter strewn sidewalk.

It was so unfair! His parents had dragged him away to this damned place. Away from his friends because his father had business here and they thought it would be nice for his to get away for a while, see something different.

What would have been nice for him would have been seeing Rachel.
Rachel Heaseman had been his friend since elementary school. Her father was into politics, he was a governor now.
The boy had started looking at Rachel differently about a year ago and had finally plucked up the courage to ask her out on a date, a proper boyfriend-girlfriend date. It had been the last day of school. She had looked shocked and not really given him an answer, which he took as a good sign. Normally Rachel wasn’t backwards in speaking her mind.
He had called her this morning and she had said that her father wasn’t going to let her see him any more as a friend or girlfriend.
He had been gutted, and the fact that she was really angry with her father didn’t make it any better.
He told his mother over breakfast and his father had overheard and said that he shouldn’t worry because he didn’t want him seeing her either.
That’s when they had argued. His father had said it was time he grew up, he couldn’t let his older brothers do all the work, he had ha lot to learn about the world and he should remember his place and do as he was told.

Walking along the street he kicked a discarded soda can. It clattered across the uneven paving slabs, jumped as it struck a raised corner and bounced with a metallic ‘thunk’ off the door of a car.

“Hey, you little fuck!” called a red faced man with thick sideburns and moustache as he leaned out of the car window and wagged a accusing, fat finger. “You want me to come out there and paste your ass all over the sidewalk?”
The boy looked horrified. “Oh, I’m sorry sire! I didn’t mean for that to happen.”
“Well that’s not going to help fix the damage now, is it?” the red faced gut growled.
Looking harder at the car, the boy struggled to see one panel that wasn’t scratched, dented or holed with rust.
“I’m sorry,” the boy repeated, not sure what else to say.
The pudgy finger wagged at him. “Sorry, my ass! You owe me kid.”
With a creak that made the boy jump, the car door started to open and the boy took a step back.
The man was heaving himself around and the boy only now noticed how obese the man was.

Suddenly a tell thin figure appeared beside the door and slammed it shut.
This new arrival, dressed in hi-top trainers, cargo pants and a hoody leaned into the window and hissed at the fat man.
“Take a pill, slim!”
The red faced man’s eyes widened. The boy thought he looked scared.
“Get lost!” the new person said.
With that the car coughed to life, thick black smoke poured from the back and the wreck wheezed its way down the street.

Chuckling to himself the young man gave the boy a smile with a thin lipped small mouth that was framed with a neatly trimmed goatee. He was thin but that made his features mean rather than gaunt.
His eyes were sunk in dark sockets and were small and dark themselves.
Pulling his hood back he gave the boy a quick nod of his head in greeting.
“You alright kid?”
The boy looked at him.
He chuckled again. “Hey man, it’s cool! I ain’t gonna hurt you or nothin’. The name’s Proof.”
The boy returned the nodded greeting. “Tarlan.”
“Tarlan?” Proof mulled the name over.

The boy continued to stare nervously at the young man.
“Unusual name,” Proof mused.
“So is Proof!” Tarlan responded almost automatically.
It made Proof chuckle again. “It’s just what they call me,” he shrugged.
“Why?”
“Don’t matter. So, you lost or something?”
“No!” Tarlan snapped, embarrassed that he was indeed lost, in so far as he had no idea where he was. He thought he had a good idea how to get back to the station and how hard could it be to find his way back to Westchester?
Proof raised his hands defensively. “Hey man, chill! No problem.”
He had sized up the boy as he had been walking along the street with his hands in his pockets, all clean and expensive looking. Sussed him for an up-towner in an instant. Why else would an up-town kid be wandering through Derville if he wasn’t lost?
“Listen, kid,” Proof smiled apologetically. “Tarlan,” he corrected himself, “me and some of the guys are shooting hoops down at the courts. It just around the corner. You wanna come?”
Tarlan thought about what his father would say. He’d tell him not to associate with these sorts. His mother would tell him not to go off with strangers. One part of him wanted to obey his mother’s advice, but the other part, the part that was angry at his dad said, Fuck father!.
“Shooting hoops?” Tarlan inquired.
“Shit man, you are lost!” Proof laughed giving Tarlan a friendly pat on the shoulder. “Basketball?”
“Oh, right. I’ve never played basketball before.”
“Get the hell out of here!” Proof said disbelievingly.
Tarlan shook his head.
Proof laughed again. “Don’t sweat it. The way some of the guys shoot you’d think they’d never played either! Come on.”

Proof led Tarlan to a space between two tall apartment blocks.
The buildings were made of the same brown concrete that most of Derville was constructed of. Separating the two blocks was a space about thirty meters wide of the same brown concrete. Benches were dotted around the perimeter, mostly clustered adjacent to raised beds that may once have contained flowers and plant but now were mostly bare dry earth, and litter.
At the far end of the space was a park, swings, slides, climbing frames for younger kids.
Closer, the remaining space had been divided into three basketball courts surrounded by high chain-link fences.
Tarlan counted about a dozen young men and boys about his age in the nearest court.
A wailing siren echoed off the walls and the group stopped playing. One of them catching the ball and holding it. They looked around suspiciously.
Suddenly the siren got louder and everyone watched the sky as a red and white lev shot overhead, its electric blue anti-grav coils glowing against the dark underside of the vehicle.
Upon seeing it was just an EMT ambulance the group resumed its game.
The game stopped again when Proof approached with Tarlan on tow. Several of them were scoping out the new kid.
Proof introduced him and everyone said “Hi.”
Proof told them that Tarlan was a friend from up-town and they were to play nice as he was new to the game.
It took him a while to get the hang of the rules, and the guys went easy on him, but after a while, once it looked like he was doing okay, they started getting rougher, playing their normal style of game.
Tarlan noticed a group of girls, probably aged about seventeen watching the game. Sometimes they cheered when someone scored, others they ridiculed for missing the shot.
It was obvious that one or two of the girls had boyfriends on the court.
The game was going great and the two teams, identified by the coloured bandana they were wearing were evenly matched and both aggressively passionate about beating the opposition.
Tarlan jumped in to intercept a pass shoulder barged a guy they called Rags to the ground. He got up angry and shoved Tarlan against the fence.

“You got a problem, little man?” Rags asked with threat dripping from every word.
Tarlan looked up, scared. Rags was a big guy, probably six feet tall and built like a line-backer.
His wide nose shone with sweat and his dark brown eyes were daring Tarlan to make a move against him.
The boy slid to the floor and remained there staring up at the big black man.
“Hit him!” a shrill voice called from the group of girls.
Rags looked their way and grinned, flashing white teeth.
“You just watch it you little punk or I’ll give Hannah what she wants to see.”
Tarlan nodded.
“Now,” Rags called to the rest of the gang. “Pass me that Damned ball.”
The game carried on and Tarlan got to his feet brushing himself down. He felt a little shaky.
Proof came up to him. “Come on man,” he said. “I reckon he’s just testin’ you. He does that to the new guys. You stand up to him man, he’ll respect that.”
“Okay,” Tarlan gave Proof what he hoped was a confident nod of thanks.
The game carried on and Tarlan felt relieved what Rags gave him a high-five when he scored his first hoop.
Tarlan was smiling happily, enjoying himself. He had forgotten all about the argument with his father.

“That was a pretty good shot, man,” Rags said. “Puts your score ahead of ours don’t it?”
“Sure does, Rags,” Tarlan smirked.
“That’s what my friends call me.”
“Sorry, what?” Tarlan asked turning to face Rags.
“I said, that’s what my friends call me, you ain’t no friend of mine, punk. I don’t even know you mother-fucker!”
Rags was squaring up to him again and Tarlan backed off.
“Don’t go callin’ me that again, you shit.”
Tarlan looked nervously at the rest of the gang. They were all watching impassively.
“Sorry. I didn’t realise.” Tarlan remembered what Proof had said.
“Perhaps you should have told me first instead of getting all upset about it.”
Rags gave him the sort of look that said he couldn’t believe what he had just heard.
“What you say to me?”
Tarlan glanced nervously around, saw them all watching him, the girls too.
“I think I’d better be heading home,” the fourteen year old said, a little quiver in his voice. He stepped around Rags, staring straight at the gate in the fence.
Rags’ meaty hand grabbed his shirt, threw him back into the fence again, then got up close, almost nose to nose.
“You don’t leave til we say so boy,” Rags hissed the last word like it was some sort of curse.
Tarlan could have hated himself for it but said, “My father will be looking for me He…”
His words were cut off as Rags punched him in the stomach.
“I don’t give a shit about your father, boy. But I do reckon I like the sneakers, and your watch.”
“Do the little bastard again!” a female voice shrilled. Tarlan guessed it must be Hannah.
The boy searched the faces of those around him. He was doubled up and looking up through tear rimmed eyes. He appeared at that moment a lot smaller than he really was.
“Proof?” the boy implored, hoping his new friend would come to his rescue.
Proof just shrugged at him.
Rags grabbed his shoulder making him stand up straight.
Tarlan felt his legs wobble.
Rags hit him again, knocking the wind out of him, but his big hand held tight to Tarlan’s shoulder stopping him falling.
Tarlan coughed and struggled to draw breath, his face going red in the effort.
Rags’ huge fist drew back for another go.
“Wait!” Proof commanded and Rags stopped.
“Back off. Leave him alone.”
Rags looked questioningly at Proof who nodded seriously.
The big guy backed off as commanded, but not before giving Tarlan a smack across the head.
It wasn’t hard but it was enough to make him stumble sideways.
Proof caught him before he fell over.
“You alright?” he asked.
Tarlan nodded gratefully, gasping in great lungfuls of air. “I gotta go home,” he wheezed.
“Go home?” Proof shrugged at him. “Why’d you come down here?”
Tarlan wasn’t about to tell these assholes about his argument with his father, not now. So he said, “I just wanted to see the city.”
Proof laughed, his thin lips stretching thinner as they were pulled tightly over his yellow teeth.
“Tourist, huh?” he mused. “Well you know there’s a tithe, don’t ya?”
Tarlan eyed the tall thin man warily. “You what?”
“A tithe. A tax. A tourism tax. Time to pay up, boy,” Proof said as his hand slid from his pocket.
Brass rings lined his knuckles, he adjusted the duster for a better fit and lashed out at Tarlan.
The metal hit Tarlan’s cheek. Inside his head the boy thought he heard something important crunch. His vision went black for an instant and when it cleared he found himself face down on the hard court. He could taste blood and gravel in his mouth.
Blinking to clear his vision he saw Proof looming over him. Putting a hand up defensively the boy cried out. “Please stop!”
Proof punched him again.
He heard it for definite this time, his jaw bone snapping.
“Stop!” the boy cried again, but the blood bubbling in his mouth strangled the sound.
Proof stooped and took the boy’s expensive watch from his limp wrist.
“I like his watch too,” Proof grinned at Rags, slipping the strap over his own wrist.
He looked up after adjusting the strap to fit and spotted a long black limousine pulling to a halt near the kerbside.
“He’s all yours, boys.”
Proof strolled over towards the car, the sounds of fists and boots striking meat and cries of pain behind him.
A girl laughed hysterically some way off.

The passenger window rolled silently down and an olive skinned man, short cropped black hair and mirrored glasses leaned out.
“The Cross wants a word about Tuesday’s job.”
Proof walked quickly to the back of the car, opened the door and slid into the dark interior.
The Cross and two of his henchmen were inside.
The Cross was a man in his mid-fifties, balding with silver hair and a thin pencil moustache.
“Boss,” Proof said in greeting.
The Cross looked out through the open door, across the drab concrete space to where nearly a dozen young men and what he could only call kids were kicking what looked like a young lad around the court.
Every now and then a meaty slap would drift into the quiet interior of the car.
“What’s that about?” The Cross asked calmly.
Proof shrugged nonchalantly.
“Nothing much boss, just taxing some uptown kid.”
The Cross rolled his eyes. “Didn’t I say to knock that crap on the head?”
“Lets the boys let off steam, boss.”
The cross shook his head in dismay. “Whatever, so long as it doesn’t affect business.”
“It won’t boss, don’t worry.”
Frowning at his subordinate The Cross watched as a young girl broke away from their pack and ran into the courtyard
“Stop it!” she was screaming, “Stop! You’ll kill him!”
She pushed her way through the men and stood defiantly between them and the inert body of the fourteen year old boy.
The young men cursed at her and told her to stop spoiling their fun, yet none made a move against her.
“Your sister has her head on straight. You shouldn’t kill the boy in your own back yard,” The Cross warned.
Proof nodded agreement to The Cross, leaned out of the car and whistled to get the gang’s attention. He drew his hand like a knife across his own throat signalling that the game was over.
“You’ll have to decide whether you’re going to kill him at all, you know. If his parents or whoever could cause trouble. Who is he?” The Cross said dispassionately.
“Like I said, some uptown kid.”
The Cross sighed. “His name?”
Proof shrugged like it was insignificant. “Tarlan.”
The Cross waited then found he had to probe further. “Tarlan what?”
“Dunno.”
With a sigh The Cross rubbed his eyes tiredly. “What have I said about knowing who you are dealing with. How can you expect to make ain informed decision about how to deal with someone if you have no idea who they are?”
fidgeting uncomfortable, despite the soft leather seat, Proof nodded and leaned out of the car for a second time.
“Search him and bring me what he’s got,” he called over.
“What about these?” Rags called back holding Tarlan’s sneakers aloft.
“No, not them,” Proof barked.
One of the gang, a fifteen year old boy with blond hair and a wide nose broken beyond repair from fighting in bare knuckle bouts at the local gym carried over a handful of items.
“Gimme his wallet,” Proof said taking it from the blond kid. His attention was divided between the contents of the wallet and of the kids hands.
The kid whistled in amazement.
“Not bad, Proof, oh hello The…. Mr….. Cross, erm, yeah, like there’s a thousand bucks on this credstick.”
“Nice!” Proof said, pleased with that haul. Rifling through the wallet he found a medical information card. Doctors could scan the card and get all the details of the patients medical records and even their genetic fingerprint.
“What’s this?” the kid asked, looking at a credit card sized device with a button in the middle. The button had a sliding cover on it to stop it being pressed accidentally.
Proof gave another of his characteristic shrugs. “No idea.”
The kid slid the cover aside and poised his thumb over the button.
The Cross’ attention drifted from Proof, whom he was waiting upon for an answer, to the object in the kid’s hand.
“Don’t….” he barked but it was too late.
As the kid’s thumb brushed against the silvery button the edge of the card illuminated neon red. A moment later the words ‘PANICARD™ ACTIVATED’ appeared on the previously blank surface.
“You idiot!” The Cross snarled. “Now the law and the medics have been alerted to the kid’s location.”
“You idiot!” Proof echoed.
“Who is he?” The Cros snatched the ID card from Proof’s hand.
He read the name on the card and his eyes widened and he swallowed hard.
“You fucking idiot!” he swore.
Proof shook his head at the blond kid disapprovingly.
“Not him! You!”
Proof looked offended.
“You see the name on that card?” The Cross asked.
Proof read it.
“Cobretti? Why do I know that name?”
The Cross scowled at him. “That is the youngest son of Vitto Cobretti, you fucking moron!”
Proof blanched white. “Oh shit!”
“Get out!” The Cross ordered. “Get everyone the hell out of here. There can’t be anyone here when they come.”
Proof scrambled out of the car almost knocking the blond kid over.

The EMT paramedic flinched when he saw the bleeding swollen form that looked more like a giant Spanish sausage wrapped in bloody rags than an actual human being.
He looked around the area but there was no one else about. He wondered very briefly who had set off the Panicard, which was laying on the ground half covered in congealing blood.
He closed the gap to the boy and immediately checked his vital signs. Finding the pulse was difficult but it was there.
Strapping a bio-scanner to the boys arm he activated it and applied the medication it told him to.
His partner arrived and she helped get the boy onto a gurney.
Within three minutes of arriving, just ten minutes after the card had been activated, the ambulance lifted off the road and soared above the endless brown tenements.

There were voices, that much he could tell, but he couldn’t make out who they were.
Whoever it was, was speaking softly, like someone waiting patiently and not wanting to disturb someone. But he couldn’t understand what they were saying either.
He realised his eyes were shut and tried to open them. They wouldn’t open.
Something touched his head, warm and soft. A hand stroked his across forehead and down his cheek. His senses concentrated on the contact.
“Tarlan?” a quiet, slightly worried voice whispered.
A warm glow spread across him, fighting away the rising panic. His mother’s voice.
“Mum?” his own voice was cracked and faint. The sound of it made him realise that he couldn’t hear in one ear and he wondered why that was?
“It’s okay darling, you’re safe now my sweetheart.
“Mum! I couldn’t make them stop!” the horror of the beating flooded back and tears rolled down his swollen cheeks. “I kept screaming for them to stop!”
“Who boy? Who did you try to stop? Who did this to you?”
This voice was older, harsher, full of authority. It was his father’s.
“Sorry, father,” Tarlan managed.
“Sorry? Don’t you waste time with sorry…”
“Vitto!” his mother warned her husband.
“Alright son, you rest now,” his father said, his voice softer now and his hand pressing his son’s. “You get better and we’ll talk then, okay?”
Tarlan clutched his father’s hand tight. His dad had always looked after them, protected them all. Him, his two brothers and his sister.
“Mum,” he croaked. “I can’t feel my legs.”
Martha Cobretti wept silently.

Marlan Cobretti followed the family tradition of tall men. He was six feet and three inches tall and built like an Olympic athlete.
Unlike Pauli, the eldest brother, Marlan got his physique through hours of training in the gym and on the track. He’d had a crack at the Olympic qualifiers when he was nineteen. He’d tried out for the two hundred and four hundred meter sprints. He would have had a good chance too except for the disclosure of a juvenile record, which instantly disqualified him from the team.
He had dark eyes, like the rest of his family, dark hair, worn short and was clean shaven.
Dressed in a suit and long coat he was out of place on the street where litter lined the walls and gathered mouldering in the gutters.

Standing on the opposite side of the road to the courts he cast his eyes about the brown tenements suspiciously.
Reaching into a pocket he produced a packet of cigarettes. He fished around some more and found he had left his lighter behind.
Turning from the basketball courts he moved further along the street to a mini-market that hid behind barred windows and big concrete anti-ram raid barriers.
Pushing the door open made a quaint bell-like alarm sound further in the shop.
He strode to the counter and asked for a lighter.
The shopkeeper, behind his wire mesh, was an old guy, probably in his sixties.
The old man nodded and reached under the counter for a disposable lighter. “That it?” he asked, to which Marlan replied with a single nod.
“Sixteen yen.”
Marlan slid his credstick into the slot and paid.
“You looking for something fella?” the shopkeeper asked.
Marlan knew his crisp, clean designer suit made him stand out a mile.
“Guy who calls himself Proof?”
The shopkeeper’s raised eyebrows told him that the old man knew who he was talking about, and also that he didn’t approve.
“Don’t know where, but he works for The Cross. The Cross don’t take to folks messing with his boys, if you know what I mean.”
Marlan told him he did know, thanked him and stepped back outside, lighting the cigarette as he went.
He walked over to the courts. No one was playing.
It hadn’t rained for weeks. There was a dark stain on the court near one of the fences.
Marlan stood beside it, looking at the way the blood, he’d seen enough bloodstains to recognise them instantly, had flowed into the hollows and around some of the peaks in the concrete. It was a big stain, which meant a lot of blood. His brother’s blood.
“Hey buddy, you lost?” a voice from the other side of the fence asked.
Jaw clenched, Marlan turned on the guy. He must have been five foot six and probably no more than a hundred pounds wet through! He looked like a thug; scruffy clothing, tattoos on his face and knuckles. He had a narrow face with a long nose and beady little eyes.
“You figuring on spending some time in hospital?” Marlan threatened.
The confidence drained out of the guy and he backed away nervously.
“What’s your name?” Marlan asked. The guy gave it. Not one on his list. He knew the guy wasn’t lying too, he always knew a lie.
“You know where I can find Proof?”
The guy shrugged and shook his head.
“Come on, you can do better than that.”
Again the guy shook his head.
“I can’t, he’s one of The Cross’ men.”
Marlan frowned and gave a resigned sigh. “So I keep hearing,” he muttered. “So, where do I find the Cross fella?”
The guy backed away slowly. “Don’t know,” he said quickly and loudly and ran towards one of the apartment blocks.
Marlan returned to the shop.
“Where do I find The Cross?”
The old guy behind the counter gestured over his shoulder with his thumb.
“Place is called Ivory Tower, ironically enough. Tallest building around here. But you don’t look like the sort wanting to be messin’ with The Cross, if you don’t mind me sayin’”
Marlan grinned. “Nice of you to say so, pops, but the truth is, I’m the sort of guy he doesn’t want to have messin’ with him.”
Outside he made a call.
“Father,” he said when the call was answered. “I’ve found the place. You got my location?”
“Yes son, well done. We’ll be there shortly.”

The penthouse of Ivory Tower was clean and tidy, very unlike most of the places they had been in this part of the city. It was decorated in a style from another era. Early 20th century, Marlan guessed.
After some confusion, which involved The Cross’ men thinking they had a choice, they were escorted upstairs and shown to a large and comfortable lounge.
The walls were panelled from floor to approximately a third of their height in a light oak. The rest of the walls were papered in a paisley pattern.
Bookshelves, cabinets and a huge VDU lined the walls thankfully, in Marlan Cobretti’s opinion, covering much of that putrid wallpaper.

Marlan wasn’t alone as he sat waiting for The Cross to appear. Standing at one of the windows and looking out across the city-scape was a man in his early sixties.
He had dark hair flecked with grey, cut neatly and swept from right to left. He wore a long coat over a dark suit which in turn sat over some serious body armour. All of it was expensive and the armour, designed for the discerning businessman was hardly noticeable under the clothing.
Vitto Cobretti’s jaw clenched and unclenched with every passing second.
The only other person was slight, quiet, beautiful, about Marlan’s age, just turned thirty, with dark chocolate brown eyes and jet black hair which was tied back from her oval face.
Her name was Petra. She hailed from Scandinavian stock and discovered her inner Viking early on in life.
She was Vitto’s personal bodyguard, an asset that was often vastly underestimated by Vitto’s opponents. It was an error they often discovered to their cost.
Petra too wore a long coat, very similar to Vitto’s, but she made no attempt to hide the body armour she wore, nor the two pistols that sat in low slung holsters at her waist.
The door opened and The Cross walked in. he was tense. Three of his goons came in behind him.
“I’m not accustomed to being summoned to my own living room,” he said brusquely.
Marlan glanced at Vitto but the old man remained at the window, hands clasped behind his back.
“Tell me where to find a guy who goes by the name of Proof,” Marlan said without any preamble, nor did he stand.
“What business do you have with him?” The Cross asked coldly.
“If you’re half the man you appear to be, Mr The Cross,” Vitto said without turning, “you’ll already know who we are and what our business is with your man.”
“It’s The Cross. No Mister,” one of the flunkies instructed menacingly from behind his boss.
Marlan glanced at the man who spoke, a big fella, all muscle. Too much muscle in fact, the sort that would make him slow purely through physical bulk.
The Cross winced ever so slightly but managed to keep his composure.
“The Cross?” Vitto mused at the name. “Proof, Rags, Swiss, Slammer? You all seem to have acquired some colourful names in this region, Mr Crosslander.”
The Cross failed to hide his surprise as Cobretti senior spoke his name aloud.
“We did our homework,” Marlan announced.
The Cross stared at them quietly, observing the three of them.
The pretty woman stood, her hands at her sides casually. She reminded The Cross of a western gunslinger poised for the draw.
“You have a nice place here, Frank,” Vitto put in quietly. “I can only imagine business is good in your little empire?”
The Cross’ eyes darted to the old Cobretti. There was no point in denying it. “It keeps the wolf from the door, as the saying goes.”
“But the wolf’s here, Mr Crosslander,” Vitto said finally turning to look upon his unwilling host.
Frank Crosslander found himself surprised by Vitto’s appearance. He had expected something less normal. He didn’t know what, just something.
There was nothing frightening about the old Cobretti’s greying hair, shadowed eyes and unshaven face.
The Cross remained silent for a while. He’d found that trick from a cop who’d tried to sweat information from him in the past. He’d leave big silences and people found they had to speak to fill them.
He found Cobretti staring at him, saying nothing too.
The Cross came to realise later that it wasn’t a terrifying visage that struck fear into people eho confronted the head of the Cobretti family. It was his commanding presence that seemed to force you to its will.
“If I give up one of my own then how do I maintain the respect of my men?”
“Not our problem,” Marlan replied.
The Cross turned curious eyes on the younger man.
“Would you care to have this lucrative market taken away?” Vitto asked wrenching The Cross’ attention back to himself.
“I beg your pardon?”
“This part of town wasn’t even on the radar until yesterday, but looking out there I can see a lot of potential business. I’m rapidly developing an interest in this place. However, my attention could be diverted, especially if I was to find another focus for my current anger, Mr Crosslander.”
“You’re threatening me in my own living room?”
“Your business, for Proof and his gang. Sounds like a fair price to me,” Marlan put in.
“No one threatens me in my own home,” The Cross said angrily. His three bodyguards puffed up their chests menacingly.
“Petra,” Marlan said calmly.
In a blur of movement Petra had drawn her pistols and fired. Two of the three men that had accompanied The Cross into the room were encased in blue electrical energy that scrambled their muscles and brought both to the floor like quivering sacks of jelly.
She covered the distance between herself and the Meat-Head in a single bound, throwing on, two, three, four and a fifth punch before the meat-head had had time to react to any of it.
The first four blows had been aimed at specific nerve clusters, one at the junction of each limb with the torso. Each limb was subsequently temporarily paralysed. The fifth blow had been a slow motion knock to his forehead, ensuring that when he went down he landed in a sitting position in one of The Cross’ comfortable armchairs.
Petra then turned on her heel and from behind him brought both pistols to rest with their barrels pressing into The Cross’ temples.
The Cross was frozen in place. He’d never seen anything like it.
“Thank you Petra, I think we’ve made our point,” Vitto said with a smile.
Petra holstered the guns and assumed her previous position leaving The Cross looking aghast at his fallen men.
“They’re alright. No permanent harm done,” Marlan said.
“Now Frank, your decision. Give me Proof, or we come in and take over the whole operation. And get proof anyway.”
Marlan noted down the address.
Vitto was looking out of the window again.
“You understand, Frank,” he said after several long silent minutes, “that you are one lucky man. Proof is your boy, which puts you in the frame for what happened to my son too. The doctors say he may never walk again, not without augmentation. And that won’t happen until he’s stopped growing. So consider yourself lucky, but you still owe me.”
Frank looked like he was about to object. About to protest that Cobretti had said he would leave them alone if he handed over Proof. Instead he said nothing.
Vito turned to face him, made eye contact and bore those commanding eyes into The Cross’.
“You have a good business here, Frank. It would sadden me to see someone else take it away from you. So here’s what we’ll do. Ten percent should be enough to ensure that the other wolves out there steer clear of your door. Wouldn’t you agree that that seems a fair sum?”
The Cross frowned and looked confused, still not quite getting that his tenuous position was being offered a strong hand of support.
“But I just gave you Proof,” he finally protested.
“And you’re still alive and still running your own business the way you see fit, Frank,” Vitto retorted harshly.
“Ten percent.”
The Cross nodded sullenly. “Ten percent,” he echoed.
“Very good, Frank. Someone will be in touch. Oh, and Frank, I’ll call in that favour one day. Don’t forget that.”
The three guests walked towards the lounge door, stepping over the prone bodyguards.
Marlan placed a hand lightly on The Cross’ shoulder as he passed. “Welcome to the Family,” he smiled.

Marlan and Pauli Cobretti helped their younger brother from the Lev, stopping immediately when he winced in pain, checking that he was okay before they got him settled into the awaiting wheelchair.
Tarlan looked around the place.
The ground was damp from rain, it was dark and the distant street lights sparkled off the puddles.
They appeared to be in some sort of industrial area, warehouses lined either side of the wide unlit street.
The lev had been parked adjacent to a plain rectangular building without any markings identifying it. A single lamp was lit above a small doorway. Pauli led them over and knocked on the door.
It opened and a man in a dark suit and a black pullover gave them a quick once over before standing aside.
The wheelchair was self-powered and Tarlan drove it in through the doorway following his brothers.
The room itself was a typical reception area for a place like this. Chairs located on one side, surrounding a coffee table stacked untidily with old magazines for those visitors that still liked to read from paper. The opposite side was a high worktop that could only be accessed via a door behind it. Directly opposite Tarlan was another door. Again there were no signs or anything that would identify the business, which Tarlan thought was odd.
But what grabbed the boy's attention more than any of the dated decor was the carbine hanging from the shoulder of the man in the suit.
Why were these men armed?
Pauli and Marlan led him to the door and Marlan held it open for him. He followed Pauli down the passageway and they took an elevator down one level.
The doors opened into a dark open space. There was nothing in the cavernous room except several empty cages where goods could be locked away.
As Tarlan rolled forward he realised the place was lit, very poorly, by some big old lamps way up in the roof space.
“Hello Tarl,” said his father’s voice from somewhere within the gloom. Then he appeared, Petra beside him and also another man whom Tarlan had seen from time to time but couldn’t put a name to. This man was also armed.
What’s going on, Dad?” Tarlan asked nervously. “Why do they have guns?”
“Nothing for you to be afraid of, my boy.” Vitto dropped onto his haunches and lent forward, his hands resting of the arms of the wheelchair.
“My family means everything to me, Tarl, you understand that, don’t you?”
Tarlan nodded. “Of course father. You’ve always looked after us.”
Vitto smiled. “Part of that duty is making sure that anybody who threatens or hams my family pays for what they have done. That’s only right, wouldn’t you say?”
Tarlan nodded again.
His father took a breath and sighed. “People have hurt my family, Tarl. We need to do something about it. Those responsible need to pay for what they have done. What should we do son?”
“The police should arrest them and put them in prison.”
Vito nodded agreement.
“In a perfect world that would work, yes. But this isn’t a perfect world, Tarl. You see, there were no witnesses, no eveidence left behind. The authorities could waste months interviewing everyone, but in the end there would be nobody. The names you gave are street-names. Monikers they use for themselves that also give them anonymity. No one will pay for what they did if it was left to the police, Tarl. No one.”
Vitto stared hard at his son.
“That’s okay, though, isn’t it?” he asked looking away into the darkness. “You’re okay with that aren’t you?”
Tarlan looked to his brothers for guidance. Both were standing back, watching him. Neither gave any hint as to how he should respond.
Vitto asked again. “It doesn’t matter that they took a fourteen year old boy into a courtyard and beat him nearly to death for a thousand dollars and his trainers, does it?”
Tarlan shrugged. “I guess not,” he said meekly.
“You guess not?” Vitto yelled angrily moving so close to Tarlan that the boy could feel his breath on him as he spoke.
“You guess not?” Vitto said again, much calmer this time.
You remember the old code I told you about? Eye for an eye and all that?
Tarlan nodded. “The way it was in the old days?”
“yes, my boy. When it comes to protecting the family that’s the way it has to be. Someone hurts you, you hurt them back. Only you do it so that they can’t get back at you again, or at least never want to.”
Tarlan fidgeted slightly, his back was sweaty and sticking to the synthetic material of the seat.
“Remember that kid in school a few years back who kept stealing your lunch money? Your mother reported it and it stopped for a while but then he started again. You were about eight, I think.”
“Yes.”
“Remember what I told you to do about it?”
“You told me to get a hammer from the school woodwork shop and break his fingers if he did it.”
“Did he do it again?”
“Yes.”
“What did you do about it?”
“I waited until after school, tripped him up, sat on his arm and smashed his fingers with the hammer. Told him if he ever stole from me or anyone I knew again I’d break both hands and his knees.”
Vitto chuckled. “Did he ever do it again after that?”
“No.”

Vitto gave his youngest son a wry smile. “What would have happened if you’d have gone to the Principle instead of talking to me?”
“The boy would have denied it and probably got away with it.”
“And he wouldn’t have stopped doing it, to you or any of your friend,” Vitto added.
“No, he wouldn’t,” Tarlan agreed.
Vitto stood and changed the subject. “Your brothers and I are thinking of going to Kentucky for some hunting in a few weeks. You fancy coming?”
The old a hid the anguish he felt when he saw a bright flash momentarily cross his sons face.
Tarlan loved the family cabin up in the Kentucky wilderness. He loved the isolation and the freedom. The hunting was something he did more to please his father, and annoy his brothers.
Pauli and Marlan both knew their younger brother wasn’t too fussed about the hunt so it got under their skins that he was better at it than them.
The brightness that had entered the boy’s eyes was instantly replaced by a pained sadness.
The cabin was built on a hill beside a lake. It was not the kind of terrain that a bot in a wheelchair could negotiate easily. Around the cabin would be easy enough but any more than thirty yards from it and he would find himself going nowhere.
“Oh,” Vitto said flatly. “Of course. How insensitive of me. Sorry Tarl.”
“It’s alright, Dad. We’ve all got to get used to it.”
Vitto heard the pain in his son’s voice, not physical pain but hurt from the realisation that he would not be able to do so many of the things that he had enjoyed doing.
He like swimming. He and his sister rode for miles on their mountain bikes.
“it kills me that I won’t be able to ask you to come hunting ever again,” Vitto said sadly. “t kills your mother too.”
They were silent for a while.
“if it wasn’t you there Tarl. If it was your sister, or maybe a son or daughter of your own, what would you do, knowing that someone had hurt them so bad that would never walk on their own ever again?”
“I’d kill whoever did it.”
“But that isn’t right, Tarl. Taking the law into your own hands, is it?”
“If the law couldn’t help I’d have to do it.”
“Exactly!” Vitto crouched next to his son again.
“What would you do?”
“I’d…” Tarlan thought quickly. “I’d kill them. Beat the crap out of them and then kill them. I’d make sure everyone like them knew I’d done it and why as a warning not to do anything to my family again.”
Vitto nodded sagely at his sons words.
“What would you say now, if you were to come face to face with one of those men, the ones that had done this to you? Taken so much of your life from you?”
“Don’t know. I suppose I’d want to do to them what they had done to me. Call him a fucker and spit in his face.”
“Alright then,” Vitto said, which confused Tarlan.
The old man stood, straightened his coat. He nodded to Pauli who disappeared into the blackness.
An electrical buzz sounded from somewhere in the darkness of the roof above them then lights flashed on and off until the neon finally caught. The big industrial roof lights cast narrow beams down to the warehouse floor making everything outside them seem even darker.
What they illuminated beneath them made Tarlan’s breath catch and he found himself feeling giddy.
There were twelve racks each with a man or boy chained by the wrists to them. Their hands were secured above their heads by chains and cuffs that dug into angry red flesh.
Most of them had bruises on their bodies, some purple fresh wounds, others yellowing and faded, like they were old.

Tarlan felt the bile rising in his throat as he made eye contact with the man directly in front of him.
He was thin, his ribs exaggerated because of his position. He had many tattoos over his torso and thin legs. His whole body hung limply like he didn’t have the strength to hold himself up.
The man could just about hold his head up enough to watch the men and the boy in the wheelchair.
There was a strip of gaffer tape over his mouth just like there was on the other eleven.
The man’s eyes were wide with fear and they never left the boy.
Tarlan leaned suddenly to his right and threw up.

“What the hell is this?” Tarlan asked, his voice gravelly and sore from his vomit.
“It took us a week to round them all up,” Marlan said.
Tarlan blinked at him.
“You’ve had them here….?”
“Three months, yes.”
“This is wrong Marl!”
“You what?”
“It’s wrong! Barbaric. They should have been punished, yes, but not like this.”
“Barbaric?” Vitto had anger tinging his voice now.
“You want to know what this little prick was doing when we caught up with him?” the old man said.
Tarlan shrugged.
“He and his goons were dumping the bodies of a brother and sister into a storm drain. The kids were twelve and sixteen.”
“You’re making it up.”
Marlan dropped a pad onto Tarlan’s lap. It showed Proof and Rags carrying the bodies from the back of a car throwing them over a wall where they disappeared from view.
They were a young man and his sister.
Tarlan felt the bile rise again but swallowed it down, forcing the repulsion back and letting anger take its place.
“Just a week after you Tarl. That would have been your fate too if the Panicard hadn’t been activated,” Vitto said bitterly.
“What had they done?” Tarlan’s finger stabbed at the frozen image of the boy’s body.
Vitto shrugged as he answered. “Just someone who owed them money. They went in hard and killed him by accident. The sister saw it so they killed her too. She was twelve, Tarl!”
Tarlan glared at Proof’s limp form.