CHAPTER 23

SECONDS LATER, Wolfe’s pack had Hudson surrounded.

Until just a couple of nights ago, he’d been taught to be a peacemaker. Never start a fight. Never throw the first punch. But Dad was right. That wasn’t going to work this time. Hudson was going to get hurt. Bad. He’d have to inflict some pain himself —or he’d fail the test. Whoever drew first blood would have the edge. Hudson gripped the handlebars tighter. Hit first. Hit hard. Hit to hurt. And keep hitting —

Zattora vaulted off his bike even before coming to a stop. Let it crash to the sidewalk.

Wolfe slapped Zattora on the back. “Get him, Mitch! Freak Show’s all yours.”

Hudson planted his feet. Wide stance.

Zattora advanced . . . fists clenched.

Don’t back away. Don’t let him draw first blood. Hudson dropped Blue Boy.

Zattora kept coming —pure hatred in his eyes. He cocked one fist.

Hudson thrust one hand forward to stiff-arm him in the chest —to hold him back. Maybe it was the adrenalin, but his aim was way off. The heel of Hudson’s hand connected just under Zattora’s nose instead. Hudson felt something crunch —likely cartilage or bone.

Zattora’s head snapped back —and blood spurted everywhere. He staggered backward into Wolfe and went down.

Hudson glanced at his hand. Did he just do all that?

Wolfe flipped his sweatshirt hood up —like he didn’t want any neighbors to identify him. “You’re dead, Freak Show.” He stepped over Zattora and charged.

Hudson grabbed at the strings hanging at Wolfe’s throat. Yanked them hard. The hoodie cinched closed —effectively blinding Wolfe. Hudson jerked hard again, to the left and then right.

Wolfe clawed at Hudson’s hands. “Get him!” Wolfe shouted.

Wham! Someone tackled Hudson from behind, driving him down. He lost his grip on the hoodie strings and landed partially on Zattora, partially on the sidewalk.

Zattora screamed. Arched his back. “Get him off me.”

Hudson tried to push away. Worked himself to his knees. Skirt was the tackler, and his arms were still locked around him, clinging like a pit bull.

Zattora scrambled out from under Hudson and rolled clear.

Wolfe peeled back his hood. “Hold him down!”

Hudson pried at the hands locked around his chest.

Someone else piled on. Then another.

Hudson’s knees collapsed, and he face-planted into the grass along the walk. He tried to wriggle free. Ended up on his back. Not good.

“Don’t touch his face!” Wolfe’s voice. “Kick him!”

Pain exploded in his ribs.

“Kill him! Kill him! Kill him! Kill him!” Chanting. Barbaric.

God, they mean it! Help me!

Another rib kick. Oh, God —help!

Thigh —burst of pain. A second kicker —working him over from the other side. Doing damage where it wouldn’t be seen. Smart.

Hudson struggled helplessly to twist onto his stomach. Protect himself.

They had him pinned, and kept kicking. Thigh. Ribs. Somebody else piled on.

Hudson couldn’t breathe. Couldn’t speak —not even to beg them to get off. Too much weight on his chest. Was he going to die here? God, help me.

Through a tangle of legs and arms he saw Pancake barreling up, roaring. Pancake grabbed someone by the collar and belt —and threw him off the pile. He grabbed another one, buttons ripping off the kid’s shirt.

A horn blasted —and stayed on. Whoever was driving was close and moving fast.

Skirt and the others peeled off Hudson.

Free. Hudson gulped air. Rolled onto his side into a fetal position.

Wolfe, Zattora, and Skirt were already on their bikes, scattering in all directions.

Pancake pumped his fist at them. “Yeah, you better vamoose —ándale, ándale!”

The pickup with the blaring horn screeched to a stop at the curb.

A man jumped out of the Tacoma. “You okay?”

Hudson tried to sit up. Winced at the stab in his ribs. “I think so.” He swiped at the tears blurring his vision.

The man squatted beside him and helped him to a sitting position. “My name is Luke. You boys from Southfield?”

“Yeah,” Hudson said. “Thanks for scaring them away.”

Luke gave a quick nod. “Saw the whole thing. Stinking cowards. I counted seven of them.”

“I thought I was dead.”

“Nah.” Luke smiled. “You’d have had them in another minute.”

Not with the way his ribs where feeling. Hudson tried to keep his breathing steady while he scanned the block. No sign of Zattora, Wolfe, or any of the others.

Pancake pocketed his phone and squatted beside them. “How bad are you hurt?”

Hudson tucked one arm in tight to shield his ribs. “Not bad enough to keep me from getting out of here.” What if Wolfe and the others circled back?

“Hold on,” Luke said. “I’m calling the police. Then the the paramedics. They’ll get you to NCH. Get some pictures of your ribs.”

Hudson couldn’t go to the hospital. “I’m okay. Really.”

Luke looked him in the eyes. “You’re not okay. Really.”

“Listen to him, amigo,” Pancake said. “You gotta get checked out.”

Hudson shook his head. He couldn’t let police or paramedics get involved. “They’ll want names. I can’t give them that.”

“I can,” Pancake said. “I know every one of those jerks.”

“Stop,” Hudson said. “Don’t say one name, not one.”

Pancake gave him a puzzled look.

Luke looked at Hudson like he could read his mind. “You’re afraid that if I know the names, I’ll go to your school and make a report myself.”

“Something like that.”

Luke stared at him. “You were jumped by seven guys. Seven. They were brutal. You can’t let them get away with this. And I for sure won’t. I have to make the calls.”

Hudson’s leg spasmed and cramped. He stifled a cry. “I’m not letting them get away with anything.”

“Really?” The man scanned down the block. “And what makes you think they won’t finish the job?”

“They were sending a message —and they know I got it. They got last at bat —the way they’ll see it.”

“So,” Luke said, “since they were doing all the kicking and hitting at the end, there’ll be no need for them to retaliate. Is that it?”

Hudson nodded. At least he hoped that’s what they’d think.

“But if the police come to school and drag these guys into the office . . .” Pancake just let the thought hang out there.

“It will be like I got the last hit in,” Hudson said. “And they’ll be looking for payback when the police aren’t around.”

Luke looked like he was thinking that over. “I get it. I really do. But you need to send those boys a message too. Show them that you’ll push back if they mess with you again. Besides, I can’t just drive away without knowing you’ll be checked out. How about we call your mom or dad? It’s them or the police. Your choice.”

Mom would worry. Dad would feel like it was his own fault. No, he couldn’t dump this on them. He’d sort it out on his own. He held out his hand; Pancake grabbed hold and helped him to his feet. Hudson’s right thigh was on the verge of a charley horse. “I’m okay.” He picked up Blue Boy. “See?”

Luke inspected the tires. His eyes narrowed. “Somebody wanted to make sure you were on foot. You know that, right?”

“But it’s over now,” Hudson said.

“Over?” Luke looked at him. “This is far from over —even if I don’t call the police. They’ll make your life miserable. Trust me. You’ll always have to watch your back.”

Right now he couldn’t even think about his back. His ribs hurt too much.

“Sit tight.” Luke hustled to his truck and grabbed his phone. “I’m calling the police. For your own good. We’ll let them decide if you need paramedics.”

Hudson had to get out of here. Now.

Luke seemed totally focused on the phone conversation. He leaned on his truck, his back turned to them. Probably didn’t want them to hear what he was saying.

“Let’s go,” Hudson whispered.

Pancake almost looked relieved. “Can you run?”

“The question is —can you run? I’ll be riding your bike.”

Pancake snickered. “You kill me, amigo!”

Hudson started moving. Slowly. The knot in his thigh tightened, but didn’t cramp. He picked up the pace. Eased his good leg over Pancake’s bike. Crossed a driveway. Cut across a lawn. Pancake trotted alongside him, pushing Blue Boy.

“Hey!” Luke pocketed his phone. “Don’t be stupid.”

Hudson pedaled faster —the best he could manage. He wheeled between two houses and through a backyard. The man would have to leave his pickup in the road if he gave chase. And what would Luke do, tackle Hudson and pin him in place until the police got here?

“This way.” Pancake pointed, leading them behind a row of bushes and through another yard. Then two more.

No sign of the guy with the pickup.

They rounded the front of a house with a mammoth motor home parked alongside.

“Let’s hold up,” Pancake said, breathing heavy.

They dropped their bikes and crouched alongside the old RV.

Hudson’s thigh was screaming. “I’d rather not be out in the open right now anyway.”

Hudson checked over his shoulder, and then scanned the street in front of them. The charcoal Tacoma turned the corner and cruised down their block.

Hudson hunkered lower alongside the motor home.

Pancake lay flat on the ground beside him. “I bet you busted Zattora’s ugly nose. What was that, Tae Kwon Do or karate? I thought you didn’t know how to fight.”

“I don’t. I was just trying to stop him.”

Pancake snickered. “Oh, that’s rich. I should call you Lucky Punch.”

The Tacoma stopped several houses away. Luke was on his phone. A police car took the corner fast and pulled up behind him. Luke slid out of his pickup and hustled to the policeman’s car.

Pancake whistled. “Uh-oh.”

Why would the police make such a big deal out of this? Luke made some hand motions —describing the fight, no doubt.

“How’s the ribs?”

“Sore.”

Luke walked back to his pickup. The cop made a U-turn and headed away. Luke made a three-point turn and followed.

“Looks like we caught a break,” Pancake said.

Weird. “Seems like the cop gave up kind of easy.” Then again he’d know there wasn’t much chance he’d find Hudson and Pancake by driving the neighborhood. Too many places to hide.

The police car stopped at the corner and turned toward Southfield. The pickup did the same.

“Uh-oh,” Pancake said. “They’re going to report this.”

Pancake was right. Even if Hudson didn’t snitch, the principal was going to find out anyway. Which meant this whole thing was about to get messier.