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Meric
14 Years Old
Hot blood gushed out under his hand as he collapsed against a wall. Meric Bach tried to find the energy to push himself upright, but he was fucking tired and the adrenaline that had fueled him for the past forty-eight hours was gone. It was as if all the epinephrine had pumped out along with the blood. He felt cold and he knew enough to know that was bad. He’d never been hurt this severely before, but cold wasn’t a good sign.
Especially since it was July in Los Angeles and he’d been running for his life for more than thirty minutes.
Had he lost them?
Noise at the mouth of the alley caught his attention. Almost afraid to look, he clutched his weapon and squeezed his eyes closed in an attempt to clear them. It worked...briefly. When he lifted his lids, the dots dancing at the edges of his vision had eased and he darted one quick glance toward the source of the voice he’d heard.
Low and soothing, rich, the kind of voice he’d heard coming out of dive bars and even some of the fancier ones that he’d once been forced to visit with his father. Meric had come to dread the sound of music, because showing up at a bar rarely turned out well for him. He never knew what kind of sick shit that old bastard had planned for him when they went to visit a friend.
Still, this voice didn’t send prickles of warning down his spine or give him the urge to run. Maybe he was too close to dying for that. He didn’t know. The voice drew nearer.
Meric tightened his grip on the pistol, a Sig Sauer P220 he’d stolen from his father. The man was dead now. Maybe that meant the weapon was his anyway. Could he inherit his father’s shit even though he’d murdered the man? Even though almost everything his father had owned had been obtained illegally?
Focus! His father’s voice, harsh and angry, always angry, barked at him from the farthest edges of his mind. Your inability to concentrate will get you killed. You are useless, boy! Worthless!
“You are dead, arschgesicht,” Meric said without realizing he’d spoken the words aloud.
“No, son, I’m not. But if you don’t get some help, I think you’re going to be, and soon.”
Meric jolted at the sound of the man’s voice—the speaker he’d heard. The one with the low, musical voice. Wheeling his head around, he stared at the big black man in front of him. “Get it over with, mistkerl.”
“Mistkerl, huh?” The man cocked his head, then, without warning, broke into perfect, flawless German.
Meric blinked, dazed. “Why does some American afterlecker from an LA gang speak German?”
“I could ask why you, an American kid, keeps insulting me in perfect German, or are you a German kid who speaks perfect English?” His gaze dropped. “More to the point, why are we standing here while you’re bleeding and weaving on your feet? Let’s go get you some help.”
He took a step toward Meric.
Meric lifted the gun, a sudden influx of adrenaline lending him strength.
“Whoa.” The man paused, holding up his hands. “Easy there. Easy, kid.”
“Why are you fucking with me? Do it already.”
Impossibly, the man’s eyes went—
Meric frowned, because he couldn’t identify it. He’d only ever seen cruelty, lust, anger...emptiness.
This big man with his broad face and broad shoulders and large hands had none of that in his eyes. In fact, if Meric had allowed himself to do so, he would almost have thought there was...gentleness. He’d experienced gentleness once, when he’d found a skinny, hungry young dog. He’d brought it home with him. Two days later, his father had found it and broke its neck in front of Meric. But in those two days, for that short period of time, Meric and the dog had each other and the dog had gazed at him with wide, soft eyes. It had been a stupid mutt, but a kind one.
This man’s eyes had that same gentleness. But unlike that sweet, innocent, helpless dog, this man wasn’t stupid.
“You’re not with them, are you?”
“I’m not part of any gang, if that’s what you’re asking. Come on. I want to help. Let me take you to the hospital.”
“No.” Meric reversed the Sig, pressed it to the underside of his chin. “No. If I go to the hospital, I’m dead. I’m dead anyway.”
Meric never saw the man move. One moment, he held the gun. The next...the man held him, pinned against his body and Meric no longer had the weapon. The feel of somebody bigger and stronger than him stirred dark, ugly memories.
“No...” Instinct took over and he panicked, driving his elbow back into a hard gut, then he drove his heel down on a vulnerable instep. Or it would have been vulnerable. Thick boots protected fragile bones. The panic screamed louder. “No...”
“Relax, kid. I won’t hurt you. Fuck, son, somebody did a number on you. Relax.”
Meric couldn’t. He’d die first.
A thick, powerful arm clamped around his neck. Once more, blackness edged in. Just before he went under, he heard the man saying, “Sorry, son. This is the last thing you need.”
* * * * *
THERE WERE CERTAIN constants in Meric’s life. Things like a hard, lumpy mattress, waking to darkness, usually with the air too tight and close. He’d grown used to the hard knot of hunger in his belly and had even accustomed himself to sleeping when it was far too hot or far too cold. Rest was never easy to come by so it was crucial to sleep whenever possible. Stale air, foul smells, sirens wailing in the streets nearby—none of that fazed him.
He came awake in the blink of an eye, immediately on edge because none of that was present.
Instead of sirens, he heard seagulls.
Instead of the mold and damp of the hotel where he’d been crashing, he smelled the tang of salt air...and bacon. Frying bacon. And coffee.
His belly rumbled.
He went to cover the incriminating sound with his hand and encountered the thick, heavy padding of a bandage.
“It’s about time you woke up.”
The sound of that voice had him flinching and immediately he rolled out of bed, eyes searching for a weapon.
As the big man came around the edge of a wall, Meric braced himself. He had no weapon, nothing but his fists. There was a lamp on the table, but it didn’t look heavy enough to do damage. Still—
“Your Sig’s in the dresser drawer.” The big man nodded to the simple, utilitarian stand by the bed. “You look better.”
Meric snarled instinctively. “Where the fuck am I, and who the fuck are you?”
The big man cracked a smile. “You can call me Sarge. You got a name?”
“No.”
“Your name’s No?” Sarge’s teeth flashed white against his skin. “Seems like a mean thing to do to a kid. No, don’t do that. No, you can have some cookies.”
The thought of his father giving Meric permission to have cookies was laughable. Only he didn’t laugh. Meric stared at this man who’d told him to call him Sarge.
Sarge sighed and gestured to the dresser once more. “Like I said, your weapon is in there. It’s not loaded. Magazine’s next to it.”
“Stupid of you,” Meric said, curling his lip. “Leaving my gun where I can load it and shoot you.”
“Well, I’m not seeing where you benefit from shooting the man who got you out of LA before the Crips got their hands on you.” His brows rose over eyes that were a soft, translucent amber against deep-brown skin. “That is who you were running from, isn’t it, kid?”
Meric said nothing.
“Hard to believe, kid like you taking out the head of a gang like that. How old are you? Sixteen? Can’t be much older. What did you use? Wasn’t the Sig. It’s a fine weapon—you’ve taken care of it. But it don’t have that kind of range. Last I heard, they’re thinking Alfonse Jordan was taken out at a range of about five hundred yards. Cops found a spot that might have been where the sniper took him out. And the weapon. No prints, though.”
He looked Meric up and down skeptically and gave a half laugh. “If it wasn’t for the rumors I heard while I was doing what needed to be done to get you out of the city, I never would have believed it. Still not entirely sure I do. You’re tall enough and you got serious muscle on you, but you’re skinny as hell. And you took a man out at five hundred yards. At night.”
“It isn’t complicated if you know what you are doing,” Meric said, annoyed by the dismissive tone.
“That a fact?” He rocked back on his heels and crossed massive arms over his chest. The pose caused his biceps to bulge.
Meric couldn’t help but think how easily the man could crush him.
“Heard another rumor. Another sniper went down a few days ago. A close-quarters kill. Guy was something of a ghost. Worked as a mercenary after he was kicked out of the German Army for...authority issues.” He narrowed his eyes on Meric. “Any of this ringing a bell?”
Much of it did not, but none of it surprised Meric. He remained silent.
Sarge sighed. “This man...his fingerprints ID him as Walter Kramer, German citizen, wanted by his country and a shitload of others for various crimes. His ID pegs him as an American, but the social security number, the birth certificate? Fakes.” He shrugged. “Good fakes, according to my contact, but fakes, all the same. Kramer was something of a legend, though. As I said. Top-notch sniper, handy with bombs, and explosives, too. Not very picky about who he took out. Mean son of a bitch. Then he gets taken out in his fuckin’ hotel room. You know anything about that...Meric?”
A cold fist of terror gripped the young man’s insides, squeezing, squeezing...turning his bowels to liquid and his knees to putty. “What do you want?”
“Right now?” Sarge shrugged. “I want a plate of that bacon I finished frying up, some eggs, and coffee. I bet you wouldn’t mind the same. Then we can talk.”
Without saying another word, Sarge turned his back on Meric and walked out.
* * * * *
THE WALLS WERE CURVED and looked like stone under a coat of somewhat fresh whitewashing. Peering up at the tall, round barrel of the building, Meric tried once more to make sense of what was going on, but as with each previous attempt, he failed.
Edging forward to the wrought iron railing, he peered over and looked down, spying a door that led outside. It had to. The light falling through was too bright to be anything but the sun.
Licking his lips, he gauged the distance, and his strength.
Could he make it before Sarge figured out what he was doing?
No, weakling. You can’t. The voice of his father, although not welcome, wasn’t incorrect.
He’d seen Sarge move. The man was big, powerful and fast.
Meric was still recovering from an injury and while he was fast, his strength was only a fraction of that of the man who’d brought him here.
Caged animals learned certain lessons—when to eat, when to rest, when to bide their time.
Meric had lived most of his life as a caged animal. He wasn’t as strong as he needed to be to flee or fight. Unless he had no other choice, the best thing for him to do was to wait—wait, bide his time, grow strong. Then he’d strike.
“Decided to join me, I see.” Sarge swung him a pragmatic look, one that made Meric think the other man saw see clear through him.
“I want some coffee.” Meric gave the big man a belligerent look, pleased his voice sounded flat and emotionless, like his father’s would have. No sooner had he thought of the mean fucker who’d fathered him than he found himself thinking about what Sarge had said—German citizen. Sniper. Handy with bombs. Wanted by the authorities in Germany and in other countries. Meric had never questioned his father about the numerous false identities, or the countless escape routes he’d been made to memorize every time the old bastard dragged him into a job. That had simply been his life. But he wasn’t surprised to learn this information about his father, either.
“Just coffee, huh?”
The speculation in Sarge’s voice pissed him off. “Just coffee.”
“Okay, okay.” The big man held up his hands, then poured a cup of the steaming brew and set it in front of Meric. “Sugar or cream? I make it strong.”
“No.” He took a sip and instantly regretted it. Strong didn’t quite define the potency of what he had just taken in. But he wouldn’t relent and ask for something to smooth the way either.
Sarge whistled easily as he plated up a serving of breakfast and put it down in front of the chair opposite where Meric sat. Then he slid the rest of the bacon onto a plate with the two remaining eggs. Meric almost said something, but a memory of his father throwing away food in front of him loomed in his mind and he bit his tongue. Maybe if he didn’t say anything, he could creep back in here later and grab a bite. The son of a bitch would probably make him clean up anyway. If that was the case, he could eat every fucking thing he found, couldn’t he?
Sarge put the second plate down, tantalizingly close to where Meric sat and gave him a shrug. “Sorry, kid. Table’s not that big. It’s only me here.” His pale amber eyes gleamed. “Well, usually. Don’t mind the company, though.”
Meric didn’t respond as he drank his coffee and did what he could to study his surroundings.
From what he could tell, they were on the second level of the building—one that was constructed to be round. He didn’t have much reference but he had the impression the structure was big, too. He was dying of curiosity but kept the questions behind his teeth. It was either that or lose his teeth—a lesson he’d learned early in life.
“It’s an old lighthouse.”
Meric shot Sarge a look.
“That’s what you were wondering about, right?” Sarge grabbed a piece of bacon and crunched into it, chewing slowly and with obvious pleasure. He took the time to enjoy a second bite before continuing. “You can ask me anything you want to know. I don’t mind. If it’s something I don’t want to talk about, I’ll just tell you I won’t answer. But there’s no harm in asking.”
Meric snorted and looked away, not fooled by the obvious bullshit.
“Anyway, it’s not used anymore. There’s a bigger, more advanced one close by. We’re a few miles north of Gloucester, Massachusetts. My dad, his dad, his people have been running this place...” He paused and blew out a breath, skimming a hand back over his short, bristly head of hair. “Well, one of my great, great grandfathers—missing a great, great, probably, he was an escaped slave. Old John made it all the way up here to Gloucester around about 1824, long before the Civil War. The lighthouse keeper was Timothy Austin. He was a Quaker—their kind didn’t hold with slavery, you know. Anyway, my several-times great-grandfather ended up being taken in by Austin. That old man was getting on in years, didn’t have a family or anything. When he passed, he left the place to my ancestor. Been in the family ever since. We’ve been running it for years, right up until it was decided that a more efficient system was needed. My grandfather was lucky enough to know people with the right connections. Gramps bought this place before it even went on the market. It’s been home to my family for generations.”
Meric swung his head around and looked at Sarge. “Fascinating.”
“Kid, you’ve got a game face that trumps men twice your age.” Sarge started to laugh and smacked his thigh.
When Meric didn’t share his amusement, Sarge’s laughter faded and his smile was replaced by a frown. “Of course, maybe I shouldn’t be so amused by it. I got a feeling it was a shitty life that made somebody as young as you so hard.” He took another piece of bacon and demolished it. “Man, there is nothing like fried, fatty pig. You get me?”
Meric stared so hard at the crispy, golden brown piece of pork in Sarge’s hand, his eyes unfocused. Jerking his head away, he blinked and forced his gaze to his coffee. “Whatever.”
When he lowered it, the plate of food looked like it had been nudged closer.
Sarge was shoveling a bite of egg into his mouth. He caught Meric glaring at him and paused. “What? Do I have food on my face?”
Meric started to answer, then stopped. “It’s nothing.” Determinedly, he looked away, staring out the window in the curve of the wall past Sarge’s shoulder. He thought he could make out a couple of inches of water.
And the sound...closing his eyes, he heard a rhythmic, rushing noise that was oddly...soothing.
No, he told himself. It wasn’t soothing. Nothing about this shit was soothing. He needed to take in his surroundings and get out—and not find anything about the place remotely soothing.
The sounds of eating continued, not obnoxiously loud, but it was hard to miss the quiet rasp of a metal fork over a plate, the crunch of bacon. Paired with the rhythmic sounds of water, it was almost...peaceful.
Meric banished the thought, again and sipped his coffee, determined to make it last. If he drank it slowly enough, he could fool his belly into thinking he’d eaten something.
“You sure you don’t want any of that?”
He glanced at Sarge and saw him pointing at the plate that sat a few inches from him. His belly gave a demanding gurgle. Face going red, he looked from the plate to Sarge, then dropped his eyes to study the empty plate now sitting in front of Sarge.
“I mean, if you’re happy with coffee, that’s fine. I don’t want to be greedy or anything, but if you’re not going to eat it...” Sarge went to reach for it.
Meric didn’t realize what he was doing until the tines of the fork narrowly missed Sarge’s hand.
“Well. Okay.”
Sarge gave him a measuring look as he leaned back in his seat, watching Meric as he started to eat.
A few minutes later, Meric’s plate was empty.
Then another plate, laden with more eggs and two pieces of toast was placed in front of him.
He didn’t question it, just started to eat.
His belly hurt by the time he was done. A cup was put at his elbow. He sniffed, caught a spicy scent.
“Ginger tea. Might help to drink it, unless you want a bellyache from all that food you put away.”
He was thirsty, so he didn’t argue.
When he was done with the cup, he finally looked at Sarge. “What do you want?”
“Who said I wanted anything?”
Meric snorted. “You didn’t keep me alive, then feed me out of the goodness of your heart.” He spat on the floor and muttered under his breath.
“Look...” Sarge sighed, giving the spittle on the floor a disgusted look. “First, I get you not trusting me. In your place, I wouldn’t trust me either, but can you not spit on my floor?”
Meric’s ears went red, then redder still as Sarge got up and grabbed a paper towel from the roll over the sink, wetting it, then coming over and kneeling on the floor a few feet from where Meric sat. Stupid, he thought. He could so easily attack. Kick him, strike the man. Right in the head, stun him, then attack.
Then Sarge looked up, gave him a flat look. “Don’t try it.”
Meric tensed, then forced his muscles to relax. “Don’t try what?”
Sarge shook his head and finished his task before rising and tossing the paper towel into a trash can on the far side of the room. He washed his hands, turning his back to Meric—again, stupid. When he turned, he gave Meric a look that let him know he’d been quite aware of what Meric was thinking. He returned to his seat and sat down, annoyance still on his face. “Now...second...I don’t want jack shit. I saw a hurting kid and decided to help. That’s all there is to it.”
“Bullshit—”
Sarge held up a hand as Meric went to spit again. “You spit on my floor again, son, you and me are going to have a problem.”
Meric smirked.
Staring Sarge straight in the eye, he leaned over and spit on the spit on the floor.
Sarge sighed and lifted his gaze heavenward. He got up and gave the spittle on the floor a long look, then studied Meric. “I’ve got lasagna on the menu for dinner. Normally, I don’t make guests clean up, but for that...” He pointed at the small, shiny little pool of fluid. “If you want to eat anything but peanut butter for dinner, you’ll clean the entire fucking kitchen and that mess.”
He walked out.
Meric smirked. Sure, the man was planning on making lasagna. And, yeah, sure, Meric was planning on staying.