The Resurrection (Unlawful Men)

She drags him back, his protests loud, and his mates, eyes wide, flee without looking back. “Get the fuck off me, you dyke.”

I pull my gun, claim him from Goldie, and slam him into the wall, so hard the building shakes, my snarling face up in his. Unfortunately for this piece of shit, he’s caught me in a bloodthirsty mood, and getting rid of some of the pressure is exactly what I need before I go on a manhunt.

“What the fuck, man?” he garbles, stupidly trying to wrestle me off. My knee comes up swiftly, smashing into his groin. His squeal is high-pitched as he goes limp, and I release him and let him crumple to the floor, his hands cupping his balls. His eyes water, his groans long and painful.

“Arms,” I order, and Goldie moves in, her smile dirty, as she pries his hands from his balls and pins them down.

“Wait, no!” he yells, “Please, no.”

“Hope you didn’t want kids,” Goldie says, holding him in place with ease.

I stand over him, and he stills, his eyes wide, his legs flailing. I raise my boot, holding it in midair for a few moments, dragging out his wait for the agony about to consume him. “Has something offended you?” I ask, lowering my boot slowly and pressing it into his groin.

“No, nothing, please.”

A few of Nolan’s security join us, watching, silent. They know not to intervene.

I raise my boot and slam it down onto his balls, and he screams, his body trying to curl into a protective ball. Goldie ensures it doesn’t, holding his arms, and I look to one of Nolan’s security who quickly moves in and holds his legs down.

“Please,” he mumbles, as I look to Beau, who’s staring at the helpless piece of shit pinned to the floor. I raise my boot again and bring it down, over and over, snarling my way through it as he chokes and coughs, his eyes watering. I don’t stop. Not until he’s lost consciousness.

“Get rid of him,” I order. “And find out where Roake is.” I exit the club and go to my car, pausing when I hear a door slam. “Are you joking?” I whisper to myself, as Beau’s ex heads my way. “What do you want?” I ask as two cop cars screech into the street, sirens blaring. They skid to a stop, four officers jumping out and jogging toward me. “What the fuck’s going on?”

Burrows sniffs, saying nothing, his badge being flashed to anyone who’ll look. I’m grabbed and manhandled to the hood of my car and slammed front forward onto the metal.

“James Kelly, I’m arresting you on suspicion of assault.”

“Assault? That’s a bit below your pay grade, isn’t it?” I growl as my arms are shoved carelessly up my back. “Careful. Those hands give my girlfriend endless pleasure.”

He jolts me brutally, sending bolts of pain into my shoulder. My jaw rolls, my teeth clench. “You do not have to say—”

“Ollie!” Beau yells, running out of the club, her face panicked. “What the hell are you doing?”

“What does it look like?” he snaps coldly, hauling me up and pushing me toward one of the police cars.

“Stand down, Beau,” I say, reminding her of our conversation just five minutes ago. I cast a look to her ex. His smile of satisfaction is feebly masked. My lip curls, a million promises being made as I stare him down. I do not need this. “For fuck’s sake,” I yell, revealing my frustration and prompting Burrows to yank at the cuffs. “Is this the best you can do? Assault?”

“Oh, we have murder too,” he says. “The evidence is sketchy at the moment, but I’m sure we’ll straighten it out while you’re in custody.”

Translated: Remand. Fuck. “And who have I murdered?”

“Detective Spittle.”

What the fuck?

“Your DNA was all over him.” Burrows leads me to his unmarked car.

“You don’t have my DNA.”

He thrusts me in the back and pulls out a Q-tip, shoving it in my mouth. “Again, minor problem.” He winks, holding it up. “All over him.” The door slams, and I drop my head back, cursing my arse off as he wanders over to Beau, who’s being held back by Goldie and Fury.

“You fucking snake!” she yells. “You stupid, idiotic snake! Do you actually want to die?”

“Is that a death threat?” Burrows asks, looking back at the police officers, eyebrows high.

“No, it’s fucking promise,” I say to myself, watching as he moves in, any arrogance wiped away, his face suddenly worried. He tries to pacify Beau. It doesn’t work. I cast my eyes to Otto, nodding, telling him to get on with things. Locked up or not, this is still ending.

What a fucking inconvenience.

* * *

My arse is numb, my wrists are sore, my arms are aching. Three hours of questioning, hundreds of “No comments,” and imagining a thousand ways I’m going to kill Oliver Burrows. It’s nearly eleven. He’s getting more and more worked up, his patience thin, constantly checking his mobile. He’s waiting for the evidence he needs to throw me in a cell. Time isn’t on my side.