9 Chapter 9:"Street rules"

The two of them stared at each other.

"C'mon, I just need to ask you some questions, man." said Patrick.

But Bradbury didn't budge. Instead, his left arm reached behind his back, and he pulled out a knife. The journalist grimaced when he saw the weapon, pointing out a finger.

"Don't make this any harder than it has to be. Drop the knife."

His voice was surprisingly calm and steady... but not effective enough. They both started walking to their right, rotating into a circle pattern. Bradbury lunged at Patrick, knife first. The other man dived to his left just in time, so the knife sliced through thin air.

"Stop!" shouted Patrick, but Bradbury didn't listen, his eyes even wider than before.

Another dive, another miss. Well, almost. This time, the weapon sliced through Patrick's jacket, cutting a little into his arm.

The journalist gritted his teeth, rolling up his sleeves. "All right, this is how you want to do it, then?"

He started to pull out his Smith & Wesson from his jacket pocket. Unfortunately for him, Bradbury saw it coming. Before Patrick even knew what was happening, the other guy was on top of him. They collapsed down onto the hard street floor, and the handgun slipped from Patrick's hand! It was propelled backwards a few feet, landing on the ground with a clatter.

Bradbury pushed down hard with knife, the blade inches away from Patrick's throat. The journalist pushed up with all his might, but with terror he realised the gap between him and the weapon was getting smaller and smaller. At the corner of his eye, he could see the Smith & Wesson lying on the ground, unused. If only he had pulled it out sooner! What a fool he was, for the thing was useless to him now, he would never reach it. Time was running out. He probably had seconds left before the blade came crashing down, digging deep into his throat. Patrick shouted in utter madness as his energy levels sank faster than the titanic.

But suddenly, out of the blue, Bradbury was knocked sideways and his body was hurled over onto the ground.

"What the...?" exclaimed Patrick, not believing his luck.

"Hey, boss." said Nickels. "Did I miss anything?" Bradbury jumped back at Nickels, and the two of them began rolling around and around like WWE wrestlers.

Patrick got to his feet in pain, muttering. "Not half." He suddenly remembered his gun, so he ran and picked it up. He then spun round to face the fight.

"Hey! Hey, stop!" he shouted, but his words were no use.

"Shoot'em boss! Shoot'em!" screamed Nickels.

"I haven't got a clear shot, idiot! What if I hit you instead?" shouted back his companion. He clicked the bullets into the barrel anyway and aimed.

Suddenly, the fight stopped. Bradbury had somehow managed to get the knife to Nickels' throat. They turned round to face him, Nickels in front, with Bradbury's skinny arm holding the weapon at the other guy's neck.

Patrick cursed internally, still with the gun pointed at them.

"Oops." said Nickels. "I had forgotten about the knife, boss. My bad."

"Shut up. Bradbury, drop the knife."

Bradbury just spat, and ushered Nickels to stand up. "Why?"

"I do not want to hurt you. All I want is to talk. It's over, this can only end one way."

"Can it? We'll see about that. Drop your gun."

"No can do. Now, you're not a murderer, I can see that already. So-"

"I've killed before!" interrupted Bradbury, fiercely tightening his grip on the knife. Nickels winced. "And I'll do it again if I have to!"

"Liar. Drop it."

"No."

There was an intense silence. Patrick looked deep into his enemy's eyes, because that's what Bradbury now was; his enemy. The other man glared back.

Patrick shrugged. "Suit yourself." And he shot.

The bullet went straight into Bradbury's arm, and he cried out in pain. Nickels didn't lose his opportunity. He pressed down on the man's wound, making him drop the knife. He then spun round and elbowed him in the neck, knocking him out cold. Bradbury collapsed nd moved no more.

"Nice shot." smiled Nickels, taking the knife. "How did you..."

"He was left-handed, I noticed that when he first took the knife out. But just now he was holding the weapon to your throat with his right. The dumbass probably didn't even realize, he was so... hyped up. So that's when I knew I had a chance."

"Right." Nickels was about to strike Bradbury's neck with it, but Patrick stopped him.

"What are you doing? We need him!"

"Huh? He tried to kill us! If it wasn't for me you'd probably be dead."

"Yes, and I thank you for that, but we've made it this far, we might as well do what I came to do in the first place!"

Nickels rolled his eyes. "That being...?"

Patrick put away his gun. "I just need to ask him a few questions, that's all. It won't take long."

"What questions?"

"You'll see. Here, help me prop him up over by that wall."

He signalled, and they both dragged the unconscious man by the arms.

Nickels spoke up. "Hey. Out in the street, we have rules, boss. An eye for an eye."

"He hasn't killed anyone. Not before, not now."

"Yeah, but what about that cut in your arm?" Nickels signalled the wound, which was now bleeding badly. "What do you say, we slice one of his fingers off? His thumb, maybe?"

Now it was Patrick who rolled his eyes. "Listen, I don't give a hoot about your street rules. We need him to cooperate, and the less we hurt him, the better. Thanks, but I don't intend on torturing a low-life tramp for information."

"Whatever, boss." Nickels sighed, putting away the knife.

"How many times do I have to tell you to stop calling me that?"

About fifteen long minutes later, Bradbury opened his eyes. On seeing his pursuers, he tried to get up in a hurry, but Patrick signalled with his weapon for him to sit down again, so the guy did as told, wincing because of his wound.

"Right. Let's make this quick." said the journalist, lowering his gun.

"Who are you people? Listen, I didn't do anything, I swear. I, I didn't..."

"Calm down, we're not cops." growled Nickels.

Bradbury frowned his brows. "What? Then who on earth are you? Wha-"

"Keep your voice down!" ushered Patrick.

"I have rights, you know!"

"And I have a gun, so either you'll shut up, or the cops will find your body by the river just the way you found Alan Chamberlain!"

The tramp looked at him. "That's what this is about? The politician guy?"

Nickels raised his eyebrows and looked expectantly at Patrick.

"Yes." answered Elaine's brother. "You found him, right? By the East River, correct?"

"Umm, yeah. Yeah, he was just sitting there, near the water."

"Okay, okay. What else?"

"Well..." Bradbury scratched his head. "At first I thought he was sleeping or something, I don't know. It was still quite early in the morning, and it was foggy, too, so I couldn't see all that well."

"What else did you see? What else?!" Patrick had never felt so thirsty, thristy for information and detail.

"When I saw the suit and clothes, at that moment I knew something wasn't right. Just got a feeling, you know? So, I-"

"What? What did you do?" asked Patrick.

Bradbury stopped, looking at the two of them. "What will I get in return if I tell you?"

"Ugh, not this again!" Patrick stood up nervously, and started pacing back and forth. "You're all the same, aren't you? Looking for benefits and money out of everything, even in the smallest tasks! Look, I'll tell you what you'll get!"

At this he pointed the gun at Bradbury's forehead, who opened his eyes wide in shock, as Patrick continued. "You'll get to live, to breathe in oxygen, and to get to a hospital, because I'll tell you what, buddy: from where I'm sitting, that bullet wound isn't looking too good, that's what! If we don't get you to a hospital real soon, in an hour, maybe less, you'll pass out again, because of all the blood you'll have lost, and this time, you're not going to wake up. You'll stay dead! So what about you tell me what really happened that day, before I change my mind, and decide that you were just a complete waste of my time and that you are of no use to me whatsoever? What's it going to be, Bradbury? Eh? What's it going to BE?"

"Ok, ok, please! Just don't kill me! I'll tell you everything! Umm, where was I? Oh, yes, the politician. I went up to him, and uhh, I saw that his wrists were slit, and at that moment, I realize the guy's dead."

"He was called Alan." growled Patrick.

"Okay, Alan. Yes, so I realize Alan is dead. Next, I decide to find someone, anyone, so that they can call 911."

Patrick sighed, lowering the gun once more. "Are you absolutely sure that's what happened? You just found him like that?"

"Oh, wait! There was something else. Someone else."

The journalist's eyes widened. "Someone? Who?! Tell me who?!"

"Well, I didn't their names, but-"

"Their names? There were several of them?!"

"Yes, yes. They were uhh, all in suits. Quite a distance away, like half a mile or so. I think four men in total, beside a black car. Let me think, three of them were wearing glasses, and to be honest, they looked like security guards. That's my guess, anyway."

"Security guards, huh? Interesting." Patrick said, scratching his chin. "Tell me about the fourth person."

"Oh. Another man. He looked tall, and even from such a distance I could see his skin was pale. He also looked old. Well, around his late fifties, early sixties, I think. Because he didn't seem to have much hair, I only saw a speck of grey, umm, that's about it."

"That's it? Right, right,.., Wait, did you say tall?"

"Yep."

"Grey hair, strangely smooth skin?"

"Well, I didn't see all that much, but that could be him, yeah."

"Great, thanks."

Patrick then took out his phone and dialled 911, walking away.

After a few minutes of unheard conversation. Patrick returned and told Bradbury that an ambulance was coming for him.

"Now, I'm going to make this crystal clear." the journalist said with a no-nonsense tone. "Here's the story you'll give: you got attacked by a gang, and you escaped, but unfortunately got shot in the process. The story should be believable enough in a neighbourhood like this."

They looked around at the dark street.

"How are you so sure I won't report you?" asked Bradbury, his eyes narrowing in suspicion.

Patrick nodded. "I know you won't. Because if you do, I will come after you and most likely finish the job." At this he pointed at the bullet wound. "I am a journalist, part of my job is tracking people down. And in a city like New York, my hometown, you bet I'll be on to you in no-time. Besides, you were easy to find the first time round, what will make the second any different? You have no money to escape, and you don't look like the type of person that has a gang. Besides, even if you tried to report me, I wouldn't even have to kill you. I can find some dirt on a person like you with my eyes closed. Either it's a long-forgotten robbery or a manslaughter that happened years ago, you can be sure I'll find it. And you'll go to prison for a long, long time. So yeah buddy, it's your choice. My special recommendation is that you let it be, we can part our ways here, and never see each other again! Bye... for now."

And off he went, Nickels following close behind.

"Wow" said Nickels, grinning.

Patrick raised an eyebrow. "What?"

"Who would've known, you really do have quite a dark side, boss? Creepy or what? You just destroyed that guy!"

At this, even Patrick chuckled. "I can be mean when I want to, only when it is absolutely necessary. Now watch out or I will do the same to you."

Nickels laughed. "Whatever you say, boss."

"Oh, what will it take on this earth for you to stop calling me that?"