But I knew the world was never that simple.
As the police closed in, I closed my eyes, letting the ache wash over me, letting myself be held. Whatever happened next, I knew this: nobody would ever take me from him. Not while Quiad still had breath left to fight.
Sheriff Floyd Hardesty showed up five minutes after the last punch landed, his presence a sudden black hole that sucked the chaos out of the alley. The flashing lights painted the scene in blue and red, each pulse illuminating the blood splattered across the bricks, the crumpled bodies of my would-be kidnappers, and the McKenzie brothers looming over them like they’d been cast from the same mold of rage.
He didn’t waste time asking questions. He just took one look at the carnage, clocked the way Ransom had the man in the suit pinned with a boot to the shoulder, and said, “Jesus Christ, McKenzie, you start charging for these?” Then he called Deputy Dan over to cuff the men, motioning for Knox to help keep them upright.
Floyd’s eyes swept to me, and for a second I saw something that looked almost like fatherly worry in the sharp lines around his mouth. “You alive, Levi?”
I nodded, tasted more blood. “Mostly.”
“Good,” he grunted. “Sit tight. Paramedics’ll be here in two.” He strode to the man in the suit, who was still conscious, thoughbarely. “You want to tell me what the hell you thought you were doing?”
The man in the suit just spit a wad of blood onto the ground, then fixed Floyd with a dead stare. “None of your business.”
Floyd didn’t blink. “It is now.” He looked at Dan. “Get this one in the back. The others, too. I want them separated.”
Dan started herding the men toward the waiting cruisers, but the suit man locked eyes with me as he passed. For a split second, I thought I saw something flicker there—not fear, not exactly, but a calculation, the cold certainty of someone who’d survive anything.
I shivered, tried to stand, but my knees buckled. Quiad caught me, his hands steady, though his whole body vibrated with leftover adrenaline. He pressed a towel—where had he gotten a towel?—to my face, staunching the blood from my lip. The cloth was rough, abrasive, but I didn’t care. I wanted to sink into the heat of him and never leave.
Bodean hovered at my side, his fingers fluttering nervously over the air around my head, like he wanted to check for concussions but was afraid to touch. “You gotta stop scaring us like this,” he said, voice raw.
“Yeah,” I rasped. “I’ll try.”
Knox and Ransom conferred with Floyd, their voices low and sharp, each brother giving his version of events with minimal embellishment. Ransom, for once, didn’t crack a single joke. Knox’s hands were stained red, and he didn’t bother hiding them.
The medics arrived, swarming me with gloves and questions. They prodded my ribs, flashed lights in my eyes, and whispered stats into their radios. One of them—older, with a mustache that belonged in a history book—patted my shoulder and said, “You’re tough, son. It’ll stitch. Might wanna see a dentist, though.”
They wanted to take me to the hospital, but Quiad growled, “He’s fine,” and the man just shrugged and left me be.
After they’d packed up the bodies, Floyd made a show of dusting off his hands. “Alright,” he said, turning to us. “Someone want to explain why three out-of-towners thought they could snatch a McKenzie in broad daylight?”
The brothers looked at each other, the silence thick as the blood in my mouth. I took a breath, coughed, and said, “It’s Gloria. She sold me off to them.”
Floyd’s face darkened, but he didn’t interrupt.
“She said I was worth more than whatever she owed,” I said. “Signed a contract and everything.”
For the first time, Floyd looked older than his years. He sighed, pinched the bridge of his nose. “Levi, I’m real sorry.”
I shrugged, pain flashing up my neck. “Not your fault.”
He eyed the brothers. “You boys got anywhere else you need to be?”
Knox shook his head. “We’ll come in.”
“Good,” said Floyd. “Let’s get you cleaned up, then.”
* * * *
The sheriff’s station was colder than I remembered, every surface washed in the stark blue of overhead fluorescents. They put us in the big conference room, someone handing out ice packs and bottles of water like we were prepping for a hangover instead of a police report.
The two muscle men were in holding, but the man in the suit got his own cell, complete with a nurse to keep him from choking on his own blood.
Dan took my statement, typing fast enough to match my stuttered speech. I told him everything—the grab, the wall, the contract with my mother’s name and the notary’s stamp. Hedidn’t say much, just nodded and muttered, “Assholes,” every now and then.
When I finished, he slid the report over for me to sign. “You good?” he asked.
