Scene: Old Debts

The Lamb and Flag hadn't changed in the five years since Mick last darkened its doors. Same sticky floor, same smoke-stained ceiling despite the smoking ban, same clientele nursing the same grudges over the same cheap pints. The only thing missing was the constant sardonic commentary in his head.

Four days of silence where Marchosias should be. Four days of feeling half-blind, like someone had gouged out one of his eyes while he slept.

Mick scanned the pub, ignoring the reflexive tension in his shoulders. Without Marchosias's power flowing through him, he felt naked. Vulnerable in a way he'd forgotten was possible. The weight of his extendable baton in his jacket pocket offered minimal comfort.

Gavin Saunders sat at a corner table with three others—the same table he'd claimed as his unofficial office for the better part of a decade. A small-time fence with big-time connections, Saunders knew things. Specifically, things about Judge Blackwood's less public dealings.

Mick approached the table, noting how the conversation died mid-sentence.

"Saunders. Need a word."

Gavin looked up, his watery blue eyes widening in recognition before narrowing with practiced disdain. "Well, if it isn't Detective Constable Hargraves. Except you're not a detective anymore, are you? Just another saddo with a drinking problem."

The men at the table chuckled, sensing entertainment brewing.

"It's about Judge Blackwood," Mick said, keeping his voice low. "Five minutes of your time. That's all I'm asking."

Saunders leaned back, a smile stretching across his face like an oil slick. "Blackwood? That's a name I haven't heard in a while. Why would I know anything about some fancy judge?"

"Cut the act," Mick replied. "I know you handled some acquisitions for him. Properties with specific histories."

Something flickered across Saunders' face—a momentary tell that confirmed Mick's suspicions—before he masked it with exaggerated boredom.

"Don't know what you're talking about, mate. But I do know you're interrupting my evening." He gestured toward the door. "So why don't you piss off back to whatever gutter you crawled out of?"

Mick didn't move. "This is important, Gavin. People are dying."

"People are always dying," Saunders replied, his tone hardening. "Not my concern. Not yours either, now that you've been kicked off the force."

"I wasn't kicked off," Mick corrected automatically. "I left."

"After beating seven shades of shit out of that nonce," one of the other men added with something like reluctant respect.

Saunders sighed theatrically. "Look, I'm trying to enjoy a quiet drink with my mates. If you don't leave under your own steam..." He raised his voice slightly. "Shaun! Got a situation over here."

A hulking shadow detached itself from the bar. Mick didn't need to turn to know who it was, but he did anyway, confirming what his gut had already told him.

Shaun Tulley. Six-foot-four and built like a brick shithouse. Hands like spades and a face that had been used as a whetstone for other people's knuckles.

"Hargraves," Tulley said, his voice a bass rumble that Mick felt in his chest. "Been a while."

The last time they'd crossed paths had been the Ainsworth case. Tulley had been a person of interest, though nothing had stuck. But the incident that cemented Tulley in Mick's memory had nothing to do with Ainsworth.

It had been Jerry Halliwell—"Ginger" to everyone who knew him, despite being bald as a cue ball. Ginger had been Mick's mentor when he first made detective, teaching him the ropes with a patience Mick had never properly appreciated until it was gone.

Gone because Tulley had caught Ginger alone after a shift, administered a beating so thorough that the older man had spent three weeks in hospital and taken early retirement on medical grounds. The internal investigation had gone nowhere—evidence misplaced, witnesses suddenly afflicted with amnesia. The usual.

"Shaun," Mick acknowledged, fighting the urge to step back as the larger man loomed over him.

"Mr. Saunders doesn't want to talk to you," Tulley said, his tone conversational. "So how about you and me step outside for a chat instead?"

Mick weighed his options. Without Marchosias, he stood no chance in a fair fight against Tulley. But maybe if he could get the man talking...

"Fine," Mick agreed. "A chat."

Saunders grinned, all teeth and malice. "Show him the error of his ways, Shaun. Educational, like."

Tulley's hand clamped down on Mick's shoulder with bruising force, steering him toward the back exit. Mick let himself be guided, mind racing through scenarios, none of them ending well for him.

They'd barely cleared the fire door into the alley behind the pub when Tulley's fist drove into Mick's solar plexus with the force of a sledgehammer. Air exploded from his lungs as he doubled over, knees buckling.

"That's for starters," Tulley said, almost cheerfully.

Mick fought through the tears blurring his vision, through the desperate need to curl up and gasp for air. He straightened with effort and threw a punch that connected solidly with Tulley's jaw.

It was like hitting concrete. Tulley's head barely moved. He touched his lip, seemed almost surprised to find it intact, then grinned.

"My turn again."

The next blow caught Mick's cheekbone, snapping his head sideways and sending him staggering against the brick wall. Before he could recover, Tulley's fist found his ribs, then his stomach again.

Mick had been in fights before, even before Marchosias. He'd taken his share of beatings. But this was methodical. Professional. Tulley knew exactly how to hurt someone without doing permanent damage—unless that was the goal.

A split lip. A rapidly swelling eye. Ribs that screamed with each breath. Mick knew he should stay down, but pride and stubbornness—the twin demons that had gotten him into trouble long before Marchosias came along—forced him back to his feet.

Tulley looked almost impressed. "Persistent little bastard, aren't you?"

He pinned Mick against the wall with a forearm across his chest, leaning in close enough that Mick could smell stale beer and cigarettes on his breath.

"This is just business, yeah? Nothing personal."

"Tell that to Ginger," Mick managed, tasting blood.

Something shifted in Tulley's expression—recognition, quickly followed by irritation. "Halliwell? That was years ago, mate. Ancient history."

"Not to him," Mick replied. "He still walks with a limp."

Tulley's face darkened. "He should've minded his own business. Like you should."

He punctuated this with another savage blow to Mick's midsection. This time, the pain was too much. Mick's stomach rebelled, and he vomited spectacularly—all over Tulley's trousers and shoes.

"You fucking—!" Tulley released him, stumbling back in disgust.

Mick didn't have time to appreciate the irony. Tulley's massive hands grabbed him by the jacket and hurled him bodily across the alley. He crashed into an industrial wheelie bin with a cacophony of rattling glass, then slid to the ground, fighting to remain conscious.

Through swimming vision, he watched Tulley cursing, trying to wipe vomit from his shoes with a handful of napkins pulled from his pocket. The distraction was brief, but it was enough.

Mick gathered what strength remained and lashed out with his heel, targeting the side of Tulley's knee. The joint hyperextended with a sickening crunch, drawing a howl of pain from the big man.

"You little shit!"

Tulley remained standing, but only just—hopping back awkwardly on his good leg as Mick struggled to his feet. Pain screamed through every nerve ending, but adrenaline dulled it to a manageable roar. His hand slipped into his jacket pocket, fingers closing around a familiar shape.

Brass knuckles. A souvenir from a case years ago that he'd never logged into evidence. He'd told himself it was insurance. For situations exactly like this.

The metal slipped over his fingers, cold and reassuring. Tulley saw it and his eyes widened fractionally.

"That's cheating," he said, but there was a new wariness in his voice.

"No," Mick replied, spitting blood onto the alley floor. "This is evening the odds."

He lunged forward, driving the weighted fist into Tulley's solar plexus. The big man's breath exploded outward in a pained grunt. Before he could recover, Mick struck again, this time targeting the ribs. Something gave way with a satisfying crack.

Tulley tried to backpedal, his injured knee betraying him. Another blow, this time to the kidney. Tulley went down hard, landing on all fours like a wounded animal.

Mick grabbed a handful of his hair, jerking his head up to meet his eyes.

"This is for Ginger," he said quietly, and drove his fist into Tulley's jaw.

The impact sent a shock up Mick's arm to his shoulder. Tulley's head snapped sideways, blood and broken teeth splattering across the alley floor. He collapsed face-down and lay still, his breathing wet and labored.

Mick stood over him, his own breath coming in painful gasps. The brass knuckles had split the skin across his knuckles, but the damage to Tulley was far worse. For a moment, a familiar thrill of satisfaction coursed through him—the same feeling he'd had after beating Philip Weiss to a pulp.

But there was no Marchosias to savor the violence, no demonic presence reveling in vengeance satisfied. Just Mick, alone with the consequences of his actions.

He slipped the brass knuckles back into his pocket and straightened his jacket as best he could. His face was a mess, his ribs screamed with every breath, but he was still standing. In that moment, it felt like victory enough.

Mick made his way back to the pub door, each step a negotiation with pain. He braced himself in the doorway, bloody and battered but upright. The conversation inside died as heads turned to stare.

Saunders' expression shifted from smug anticipation to shock, then to poorly concealed fear.

"Tulley won't be joining us," Mick said, his voice rough but steady. "Now, about that chat we were going to have."

He limped to Saunders' table and sat uninvited, ignoring the way the other men edged away.

"Judge Blackwood," he continued, as if the last ten minutes hadn't happened. "The Blackthorn Initiative. Start talking."

The taste of blood in his mouth was bitter, but the taste of fear in Saunders' eyes was almost sweet enough to compensate.

Almost.