Love Is Always Write Volume 4

digging into the back of his neck.
    "Boss, found this lurking in the back," said a meaty voice.
    Jonathan grunted as he was shoved forward. His knee met a sudden, sharp corner that tore open the denim and skin.
    "Hmm, a rat. It's always why I hate using these avenues. Rats everywhere."
    Jonathan glared up from his crumpled position on the ground. Dark hair with a dark mustache and a suit too expensive for the grimy surroundings. Organized crime. Maybe Italians based on the location.
    Jonathan spat on the ground, clearing his mouth of dust. "I'd be careful who you called a rat around here. It would seem I've nipped the cheese from your plate. I think that makes me the cat, don't you?"
    A hand flashed out, catching Jonathan across the mouth and tingeing his tongue with copper.
    "A lucky break. But it would seem you didn't get the cheese out, or I doubt you'd be hanging around. All I need to do is follow my nose. I'm sure I can get my little morsel to come out," the mustached man said. His lips curved unpleasantly and exposed the yellow ivory of his teeth.
    Jonathan found himself once again wrestled by his neck, the cold bite of a gun pressed against his skin just below his jaw.
    "Come out, come out, little morsel," Mustache called. "I've a got a friend of yours out here. And we wouldn't want anyone else to get hurt because of you."
    "Stay where you are!" Jonathan shouted, trying desperately to push away the sensation of metal against his skin. "Don't come out! It won't help!"
    The mustache yanked Jonathan back, pressing the gun hard enough against his neck to bruise. "Who are you to talk big, huh, kitty cat? I could just shoot you now and tear this place apart to find her."
    "I wouldn't recommend it," Jonathan ground out.
    "And why not?" Mustache asked.
    "Because," Jonathan said, gasping air through his half-blocked windpipe, "the moment that gun goes off the police will know exactly where you are. And don't doubt they have scouts at least this far down listening for just that kind of clue."
    Mustache sneered, "You seem to be awfully knowing of the police. I wouldn't have a little cop here, now would I?"
    Jonathan let out a breathy laugh, "No, just someone who's had plenty of dealings with them."
    "Fink."
    "Ex-con."
    The mustache frowned and looked like he would continue the conversation, but outside, the sirens could be heard more clearly. Jonathan wasn't sure, but he'd bet getting caught wasn't as important to this pseudo-mafia as the little girl. But he also didn't want to become their new hostage.
    With a jerk of his shoulders he managed to free his neck from both the weapon and his captor's hands. Half stumbling, he managed to get around a low stack of pallets, probably what he tore his knee on before. The low thwump of a silencer didn't register at first but then pain blossomed, breathtaking and novel at once.
    He slammed against the cabinet the girl hid behind and heard a quiet meep from his actions. Head spinning, he made a shushing motion and stumbled on, managing to slide around the edge of the desk and hide between it and the wall, though it didn't seem as though he was being followed.
    Small scratches sounded behind him. It took Jonathan a minute, but finally he realized it was the girl. Feeling like he was lifting a brick with his pinky, Jonathan managed to return the scratch, somehow communicating his safety through this strange conversation.
    Around them the world continued to heave. The Italians, if that's what they were, were cursing and tossing around wood and cardboard; whether it was in search of Jonathan and the girl or looking for an exit, no one could say. Jonathan soaked in the cold concrete beneath him, feeling the coolness stiffening his legs and locking his elbows. The sunny day outside threw sharp daggers of light through the windows, though none of them reached Jonathan. It was surreal to think of his work waiting on his desk at home, the faint smell of taco that clung to his fingers, the soft press of his husband's lips. It all seemed so far away like it happened on another day when he was someone else. Someone who wasn't bleeding in a dusty, bug-infested, rotting warehouse. Who didn't climb through windows to find kidnapped children. Who gave up his adventurous days for the domestic life.
    When he heard the scuffle of boots outside, it seemed like he'd been waiting for hours. It could only have been a matter of minutes, though, because the Italians were still somewhere in the