The steely, metallic electricity coursing through me vanished, taking the pain with it, but my body felt loose. I could hardly move. Mikey delivered a hard kick, and agony exploded in my ribs. I tried to curl into a ball, but my limbs wouldn’t cooperate. The blows came again and again, as if there were ten of him instead of one.
After what seemed like a lifetime, I was dimly aware of Mitch looming over me. He put out his arm, pressing Mikey back like a referee. “You’re up, son,” he said to Frankie. “Show him what we do to snitches.”
Through one swollen eye, I saw Frankie had the baton again. He danced around me but didn’t take his shot.
“What the fuck are you waiting for?” Mitch snarled.
“Give it to me,” Mikey seethed, hand out for the baton. “I’ll fuck him up good. Fuck him up like he fucked up my life.”
Frankie hesitated and then flinched as a shouted voice—high-pitched and shaky—came from my building, cutting across the night.
“I called the police, and I’m recording this!”
Maryann.
Fuck, no.
I craned my neck and saw her in front of her door, twenty yards away, her phone up.
“Fuck.” Mitch jabbed a beefy finger at his son. “Go get that phone.”
Frankie jerked his head. “N-no…”
“Get it, asshole!” Mikey shouted. He sounded panicked but made no move to do it himself. “Fuck.Oh fuck…this is bad.”
Mitch muttered a curse. “Frankie, you goddamn shitstain. Go get that phone!”
“No, Dad. No.”
“Little bitch,” Mitch spat. He yanked the Taser’s claws out of my leg, tearing flesh. “I’ll do it myself, but this isn’t over, Franklin. You and I are going to have words about what it means to be a coward in this family.”
He started for Maryann.
Using every ounce of will I could muster, I forced my muscles to cooperate and snaked my hand out. I gripped his boot, tripping him. With another curse, Mitch went down flat, smacking the pavement, the airwhooshingout of him.
I hauled myself to my hands and knees, scrabbling to hold on to Mitch as he made to get to his feet. I managed to get him in a weak choke hold that would last only until he caught his breath. I grasped blindly, shakily, as if all my muscles had gone to sleep. My fingers snagged on the eye holes of his mask, and I ripped it off his head.
“Bastard!” Mitch took hold of my arms and flipped me to the ground.
Hard, unforgiving pavement slammed into me. Pain radiated from between my shoulder blades. Sirens—faint but growing louder—rang in the distance. Even then, with my body screaming in agony from a thousand places, the sound woke up every memory of that day ten years ago, infusing me with terror.
Mitch towered over me, breathing hard, his face ruddy in the streetlamps.
“Dad…” Frankie whimpered. “Let’s go.”
Mitch ignored him. “You’re a snitch, Wentz. You ruined a good boy’s life. For what? A piece of ass?”
“Dad…”
“Fuck you,” I croaked, muscles shuddering and clenching.
Mitch brought his foot up and then down again, a stomping kick. I heard acrack, and then pain flooded my face along with the blood that poured from my nose.
“Mr. Dowd…” Mikey sounded scared.
“Let’s go,” I heard Mitch say. “I’m not done with you.”
I didn’t know if he was talking to me or Frankie.