A/N: This chapter is extremely long. Read and enjoy, as it will be the final chapter. Whenever you see the horizontal line, it doesn't mean a change. Everything is pretty much happening at the same time but in different places.
An eerie silence crept over the lodging house as the afternoon slowly transformed into evening. Thompson and Bolt lay in their bunks, drifting in and out of sleep. They had not moved from the beds since they got there and there was no indication that that would change. Thompson laid his right arm across his stomach, certain that it was broken. He didn't show suggestions that it was though, and it didn't hinder the fact that it had only worsened as he and Spot carried Bolt upstairs.
The fiery orange, setting sun cast its rays through the windows and created shadows here and there. Sunlight poured in and touched any place that was not hidden. A few newsboys wandered into the quarters and then out again, respecting the peace created in the room. By that time, stories of what happened in the Bronx had spread like wildfire and it was something not to be discussed while the two victims were in the room. Most had said that it was a disgrace to Brooklyn, the territory with the most esteem. They said it was an embarrassment to have their fearless leader get the shit scared out of him while leaving the others for practically dead.
Bolt turned his throbbing head to the direction of a shadow, trying to rid his eyes of the sunlight. It hurt. Turning his head hurt. He had never been in more pain in his life, which is saying a lot coming from a newsboy in New York. Talking to Spot through puffy lips earlier was a chore and the repercussions were catching up with him. Thompson awoke in the bunk to his right, sniffling and coughing painfully. They looked at each other for a few seconds, getting the full effect of the injuries.
"You hurtin' as much as I am right now?" Thompson asked rhetorical.
Bolt groaned. "Where's Conlon?"
Thompson looked around. "Don't know. Didn't you talk to him this afternoon?"
"Yeah, he said he'd be right back, but that must've been a couple hours ago."
"Well, where'd he go?"
Spot finished writing the note and folded it twice. He handed it to the thirty-year-old homeless man of pitiable and dismal state, and handed him the money. The bum gratefully stuffed the handful of change into his worn pant pockets and stuck the important note safely into his shirt pocket. He tipped his stolen hat at Spot and set off to the desired destination which would take a long time. Spot did not know if his plan would work, but something in the back of his mind said it would.
It was nearly nine o'clock at nightfall as Pierce collected his earnings from the center of the table. A group of Bronx newsboys were huddled around a decrepit and splintered table in a rousing game of poker, as if celebrating the tiny victory over the almighty Spot Conlon. Curses and other unmentionable words were muttered under the horrid breaths of the evils minions of Pierce. One even dared to throw his hand of cards at the table in frustration.
"Every goddamn time!" he shouted, infuriated with Pierce's so-called luck.
A cold set of brown eyes cast themselves upon the poor newsboy that had so dangerously and discreetly accused their dictator of cheating.
"Do you have a problem, Spike?" Pierce inquired in his rough and abrasive voice that made anyone shudder.
Spike tried to hold in his rage. "I'm losin' all my money! I ain't got any left fer food!" he screamed in response, now at his feet standing in front of a hushed group.
Pierce gathered the coins to the edge of the table and dropped them, one-by-one, into his palm as if mocking Spike's stroke of bad luck. "Spike, do you think your sob stories like that will buy you meals?"
Spike shook his head, frightened.
"Will they help you get any better at poker?"
Again, Spike shook his head.
"Right, they won't. Now, if you want to continue playing, you'll have to keep your narrow-minded comments to yourself, or else you'll be 'escorted' out. Okay?"
On the verge of urinating himself, Spike agreed. The dealer passed out the next hand. Spike held in front of his face two pairs of fives. As the bets went around and the hand was called, Spike smiled his nasty smile to himself. Watching everyone else fold, he confidently laid his hand out to full view.
"Well..." Pierce started. "Don't know what I'm going to do about this, boys."
Spike began to assemble the money to his direction.
"Not so fast, connoisseur," Pierce stopped him and put down his full house, kings over nines.
An expression of disbelief clouded Spike's face as the rage again rose up within his being. "I'm done!" he yelled and jumped up, knocking his chair to the floor behind him with a thud. A few chuckles sounded about him.
"Yes, Spike. I suppose you are," Pierce agreed coldly and mockingly. He nodded to two of his slave-servants and they expeditiously grabbed each of Spike's arms. They dragged him out of the room to where his fate would soon be determined, all the while the newsboy cursing at Pierce and screaming other obscenities.
Pierce sighed and pushed his money toward him. "So, anoth-"
A gunshot sliced the air and caused most of everyone's heads to whip in the direction to where Spike was brought to.
"Another round?" Pierce ended his sentence, the noise hardly affecting him.
Normalcy set in again as everybody's attention was focused back to the game. As the game trudged on, the ruler unfairly winning each time, a young boy walked up to Pierce and handed him a folded piece of paper. Setting his cards face-down, he unfolded it and read the familiar writing.
Whispers floated around the group as to what it would say. Fury built up immediately in Pierce, and with a bellow of anger, he retrieved a switchblade from his pocket and stabbed the table, leaving the blade to stand straight up.
"If it's a meeting he wants, it's a meeting he's going to get!" he screamed coldly. He ripped the paper to shreds and placed the blade back into his pocket. "Forgive me, boys. A previous engagement awaits me in Brooklyn."
Thankful that the intense sun was no longer in sight, Bolt leaned over and turned on the lamp on his nightstand. The small light filled his area of the large room as he stared up at the ceiling. Thompson had gone back to sleep after a short conversation. Questions buzzed around in his mind as to where Spot had gone.
The door creaked open and in stepped Autumn, dressed in her almost skimpy work attire. Bolt shifted his eyes toward her.
"Oh, my, god!" she said once she got view of Bolt and Thompson. She rushed over to him, her boots clicking against the floorboards. "What happened?"
Bolt watched her hustle across the room and take a seat on the chair Spot had once sat upon. "Ya know how we had to go to the Bronx?"
"Oh, Bolt..." She made a sympathetic face as she scanned his battered body. "I'm so sorry. Wasn't Spot supposed to go with you guys?"
He didn't say anything and blinked his eyes slowly at her.
"I see," she understood as she started to get choked up at the sight of the two helpless boys. Autumn got to her feet and made her way over to the bathroom to fill up a cup of water for Bolt. "So, where is Spot?" she asked from across the room.
"Don't know. He disappeared, seems like," Bolt responded, straining his throat.
Autumn returned with a tall, water-filled cup and handed it to him. "I have to talk to him. He was actin' all strange this morning."
"How?" he asked in between gulps.
"Well, for starters, he gave me this." She took out Spot's coveted key necklace and dangled it freely in the air.
Bolt looked at it, almost stunned. "That belongs to PJ," he told her quickly.
"Who?"
Spot cracked his knuckles nervously while waiting inside the abandoned building where Brooklyn held their meetings. It was late, really late, and it seemed as though he had been waiting forever. He sat upon a small crate, gazing at the flame of the lamp sitting at the center of the room, the building's only light. A rat scurried across his feet, startling him. Spot caught his breath and regained composure. It's just a rat, relax. Relaxing seemed impossible. He was going to come face-to-face with his feared enemy and oldest friend in the entire world. The one that had caused so much pain in the past few weeks. The one that nearly killed two of his boys, and god-knows-what to two others. He had sent his two cronies to torment and disrupt Brooklyn, his kingdom.
But it all came down to this. It would all be settled tonight. He looked out the window and viewed the cloudless, starry sky. The door swung open from downstairs and Spot directed his attention to the sound. He felt his slingshot in the loops of his suspenders. He felt the switchblade in his pocket. He felt the absence of his key-he didn't need it.
With every slow creak of the steps, Spot felt his heart beat faster and faster. Soon, stepping out of the shadows of the staircase and into the light of the kerosene lamp, a bulky, almost unfamiliar figure stood before him. His shaggy hair was gone and his once honey eyes were now shallow and penetrating. He stood at six feet, a build of muscle and malevolence. PJ turned his neck, giving it a spine-tingling crack. "Hey," he breathed.
Spot planted his feet in the ground and gripped his sweaty palms. "Hey, PJ."
"Long time, no see, right, Conlon?" PJ stepped toward him a few steps closer into the light. His tone was not one of friendless, but of derision and disdain.
Spot gulped and stayed firm. "Sure has been long."
"Who's that?" Autumn repeated.
"You mean, he just gave it to you?" Bolt sat up straight, examining it closer.
"Yeah, what's the big deal?" Autumn was puzzled with the way Bolt had reacted to the necklace.
"PJ was the guy from the bridge a few years ago."
"I am so damn lost..." Autumn sat back and crossed her arms over her chest.
Bolt sat up right and faced her, prepared to tell her of the story. "PJ was Spot's best friend from childhood and everything. They were walkin' home late one night from Manhattan from a poker tournament in Manhattan, the same night a meeting of the leaders was being held in the Bronx."
Autumn nodded, trying to follow along and enter the mindset of a newsboy.
"Well, Spot was a lil' drunk and really out of it. So, he and PJ were walkin' back when these two Bronx thugs started somethin' with them. Spot, bein' so drunk, couldn't exactly fight back too well. One of the guys pulled out a knife and would have almost killed him if PJ hadn't fought him off. PJ endin' up killin' the guy, tryin' to protect Spot. The police came and took PJ to god-knows-where, leavin' Spot behind."
Autumn cupped a hand over her mouth. "So PJ didn't do anything wrong?"
"Not from what I heard. But since then, the Bronx scares the shit outta him. When we started walkin' over there the other day, he fell apart."
"So why did he give me his necklace?"
"Got me. Far as I know, Spot won't let anyone touch it. Unless-"
"He'll get what's comin' to him, Bolt. Don't worry..."
"...It you go after him, he will kill you. I can guarantee that."
Pierce Johns...PJ.
"Oh, shit."
"What?" Autumn asked, scared.
"I think he went after Pierce, the Bronx leader. I told him not to, that it was a bad idea...Oh, fuck." Bolt fumbled around for his shoes and regular clothes, agonizing from his injured body in the process. He looked up at Autumn with concerned eyes. "Pierce is PJ, Autumn."
Autumn gasped slightly. "Where did he go?"
"I think I know."
The tension skyrocketed through the rickety ceiling of the old edifice. The air was filled with it. PJ and Spot stared each other down for a few moments as the lamp flickered in the middle of the room, making shadows dance across PJ's very different face.
"So, I see Brooklyn sure has changed," PJ commented, ridiculing the idea of polite conversation. He started to pace up and down the dirty, dusty floors, its boards squeaking with every step. "You did well, my friend."
"What can I say? I was meant to stay in Brooklyn," Spot replied, implying that it was a mistake for PJ to have taken over the Bronx.
PJ smiled devilishly and looked at Spot. "It really did bother you that I chose that particular territory when I got out didn't it?"
Spot clenched his jaw, as well as his fists. Beads of sweat formed at his forehead and shivers shot up and down his back.
"I knew it would. The old leader, Spits, I believe, hated the Bronx. Said their newsies were a disgrace to New York. I figured you'd feel the same way once you took over. I guess I was right."
"You think you changed that idea, PJ? You don't think the Bronx isn't any different than it already was?"
PJ locked a cold glare to Spot. They stood, facing each other, the two most powerful and fearless rulers in all New York. One, the famous and well-respected; the other, the infamous and well-hated; both of which went back to the days of innocence. And now they stood, eager to kill the other. One looked to even the score for the citizens of his empire, and the other sought after a hateful vengeance.
"So, I gotta ask you, Conlon," PJ started, "is there is a certain reason that you called me out to my hometown on such a fine night?"
"I want you to stop this. You need to stop taking this out on my boys and Autumn."
"Autumn? Is that one of your famous whores?"
A fuming temper surged through Spot's boiling veins at his comment. He lunged forward rapidly and put a death grip on PJ's collar, shoving him backward. He held him up in front of his face with pursed lips and furrowed eyebrows.
"Glad to see you still got some fight left in you," PJ reacted. "Of course, it would have been a little more useful the last time I saw you." PJ threw a numbing punch to Spot's stomach, sending him backward and releasing the hold on his collar.
Spot quickly got to his feet and stopped in front of PJ, holding up his hands. PJ stepped back as well, agreeing to the stop the temporary fighting.
"What'd you do with my boys? Johnny and Glover. Why do you still have them?"
"Oh, you mean the lackeys you sent, after we beat the shit out the other two?" He pulled out two items from his pockets and flung them across the floor. The sound of their thuds mimicked the drop in the pits of Spot's stomach. Lying on the floor were the recognizable Brooklyn slingshots of Johnny and Glover, each with their initials engraved in the wood. "Sorry we couldn't spare all of them, Spotty boy."
Spot's chest heaved in and out as the fury reached its climax. He went after PJ in the stomach, sending both of them to the floor with Spot crouching over his midsection. He delivered clouts to his face, punching him wildly and repetitively. PJ's arms eventually overpowered Spot's and soon Spot was on the floor, defending himself from Bronx-trained hits. PJ used his strength to push back Spot's fighting arms and held them above his head with one hand, leaving Spot practically helpless. Quickly, he reached into his pocket and grabbed his blade, holding in front of Spot's face and letting it glimmer in the light.
"Seem familiar, Conlon?"
Enduring an unspeakable amount of pain and agony, Bolt ran down the steps of the lodging house and out the door. Autumn followed right on his heels, frightened and panicked at the same time. They reached the night outside, pushing anyone out of their way.
"Bolt, where're we going?" Autumn asked desperately behind him.
"I know where they're at. Spot can't do this alone."
Autumn panted with anxiety, afraid of what lied ahead of them. She followed Bolt wherever he went. They darted down the crowded streets, weaving in and out of the herds of people and shoving anyone to the side if they got in their way. After almost a minute, Bolt slowed down at the abandoned factory in close range and Autumn stopped at his side.
"This the place?" Autumn queried, out of breath.
"Yeah," he panted, aching all over the place. A small, flickering light on the second floor confirmed his suspicions. They jogged over to the entrance.
Spot mustered his strength and broke one hand free from PJ's hold, and knocked the blade out of his hand, sending it flying across the room. This broke PJ's concentration and Spot took advantage of it by pushing him off his stomach.
They faced each other now, each with a bloody nose and bloody lips.
"I'm gonna make you pay for the time I spent in Hell, Conlon! We should've gone down together that night! If you weren't such a pussy, things would have been a lot different!" PJ charged right into Spot, creating another fist fight.
"It wasn't your fault, PJ, and it wasn't mine! Stop blamin' me for it!" Spot got out between dodges and punches.
"You're gonna pay, Spot. I don't care how, but you will!"
Spot gave him a final shove away from him and they stood six feet from each other. Involuntarily, he dug out his switchblade from his pocket and held it out in front of him, immediately regretting it as PJ smirked. PJ slowly reached into his trousers and pulled out a dark, gleaming revolver and stretched out his arm.
Without delay, Spot took a few steps back and held his hands up, still clutching the blade. Guns were against the rules-but, what was he to expect? He was dealing with a Bronx boy.
"Don't like my little trinket, do you, Conlon?" PJ grinned heinously. He took a step to the left, Spot mirroring him. "Surprised, you still followed the guidelines, to be honest," PJ told him. "I would have thought this would be an exception for you."
They continued to step out, as if dancing with death. Spot's breathing was short and rigid, facing the barrel of the pistol. Acceptance washed over him.
Noises of the outside city sounded but did not faze the two boys playing the morbid instruments of death that only men knew how to play. Spot gulped down the lump that had quickly risen in his throat. Tears were on the verge of racing from the corners of his eyes. He looked at PJ; he echoed Spot's countenance.
"I really don't want to have to do this, Conlon...But I have no choice."
Suddenly two figures were heard making their way hurriedly up the steps. The two broke the focus and looked to the staircase at their sides. Bolt was leading and reached the top step. Spot saw him and glanced at PJ who had a look of fatal annoyance in his eyes. His position of the revolver swiftly shifted to the direction of Bolt.
"No!" Spot shrieked just as the trigger was pulled. His stomach dropped as Bolt fell to the ground, clutching his arm and trembling violently. Autumn screeched and took a step back, something Spot was grateful for.
"Good to see you again," PJ told him and blew the smoke from the barrel.
A force took hold of Spot and sent him charging toward PJ, the knife in the perfect position to kill. PJ turned towards him and-
BOOM. A collision occurred between the two boys, along with the penetrating sound of murder and self-defense.
PJ staggered backward, falling to the ground with a dagger lodged in his rib cage. Forced breaths escaped from his putrid mouth and blood flowed from the wound. He landed with a thud as his life slowly began to disintegrate.
"F-Forgive me, Spot..." were the last words uttered from Patrick Johns' mouth.
Autumn hurdled over a live-but-suffering Bolt, and hurried over to Spot, hysterical and sobbing loudly. She cried out to him, tears running down her cheeks.
Spot stepped backward, clutching his stomach. Autumn took hold of arms, as his knees buckled and gave way, sending him to the ground. His arms fell to the ground, revealing that a bullet had penetrated his skin and started to slowly filch the life from him. Blood began to seep out of his stomach as he fought with all of his might to live. His breaths were brief and numbered. Autumn knelt next to him, holding his face and bawling, shaking and quivering.
"Autumn," Spot escaped. "I'm...so sorry..."
"Shh..." Autumn touched her fingertips gently to his lips and grasped on of his hands tightly.
"I never...meant...to hurt you."
"Spot," she cried and looked into his blue-gray orbs that were slowly winding down. "Please don't say that. Please tell me everything will be okay, Spot. Please!"
"I...I can't, Autumn..."
"Spot, you're gonna be fine. Look at me and tell me you'll be fine!"
"I love you," he whispered to her the only consistent statement he had released. He gazed at her as he struggled for breath.
Autumn's lips quivered wildly. "I will always love you, Spot Conlon," she told him strongly.
"I'll-I'll miss you...so much, Autumn." He began blinking slowly and up at the ceiling, striving more than ever to hold onto life.
"Spot, no! Look at me, look into my eyes!" She tilted his face so it was level with hers. "Please stay with me!" she pleaded, her voice weakening.
"I love you...and I'm so sorry..."
"Don't let go, Spot, stay with me!"
The grip Autumn had on his hand had loosened. His breathing was complete. His deep, oceanic eyes, the eyes that oversaw and took after Brooklyn, fluttered and finally closed. Autumn shut her eyes, refusing to believe what was happening. She placed a hand on Spot's chest, as if attempting to make out a heartbeat. She was helpless; Spot Conlon, the mighty king of Brooklyn, had saved her life three times, and she had all but returned the favor.
The air of lethal mortality filled the room of the dead factory. Its stillness reverberated through the walls and through the wind of the city. A final showdown had silenced the two leaders, putting a close to a war that was fought in the streets and hearts of one the city's most dreaded occupations. No longer was it dangerous for a Brooklynite to enter the domain of the Bronx. Its two deceased leaders had finally gone down together and a piece of New York died that night.