"Soap!"
The call, though distant, echoed through the warehouse and effectively halted all motion inside it.
Spot's cigarette was halfway to his lips. Soap's hand had stopped midway to the deck of cards that it had been his turn to deal. Mitts' mouth had fallen open and Vin had been whistling a tune that stopped mid-note.
The only thing that moved was the smoke from Spot's cigarette as it drifted upwards and the boy's eyes as they took in each other's reactions.
"Soap!" Came the call again.
Quicker and more quietly than Vin imagined anyone could, Mitts was on his feet next to the dirty window with his back against the wall. He peered out of it, careful to stay out of sight.
"It's Finch." He said quietly. "And tha rest of dem."
"How'd he find us?" Vin asked.
No one had any answers.
"Youse guys go out tha back. Youse can get lost in tha scaffolding, while I distract dem out front." Spot said after a moment.
"No." Soap said immediately.
"Soap-"
"I ain't runnin'."
"Soap listen ta me." Spot's eyes were narrowed and his voice was low and urgent. "Dey're hea for a reason. Dey're hea ta beat youse so bad youse can't walk, much less organize Brooklyn against dem. Dis thing ain't even off tha ground yet, but if it's important ta youse, den youse go out tha back."
His eyes did not leave Soap's.
"Spot-"
"Mitts."
Spot uttered the word like a command and Mitts did not need to be told in words what to do. He strode back to them, grabbed Soap with one hand on his shoulder, the other on his wrist and hauled him out of his seat. Soap did not argue or struggle against Mitts, but his eyes did not leave Spot's until they both were out of sight.
"Soap!" Came the call again.
Spot's eyes found Vin who hadn't moved from his seat.
"Youse go wit' dem." He said jerking his chin after Mitts and Soap. Vin met Spot's ice-blue eyes with a clenched jaw.
"I ain't important. I'm stayin'."
Vin's words hung in between them for a moment. Spot did not look angry or argumentative. In fact, Vin thought he detected a tiny hint of gratefulness in them. A second later, Spot dropped his forgotten cigarette as it burned him and got to his feet. His face was the mask of absolute impassiveness that Vin had seen only once before, the first day he had met him.
Together they crossed to the warehouse door as if marching to their execution. At the door, with one hand on the handle, Spot stopped again.
"Listen, all a Finch's boys are big. You punch a big guy in tha gut and it ain't gonna do nothin'. So aim for noses. Give a guy a bloody nose and his eyes'll water up. Can't see a thing." He said quickly. "And stay close, don't let dem separate us."
Vin swallowed hard, but nodded and Spot pulled open the door.
Like déjà vu, Vin saw the seven boys from the end of the alley where he had found Mitts lined up at the end of the pier. If anything, they looked bigger and meaner now than they had then. In the middle of them stood a sneering, thick, dirty-looking boy with brown hair. He was the biggest of them and he took a step forward from the rest. This had to be Finch.
"Where's Soap?" He spat.
"He ain't hea." Spot lied easily.
"I ain't playin'. Where is Soap?" Finch said, his voice gruff and angry.
"He. Ain't. Hea." Spot said, measuring his words, a tiny hint of annoyed sarcasm in them.
The boys slowly swarmed closer as Finch eyed them both. It seemed as if his eyes were boring into them, trying to detect the truth.
"Well, we's came hea for a fight, but if Soap ain't hea and youse two is volunteerin' ta take his place-"
"Youse think dis is gonna solve ya problems?" Spot called suddenly. "Youse think dat soakin' us is gonna keep tha otha newsies from knowin' tha truth? Brooklyn is gonna make it's own choice, Finch. Youse ain't gonna be able ta soak tha whole place inta submission."
"Maybe, maybe not." Finch replied airily. "Guess we'll start wit' youse two and find out."
Spot and Vin stood back to back encircled by Finch's boys. Like water crashing in waves against a rock they held their ground. Spot was like a storm, his cane whirling and crashing through the air like cracks of thunder. Vin merely defended Spot's back, moving with him as he beat back their attackers with vicious swings of his cane and furious punches. Knees connected with guts; knuckles to noses; elbows to jaws. Spot and Vin both took hits and dished them out.
After a few good knocks to his skull, Vin found it easier to simply react than think. He was unsure whether it was because his brain was unwilling to work or if it was the true secret of fighting that he had somehow tapped into. Adrenaline pumped through their veins. Shouts rang in their ears and blood dripped, slow and wet, from various parts of their bodies.
Strong hands grabbed Vin. A pair on each of his arms. For a moment he struggled. He saw Spot's red and black cane swing; felt one pair of hands release him, but another pair gripped tighter a second later. Knuckles crashed against his nose and his vision blurred. The hands that held his arms propelled him through the air and he landed hard on the ground. He blinked rapidly, unable to see what was coming next. He heard Spot's voice call his name, but distantly. His slow brain worked through it. They had separated them. He braced for the pummeling he knew was to come.
Oddly enough, it didn't.
Voices were shouting words his brain could not comprehend.
"Beggers can't choose their port in a storm, ya know!"
"We was doin' fine on our own."
"Sure ya was!"
The noise of the fight raged on, but became further away. He pushed himself into a sitting position on the ground and stared up. There were at least twenty five pairs of legs on the street. Far more than what he and Spot had been facing down.
"Vin!"
Spot's voice seemed far away, though he was kneeling next to him.
"Youse alrigh'?"
"Yea." Vin responded a little unsure. "What happened?"
"Vito showed up. Brought Scraps and his boys. Mitts musta run full tilt all tha way dere."
"Remind me ta thank Mitts." Vin muttered as Spot helped him to his feet.
Spot grinned. Vin noticed he had a gash above his eye that was slowly oozing blood and every single knuckle on both his hands were darkening with bruises, but otherwise seemed completely untouched. Spot steered him onto a nearby crate, sat down next to him and lit a very bent cigarette, then handed Vin the pack and matches.
Vin extracted one with difficulty and attempted to strike a match. After three or four attempts he had successfully burned off the tip of the match, but had produced no spark. Spot chuckled a little and took the matches from him, struck one up, and held it to the end of Vin's cigarette.
"Youse a fair fighta." He said after a minute.
"Got nothin' on youse." Vin replied truthfully.
"Wouldn't a done so well without someone at my back." Spot admitted.
Vin shrugged.
"Well-" Spot hesitated. "Thanks."
