One roll of the dice, One flip of a knife

Chapter four: Orders

By: Ambrlupin

Rated: M

Summary: Race has gotten himself in way over his head on the wrong side of the bridge. Can Spot Conlon get him out of it? Or will Manhattan blood be shed on Brooklyn soil? (Friendship or slash, however you want to look at it)

Disclaimer: if I did own newsies would I settle for not making money of it? Nuff said.

A/N: Second newsies fic! Hehehe, this is what happens when I read too many Spot and Race centric fanfics. -smile- hope ya like it!

For those of you who read 'For Brooklyn' there might be cameo appearances from the ever wonderful Docks, Shorty, and Ace...we'll just have to see. Red IS in here, though.

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The Brooklyn newsies looked up in surprise as the doors to their home slammed open and Spot stalked in, a flash of lightning illuminating his form. Mud clung to his legs, and over his chest. A cut, most likely caused by the rolling on the ground had slit his upper sleeve, some blood staining the fabric.

His jaw had already bruised slightly on one side and he ran a hand through his hair, trying to smooth its run-away strands. Red stood up slowly from his seat, the only one brave enough to ask what had happened. But he didn't get a chance to.

"Listen up." Spot snapped, standing in front of them all. "Starting now, if any of ya catch Racetrack Higgins on our turf again, you're to soak him. Ya got it?"

A murmur ran through the newsies, a few exchanging shocked glances. But all of them nodded, loyal to their leader. They would soak Race, but most of them would hesitate about it. And Spot knew that, too.

"If you refuse to.." He looked around with a glare, "Then you're gonna get soaked yourself, personally, by me."

That got them to pay attention.

Red pulled a chair out for him, and the leader collapsed into it, tossing back the glass of brandy the elder handed him. It ran down his throat, soothed him, took away the pain; both emotionally and physically. Without a word he held it out for another shot.

"What happened?" Red asked calmly as he filled it back up.

"Nuttin." Another re-fill.

His eyebrow raised, Red backed off a bit. He knew Spot would tell him, but in his own good time. Right now, what the youth needed was to get good and drunk, and then...

Then he would know what had happened to the unshakable, yet shaken, Spot Conlon.

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"Hey, Jack." Specs called as he tugged his shirt on over his head, "Race didn't come back last night, did he?"

"Naw." Cowboy was just finishing up shaving, "Must have gotten waylaid cause of the storm. Ya know him, got his face into the cards all day."

"Yeah," Mush had snagged an early copy of the paper and was leaned back in his seat, reading it as he sipped at some water. "Hey, look at this!" He exclaimed suddenly, gaining the attention of the whole house as he read.

"The Sheepshead races was in an uproar yesterday afternoon as a sole better won against the house, betting on a young stallion who was favored to lose against the prized...yadda yadda...oh, here we are...The award would be a few hundred at least...woah..." He grinned, "Aint that a prize?"

The rest of them laughed and joked around as they waited for the other to find his spot and continue reading. His eyes scanned down a little and then with a shocked cry, he began to choke on his water, hacking it up as he jumped from his chair.

"NO WAY!"

"What? What?" Jack yelled, snatching the paper from the coughing kid and reading to himself. His eyes shot wide open and he crossed himself with shaking hands. "Mary mother of God..."The rest of the house jumped toward the newspaper, wanting to know exactly what had happened, but Cowboy just waved them off and fell into a chair, still trembling. Skittery slapped his face with the back of his hand, "Oi, Jack! Tell us, what's the matta!"

Jack had to take a few deep breaths as he looked back down at the paper he held. "The winner of this glorious prize, is rumored to be a young newsie from Manhattan. Witnesses report that he was a frequent visitor who went by the name...Racetrack."

The newsboys lodging house was so quiet you could hear a pin drop.

Then it exploded into utter craziness.

Mush and Jack could only watch their cheering comrades with equal looks of concern on their faces. They were the only ones who had read farther down, the only ones who knew what the rest of the article reported.

'However, the whereabouts of such an extraordinary boy are a mystery after a mob of hundreds chased him into the very heart of Brooklyn. It is unclear whether or not he was killed and the voucher stolen, but as no one has yet to come claim the prize, there is a good chance he is still on the run. More on this story as it develops...'

Was Race okay? Had they gotten him? Was he lying in a gutter even now? Was he hanging low just in case? There was only one thing to do. "Mush...?"

"Yeah, Jack?" He murmurred, barely able to be heard above the partying newsies.

"Go to Brooklyn, ask Spot what he's heard."

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Mush was not getting into Brooklyn.

"I don't understand!" He was seething as two tall newsies blocked his way over the bridge. "What the heck is going on? I just want to talk to Spot!"

"We have orders to let no Manhattan newsie over this bridge, and we'll follow them."

"But WHY!"

One of the other's eyes twitched, he was getting irritated. "We do not have to-"

"Because Spot is in a bad mood today." A new voice interjected and over the bridge came a friendly face. Curly chocolate brown hair and eyes to match, he was a short little thing, but as Spot could assure you, big things came in small packages.

"Shorty!" Mush greeted with a slight smile. "Haven't seen you in a while."

"Likewise." He smiled, shaking the other's hand. "What can I do for ya, Mush? I cant let ya over the bridge, Spot is in a slight...well, ya know."

"No, I don't know!" He muttered angrily, "I don't know anything except I came here to ask your leader a question and I find out he blocked the bridge!"

Shorty's eyebrow raised, "Ya mean Race hasn't said anything? Spot came home torn up and yelling at us to soak Race if he so much saw him take a step onto Brooklyn land."

Mush blinked and frowned, slightly worried now. "Shorty...Race never came home last night. That's why im here, to ask if you all had seen him. And cause of this." He held the newspaper out for the other, the part about the races circled with a pen.

Shorty took it from his hand, scanning it quickly before letting loose a shocked whistle. "Forget orders, I think Spot would want to see this one. Come on." He took Mush's arm and led him past the guards, who bristled but made no move to stop them.

"You mean he hasn't seen it yet?" Mush's eyes darted around as a peculiar feeling washed over him. He felt like he was being watched. "Shorty..."

"Just stay close." He murmurred out of the corner of his mouth before grinning a little, "Yeah, our papes come out later than yours, member?"

No, Mush didn't remember. He doubted he had even known about it, after all Brooklyn was Brooklyn and if you didn't live there, you really didn't know all that much. It was a rule. He followed Shorty to the docks, but hadn't even placed a foot on the opposite side before a ring of men surrounded them and Mush was jostled around, torn away from his guide and forced to his knees.

"Hey!" Shorty exclaimed, "Wait a second, he has something Spot needs to-"

That was all Mush heard from the other and he visibly paled. Oh god, what was he going to do? He was in Brooklyn, he had no idea what he was doing, what THEY were doing. He wasn't armed, didn't have anything on him except for a few measly cents and the paper.

"What are you doing here?" A soft and lethal voice sent a shiver up Mush's spine as he looked to where Spot was sitting, arms crossed and eyes cold and dead. He was tapping his cane against the ground lightly, not a fleck of warmth in his gaze.

"Spot is in a slight...well, ya know."

He certainly knew now.

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