One roll of the dice, One flip of a knife

Chapter ten: Traitor

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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"No."

Red sucked lightly at his front teeth, arms crossed. "Please?"

"No."

They had been like this for a little over ten minutes, him and Jack. The Brooklyn newsies that were sent to watch the bridge were holding up, knives in their hands. They wouldn't even budge for Red.

"Come on, boys, don't you know whats going on? We'se trying ta help!" Jack made an angry motion toward the heart of Brooklyn, "Your king has lost his mind and unless someone puts a stop to it, it'll just get worse."

Red cursed Jack then, low under his breath, too low to hear - as he watched the brooklynites curl their fingers a bit more tightly, more securely, around the hilt of their weapons. Enough was enough, he was Brooklyn, dangit, and he was getting into his city.

Everything changed. The way he held himself, the tone of his voice, the gleam in his eyes. The change was so fast, so rapid, one second he was standing there as Collin, and the next he was there as Red.

Stepping up to the closest newsie - he didnt even recognize him - he pressed on until he felt the blade of the knife up against his stomach, and only then did he stop, looking down at the other with eyes of smoky emerald green.

"Are you gonna kill me?" He asked calmly, reaching down and snagging the other's wrist, bringing it and the knife to his throat, laying the metal against his skin. "Slit my throat? Dump my body in da rivah like Spot no doubt told you to do?"

Jack took a half step forward as the other's eyes narrowed and he laid the knife more firmly against the elder's neck. "Don't threaten me."

"I wasn't threatening." Red jerked back, slipping to the ground and hooking his foot around the youth's ankle, jerking hard. By the time he fell with a yelp, the blade had switched hands and by the time they hit the ground...

The knife wasn't at Red's throat anymore.

"I wasn't threatening." Red repeated, a leg on either side of the newsie's waist, knife held up against his jugular firmly. "I was daring you." His eyebrow rose a little, "...Do you even know who I am?"

The other guards, who had been too shocked to move, leapt forward then, but Jack was there, and he stood between them, just as a warning. If they wanted the same...let them pass him. He was sure Red wouldn't mind the workout.

"No." The kid spat, eyes on fire. "Should I?"

"Probably." Red snorted, shrugging his shoulders. "Ya see, buddy, if I were anyone else in Brooklyn - you'd have been dead already. You better thank God you pulled this with me. Because I don't kill on a whim."

"Oh please!"

"Draft, shuddup." One of the other guards was staring at Red in a mix of horror and admiration. At least one of them realized who he was. Turning his gaze to Jack, he nodded. "Yah...you can go on through. No one'll bothah ya."

Red smirked down at Draft, ruffling his hair as he got to his feet and pocketed the knife. "There's another thing to be thankful for. Your friend is smarta den you, dat's foah sure." He held out his hand for the one still on the ground.

"Red Russiani, Ex-leadah of Brooklyn."

To his credit, Draft managed to shake his hand without appearing like he wanted to bolt.

Which was, of course, all he could think about doing.

But he never forgot that day.

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It was just his luck that Owens had some important business down at the track, because Race wasn't sure he could take another hit. His head was ringing, his throat felt swollen, making it hurt to really drink or eat anything.

If there had been something to drink or eat.

He wasn't sure how his fever was doing, and he wasn't sure if they had given him anything for it, because he didn't remember much, if any, of the few hours before his capture. He didn't know where Ace was, and didn't really care.

It was his own stupid fault for getting involved.

If he had just minded his own business, he might not be hurt...or dead...or captured like he was. But Race didn't have the time to worry about anyone else. He was too busy trying to get a hand free, twisting them behind his back, attempting to loosen the knots of the rope.

The chair dug hard into his back, and his arms protested the strain until he thought they were going to snap...But he still couldn't get even a hand free...and that's when it happened.

The door opened.

"Hello Race." A cold voice said, a dull thunk on the floor making the Italian's head snap up in shock. "...Care to tell me what you're doin heah?"

In his mind...Spot had never looked more deadly.

"Spot...Wha...What's goin on with you?" He cried, "I mean...Why have you been actin like dis. We've fought befoah...but..."

Never like this. Never.

Spot's silver blue eyes narrowed as he stared at the one tied to the chair. "You don't get it do you? This isn't because of the fight! This is because you are a god-dammed traitor!"

"I...I don't understand..."

"Really?" Spot sneered, "Maybe this will jog your memory." He spun on his heel, leaving the room and slamming the door shut with a sharp bang.

He took one last look around the room before he slipped quietly toward the door. He wanted to leave quickly, without having to look at what had clearly become his home, the boys in the bunks his family.

But he wasn't that lucky.

"Mmph..." Spot whispered in agitation, rolling over under his blanket, face twisted in pain. A nightmare, the kid had been getting those a lot lately.

And Race knew he wouldn't cease them unless someone brought him out of it. He tried to leave, tried to turn away, but he couldn't do it. Spot was his little brother, in anything but blood, he couldn't do that.

Sitting on the edge of the bed he laid a hand on his shoulder, leaning over to brush a few strands of hair from his face. He sang quietly, too soft for anyone else to hear, yet loud enough for the words to take form, to drift into the child's dream, calming him.

It worked almost instantly, and then, laying a kiss on his forehead, he got to his feet and left, shutting the door behind him without a sound. Slipping into the night, he headed toward Manhattan...and a new life.

The young newsie felt like he had been slapped clear across the face. He hadn't thought, hadn't realized what his leaving like that would mean...

"Oh...god..."

Spot, leaning against the door just outside, snorted. "Don't sound so shocked. You had to have known what you did, dats why you hung out in Manhattan for all those years."

"I-I'm sorry, Spot!" Race cried, trying to get him to listen, to understand. To believe. "But you don't know what happened! I had no choice!"

Spot shrugged, as if the other could see him, "There's always a choice."

"Not this time- please, just listen!"

But the leader wasn't going to. "Where did he go?" He asked softly.

Race blinked at the door, confused and frantic. "...Where did who go...?"

"The person who cared, Higgins."

The sound of the lock slamming back into place seemed to echo forever in the air, ominous sounding to the young newsie, who could only stare at the door as he hear the tap-tap of Spot's cane get farther and farther away...and then just stop altogether.

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(Sorry for the delay guys, real life got in the way. -pout- and i kinda rushed this chapter...i wrote most of it at 5:30 this morning!)

Uh-oh... now what? -grins- they need to get out of there...somehow. But who will help them if not Spot? And what happened to Ace? Did he ever got out of there with his broken arm?

I guess you'll have to come back and see, wontcha? -smirk-