4

When Cobb's cellphone began ringing his reached for it so quickly that he actually fumbled while trying to get it open. It was irrational, he knew, but he kept hoping every time the pub door opened that a familiar stranger with dark hair and a too-old smile on his too-young face would walk in. Now it seemed that those hopes had translated over to his phone as well.

"Hello?" he asked, trying not to get his hopes any higher than they already were.

"Mr. Cobb?" a familiar female voice practically sobbed. "Mr. Cobb, it's me!"

"Christina?" Cobb felt his heart go cold. "What's wrong? Is Philippa okay?"

"Ah, ahm, well, not really," babbled Christina, "but she's going to be."

"What happened?" demanded Cobb, motioning toward Mal to get up. He saw his wife's face grow pale with worry.

"Well, um, I was watching TV and then these men came in. There were seven of them, and they had guns, and three of them took Philippa upstairs, and two of them tied me up, and the other three went into the kitchen. Then another man showed up and shot the two guys who were tying me up, and told me that everything was going to be alright. He went to go get Philippa and sent me to the neighbor's to call the police and you. He said to let you know that the guy who's men attacked me and Philippa is called Marx."

"Damn!" swore Cobb. "Jesus, please no!"

"It's okay, Mr. Cobb! The other guy who showed up said he was going to go kill them."

"What other guy? Who was he?" demanded Cobb.

"Uh, well he didn't tell me his name, but –"

"What did he look like?"

"Well, he was cute. He looked like he could be in college. Was wearing a suit, and his hair was slicked back. Really smooth looking, you know? Kind of like James Bond."

Arthur. The realization hit Cobb like a train. The young man that Christina was describing had to be Arthur. But how? And why? What was he doing there to begin with? And why would he be risking his life to save Cobb's daughter?

"He's fighting against six other men?" asked Cobb, a sinking feeling in his stomach.

"Only three. There are only three that are upstairs with Philippa."

"But you said there are three others in the kitchen."

"Oh. Yeah, I forgot about them, but they're not upstairs."

"Does he know about the other three?"

"Well . . . I didn't tell him about them . . ."

"God help him," whispered Cobb. "God save them both. Please . . ."

"Dom," said Mal, grabbing onto his arm. "What's going on? What's happening?"

"Oy! Everything okay?" asked Eames who'd followed them from the pub.

"No, everything's not okay!" shouted Cobb. He lowered his voice before continuing. "Marx is at our house with six of his men. They tied up our babysitter then took Philippa upstairs."

"No," whispered Mal. Her face grew even paler.

"But then Arthur showed up," said Cobb. "At least Christina's description sounds like it's Arthur. He killed two of them and went upstairs to deal with the three who took Philippa up there, but he doesn't know that there are three others who were in the kitchen."

"We've got to get back!" said Mal.

"I know," said Cobb, taking her hand. They began running toward their car. Eames followed them without asking or being asked. Cobb didn't object. If Eames wanted to be involved in this . . . well, he already was, and Cobb had bigger things to worry about.

Namely his daughter, his baby girl who he loved more than life itself, and the kid who'd already almost died once today, but was risking his life again to save her.

When Arthur heard the little girl's screams something inside of his mind dissolved. The barrier of cool logic that demanded he plan out every little detail of every plan, or at least view the situation objectively instead of rushing in, guns blazing. One second it was there. Then he heard Philippa screaming, and it was gone, and he was sprinting up the stairs, taking them two at a time, ready to shoot anything that moved.

Marx had left his two guards outside the room, guarding the door. Arthur was able to take one of them down before either could react. Unfortunately, the second one managed to get a lucky shot off. It got Arthur in the leg, halfway up his thigh, but close to the side, and missed the bone. Arthur screamed and staggered, but kept his gun level and squeezed off another shot. He'd been going for another headshot, but this time aimed too low and got the guard in the throat. Blood sprayed out of his busted artery like a fountain, and his scream turned into a gurgle.

"Shit," groaned Arthur, feeling pain burn through his entire leg, but thankfully his adrenaline kept him functioning. It also didn't hurt that he'd been kneecapped only that morning, and so he was used to dealing with much worse bullet wounds to his leg. He hurried to the door that the two thugs had been guarding, moving only a little slower than usual, flung the door open, then ducked.

A good thing he did too, because a bullet whizzed by right over his head.

Arthur quickly rolled to the side as another bullet hit the floor, right where he'd just been crouching. "Marx!" he shouted. "You're a dead man!"

"You!" Marx shouted right back. "I should have killed you when I had the chance."

"Yeah," Arthur told him. "You should have." He leaned back into the doorway, preparing to take a shot, but another gunshot was fired and he felt pain blossom in his upper right arm. "Fuck!" cried Arthur, and he knew that he was grimacing but he didn't really care at that moment. He had a clear shot. Marx was on the bed, on top of Cobb's daughter, keeping her pinned beneath him. Mercifully, both of them were still dressed, but it was clear that the little girl was scared witless. She screamed and kicked and tried to get free. "You die now!" shouted Arthur as he pulled the trigger.

His shot caught Marx right between the eyes, knocking the man backward. His weight carried him off the bed. Philippa screamed once more, then seemed to realize she was free. She jumped up and looked at her savior. Arthur slouched against the door frame feeling glad that this was over, relieved that the Cobb girl was safe, annoyed that he had just ruined yet another suit, and a little freaked out because the little girl was staring at him with wide eyes and he had no idea what to say to her. "Um . . . hi?" he tried when she didn't speak first.

"Are you a friend of my daddy's?" Philippa asked, looking at Arthur fearfully.

Arthur knew he probably should have lied and told her he was, but he really didn't feel like it. "No," he admitted. "I'm not."

Surprisingly, Philippa seemed okay with that. "Good," she told him. "That man was one of Daddy's friends. So were the other big men. I don't like Daddy's friends."

"Well, little girl," said Arthur sagely. "That's because your daddy's friends are all assholes."

"What's an asshole?" wondered Philippa.

"What your daddy's friends are."

"Oh."

Another gunshot shattered the awkward silence that descended upon the young man and the young girl. Arthur's side exploded in pain this time. Philippa screamed as he stumbled and went down on his knees.

"Fuck!" yelled Arthur as he saw three more thugs in cheap suits charging up the stairs. He staggered back to his feet and kicked the door shut behind him, no longer sure of what was going on. It occurred to him that this was starting to seem a little too much like a dream. The pain was real enough, yes, but then it always was.

"I'm scared," whimpered Philippa. Somehow her terrified little voice cut through the doubts that were creeping into Arthur's mind, making him wonder if he should put his pistol to his own head.

"I kind of am too," he told her and turned to lock the door. He moved away from it just as several shots were fired at it, through it. "I think . . ." he hissed in pain as he staggered toward Philippa, "I think we should leave."

"But the bad men are out there," protested Philippa.

"Out there, yes," agreed Arthur, tilting his head toward the door. Turning to point would hurt too damn much. "But not out there." He pointed to the window.

"But it's such a long way down."

"It's only the second story," Arthur assured her. "I've jumped from fourth story windows without breaking anything before. You just have to know how to land. Come on."

Amazingly, Philippa obeyed. Arthur opened her window and swung one leg over the sill, then held out his arms for her. "I'll carry you," he told her. "It will be okay."

Philippa climbed into his lap then wrapped her little arms around his neck. Arthur felt tears prickle his eyes when she accidentally hit his injured side while she was climbing, but held back his curses. He didn't want to scare her anymore than he had to.

"Now close your eyes and hold on tight," said Arthur as he swung his other leg out the window. The door burst open behind him. Arthur didn't even bother turning to look to see if the number of thugs (or were they projections?) had increased. He let himself drop from the ledge and did his best to concentrate on his landing.

When he hit the ground his leg screamed in pain and he nearly collapsed, but at least he knew that he wasn't dreaming. Not that that was much of a comfort. He set Philippa down because he had the feeling that just moving was going to take all of his strength now. "We have to run," he gasped, feeling sweat running down his back like rain now. "To my car. It's the burgundy colored one in your driveway."

"Burgundy?" asked Philippa. "What color is that?"

"Wine colored," elaborated Arthur. "Reddish . . . purplish," he said reluctantly when she still didn't seem to get it. "Just . . . go."

Another shot rang out.

"Run!" Arthur shouted at her, and did his best to follow his own advice. He tried to move in a serpentine pattern to throw off he attackers' aim. He wasn't worried so much for Philippa now, unless there were more guards waiting for them around front. There was much less chance that they would start shooting at her while he was still alive.

He made it to his rental car and managed to only catch one more bullet enroute. Or he didn't exactly catch it. It just grazed him, low along the right side of his neck. By now his heart was pumping so much adrenaline with his blood that he barely even felt it as he opened the back seat door of the car for Philippa.

"Get in!" he ordered. "Get on the floor and stay down!" He slammed the door behind her, not waiting to see if she followed his instructions or not, turned and shot at Marx's limo, taking out one of the front tires on the side that was closest to him, and doing the same to the babysitter's sedan before he got into the driver's seat, very glad that he'd left the ignition on. He shifted into reverse and stepped on the gas pedal. The car rocketed backwards up the driveway. When he reached the end of it, Arthur shifted the car into drive and then stomped down on the gas pedal again. Behind them the shooting had started once more, but the shots were wide and wild.

"I think we made it," Arthur told Philippa as they raced down the road at triple the small neighborhood's speed limit. "Hell yeah, I really think we made it!"

"We're safe?" asked Philippa, her voice trembling with relief.

"We're safe," promised Arthur. As long as I don't bleed so much that I pass out and wreck the car. "We just need to put some distance between ourselves and those bastards, then you can call your mommy and daddy and they can come get you. Sound alright?"

"Yes. It sounds good." Philippa climbed through the gap between the driver's seat and the passenger's seat, jostling Arthur's injured arm as she did so, then sat down in the passenger's seat.

Arthur frowned, remembered that there was some kind of rule about small children being in the front seat, but he couldn't remember if that was an actual safety issue or not. "You should put on your seatbelt," he told her, deciding to let his first concern go. She was a lot safer in the front seat, beside him, than she'd been in her own home with those cheap suit thugs.

"You're not wearing yours," Philippa pointed out.

"That's because your daddy's asshole friends shot me four times," retorted Arthur, "and putting on my seatbelt would hurt like hell."

"Oh." Philippa stared at him. "You're bleeding."

"I know. I'm actually trying not to think about that," Arthur said through gritted teeth.

"Why not?"

"Because it fucking hurts."

"Oh. I'm sorry."

Arthur exhaled slowly. He wanted to close his eyes, but was afraid if he kept them closed longer than it took for him to blink he might never open them again. "Don't be sorry. It's . . . going to be okay. You'll be back with your mommy and daddy again soon, and I . . . I'll be okay too."

I hope.

AN: I'm trying so hard to write the last chapter of my Percy Jackson/Kane Chronicles crossover, but the words won't come, and meanwhile this fic is screaming that it wants to be written. Who am I not to obey? Lol But I do need to finish the other one. Then I can work on this one without feeling so guilty.

Next time: Philippa becomes convinced that Arthur is her big brother, and Arthur doesn't want to talk to Cobb on the phone.