Chapter Six: The Black Pearl

Soft. Smooth. Fingers twitched, spreading out on the sheet beneath. A jaw tightened, brow furrowing for several moments before a pair of eyes blinked open. They closed an instant later, the head tilting sideways and into the pillow. There was a slow, steady inhale, then a cough, a gasp, and a rasp. The figure jerked, automatically reaching for the ribs that screamed indignation.

He touched bandages, wrapped tightly around his middle and secured with a layer of duck tape. "Wha…?"

Opening his eyes again, he pushed himself upright on the bed and peered down at his midsection; vision danced, blurred, and resolved into multiples of his torso and the fingers he held up to check. His whole head throbbed, demanding a pained grimace as he lifted his tripled free hand. The world around him began to spin, turning lazy circles, right along with his stomach. Groaning, he shut his eyes again, dropping his hand without ever touching his head – it found the bed beneath him, steadying him enough to keep from toppling right off.

Why was he hurt? How had he gotten here, wherever here was? What was the last thing he remembered?

Pain jabbed anew as he fought to think – an operation his brain was having no part of. Another groan rattled the air as a group of workmen armed with jackhammers went to work inside his head. In the background, another workman began pouring quick-dry concrete over memory and he curled in on himself, biting back a yell when broken ribs shifted and stabbed into new flesh.

Desperate for relief, he reached for the warmth that swam in his veins. He couldn't remember, but he knew the warmth would make it better. Bring his friends – the ones he could see, but couldn't name. They would help him, they would get him to safety and help and oh dear Lord, make it stop! Make it stop – it hurt, it hurt, it hurt.

Agony erupted, sending starbursts dancing behind his eyes. A scream echoed through his inner being, but never surfaced as his mind shattered, broken shards of thought slicing through mental walls he'd taken for granted. He heard himself cry out, felt his palms touch either side of his head, but the world around him was nothing compared to the yawning black hole in his soul. It could've been a moment, it could've been eternity – he didn't know anything save fire racing through once-pristine corridors of logic and memory. A carefully crafted psyche collapsing in on itself – his mind let out an unearthly wail as orderly surroundings quaked and heaved, dashing irreplaceable treasures to naught but dust. Skills and talents, so carefully gathered, prized, and honed over a lifetime, were torn asunder; he collapsed on the bed, screams turning to keens of anguish.

Distantly, he heard voices, speaking words he couldn't understand, felt hands on his arm. His side and his head. Worry and fear, for him, but who were they? Why wasn't his Pride here? Had they…had they finally gone away? Left because he'd hurt them too many times?

He felt something jab his shoulder and jerked away, keening louder as loneliness joined the anguish. Gone, his Pride was gone – he wanted them back, but he…he didn't deserve them…

Something twitched inside him, tugging at his broken psyche. Pulling him down; he fought, keening with everything he had. The voices came again, pleading, but he didn't understand. They were too distant, the words garble in his ears.

Pain unclenched and as it did, his muscles relaxed. His eyes, still closed, scrunched an instant, then fluttered; his hands fell away from his head and a sigh escaped. An arm caught him, turning him on the bed and resting him on the sheets and pillow again. He blinked, but everything was so heavy…drifting away…

He could close his eyes. Rest. Just for a moment…

"What was that?"

He waved the other quiet, watching the man on the bed until he was certain he was under. Asleep and free from the pain, if only for a little while. About to push his compatriot outside so they could talk, he froze when his boss's head fell sideways and light gleamed. From under his eyelids.

Swallowing hard, he reached out, gently pushing one eyelid up. Scarlet glowed, intertwined with hazel irises as if it was the most natural thing in the world. And maybe…maybe it was. Chilled, he released his hold and stepped back, shoving the other man towards the door. His mind raced, putting together pieces he hadn't even known he had. Fitting them together in a puzzle he could only half see, the rest of it shrouded in darkness and secrecy.

Outside, he held up a hand, keeping his companion quiet. An idea surfaced – crazy, but maybe, just maybe, exactly what they needed. But not yet. If the Boss woke up just as out of it as he'd been this time, then he'd take action. And hope like mad that he hadn't waited too long…

Everything hurt. A thousand bruises, bumps, and broken bones, each demanding attention. One hand found his midsection, lightly grazing the bandages secured with duck tape – whose idea was that? Although… Not bad, in a makeshift sort of way.

He felt…detached. Disassociated, though he couldn't put his finger on what he was missing. His head throbbed, inside and out, and he knew there were multiple lumps on his scalp. Inwardly, he shuddered – head injuries were far, far more serious than they were often portrayed. That was really true of any injury, but a blow to the head… Concussion, brain damage – possibly even death if the hit landed just right.

Cautiously, gingerly and with great care, he sat up on the bed, scanning the room for any hints on where he was and who might've wrapped his ribs. Sunlight filtered in from a nearby window and a breeze stirred the curtains, but aside from the bed, a chair, and a stand right next to the head of the bed, the room was empty.

His stomach let out a grumble and the man swallowed a half-hysterical laugh – badly injured in an unknown location and he was hungry. Heck of a thing.

Well. First things first. Gently, he reached inwards, already anticipating the relief and outrage from his friends. They were sure to read him the riot act, but it wasn't his fault this time…

Wait… He sat straight up, then groaned and clutched his ribs. Riot. The riot – how was he still alive after he'd gone down like that? Even as he hunched over throbbing ribs, he scrabbled for the last thing he could remember and winced again. The gryphon, fighting with everything he had – that they had. Gone all out; even if he'd been in control, the man knew he couldn't have done any better than his wild side had.

Someone must've found him. Rescued him – it wasn't his team, though. Otherwise he'd be in a hospital. A specific hospital. He knew the name, but when he reached for it, it slipped right through mental fingers. Not good – concussion at the very least.

Okay. Help. He needed help. Refocusing, he reached inwards again, pulling at the warmth in his veins, the connections he knew were there. Only to scream and double over as pain exploded behind his eyes. Starbursts, dazzling across his vision – his mind twisted, writhing in utter agony. He fell sideways, unable to maintain his balance, and vaguely felt the side of his face hit the pillow; fingers clawed at his forehead, whimpering keens breaking free as everything inside him heaved.

"Boss!"

Loud, too loud; he fought to open his eyes, peer towards the voice. Words formed in his throat, but never came out. Just whimpers.

"Come on, Boss, don't do this to me," the other begged.

"Anthony?" Rasping, broken – oh, Lord, it hurt. He could hardly see for the writhing, twisting pain dominating his body, but he could hear relief in the way Anthony's breath came out a low whoosh.

To his own everlasting relief, Anthony dropped his voice down low. "Pain meds?"

"Y-Yeah."

"You got it, Boss. I'll get the good stuff and a bottle of whiskey."

"No!" His head throbbed anew at the half-shout, but he had to get this out. One hand snagged Anthony's wrist. "No alcohol. Promise."

Anthony jerked back, eyes widening in surprise at his vehemence. "Boss, that's the best pain relief we've got."

He shook his head, gritting his teeth against the way his vision was blurring, bouncing in and out. "No. Alcohol." He closed his eyes to an effort to control the nausea. "Concussion. And I'ma alcoholic."

His criminal second sucked in a breath and he felt a cool palm touch his forehead. He moaned, leaning into that welcome coolness.

"Okay, Boss. No alcohol. My word on it."

He managed a nod, but even down on the bed with his eyes closed, red and gray was creeping into his vision. No, he couldn't sleep – that was bad with a concussion. But it didn't seem to matter; already, his mind was shutting down, desperate to escape the pain of the waking world. Distantly, he prayed he'd wake up again…

Anthony exhaled hard, fresh worry flooding his system as he stared at his boss. To pass out in the middle of a conversation… Not good, not good at all. But at least the Boss had been able to talk this time. Still doubled over in pain and whimpering like an animal, but instead of staring at him and Bennet like they were speaking in Swahili, he'd actually responded. Communicated.

A tiny voice in the back of his head suggested they get the Boss to a hospital or at least bring in a doctor, but doing that in the middle of a city-wide manhunt for all the escapees from the Toronto South prison riot would bring those SRU idiots crashing down on their heads. The Boss would be back in that miserable prison before he could blink – too badly injured to even think about defending himself.

He couldn't risk it. He'd just have to get the best pain meds they had on hand, plus a couple good meals from Bennet's wife Fanny – and hope like mad that it was enough…

Regaining consciousness was an exercise in tolerance. Pain tolerance. His head throbbed in time with every beat of his heart and he had a nasty feeling that his currently inaccessible magic was the only reason he was still alive. He'd known wizards – and some Squibs – were tough, but he'd never quite thought through the implications of that. Although, in all fairness, getting beaten within an inch of his life wasn't something he'd ever thought might happen.

He lay still on the bed, keeping his eyes closed, but didn't try to reach for his magic or the 'team sense' – he might not have learned from the first kick of the mule, but he wasn't so stupid that he'd ignore the second kick.

Anthony. Anthony had been there the second time he'd woken up. Maybe the first time, too – his memories were too blurry and disjointed to be sure of anything that had happened the first time. It had felt like… He shuddered, brushing against those memories. …it had felt like his entire mind was coming apart at the seams. Losing everything, even his capacity for languages. How he'd been able to recover from that, he didn't know, but in between every painful, ragged breath, he was thanking Aslan that he was alive and sane.

Hunger clawed, his stomach wailing so loudly that he half-suspected it was crawling up his spine. If the last time he'd woken up was any indication, Anthony would be in as soon as he started moving – and he'd be more than happy to supply food, pain meds, and anything else he wanted. Anything, that was, except his freedom; between his injuries and Anthony's long-standing wish that he'd remained undercover, the mobster was sure to take full advantage.

But staying here… He appreciated the rescue, really, he did, but if he was in as bad a shape as he thought he was, then he needed a hospital. Preferably St. Mungo's. Trouble was, without the 'team sense' or his phone, he was totally at Anthony's mercy. The odds of his criminal second agreeing to let any member of Team One near him… Well, if he thought Anthony would willingly call in his biggest rival, that concussion had knocked a few too many screws loose.

A low, rumbling growl came from his midsection and weary hazel eased open, accepting the inevitable. He wasn't going anywhere anytime soon, so he might as well quit playing possum and start figuring out what came after food, water, and pain meds. Shifting on the bed, Greg Parker pressed his right hand to the duck taped bandages around his ribs and pushed himself upright with his left.

Vision was iffy – he could see, but most objects had a fuzzy edge to them; he wondered if that was the concussion or if he'd just reverted to his ordinary, unassisted human eyesight. A shudder went up his back at the thought – for all that he'd fought against his gryphon abilities as long and as hard as he could, to lose those abilities now was terrifying.

The curtains over the window stirred in a breeze from outside; Parker fixed his eyes on the sunlight streaming in, wishing the bed was close enough to see outside. To see his city, maybe even figure out where he was. His shoulders slumped anew – Anthony was hiding him. And it made sense – technically speaking, he was an escapee. A fugitive from justice. Though there might be some mitigation due to the fact that he hadn't escaped himself. Maybe.

"Boss?"

Hazel shifted away from the window to the man who'd just entered the room – and he hadn't heard him. Deep inside, Greg shuddered; adjusting to being an ordinary human again…he wasn't sure if he could. Not that he had much choice – and it might not matter anyway if he was convicted of murder and organized crime.

Wrapped up in misery, it wasn't until his nose twitched at the smell of hot food that he realized Anthony hadn't come empty-handed. His mouth watered as he took in the bowl of soup – Fanny Bennet's homemade chicken noodle chowder unless he missed his guess.

"Mistuh Eli!" Even as his eyes widened in shock, Jane Bennet was hurrying to his bed and scrambling up beside him. Small arms wrapped around his middle, but didn't squeeze as the little girl gazed up at him. "Did the bad men hurt you, Mistuh Eli?"

Greg sighed heavily, but rested a hand on Jane's back. Hazel flicked to his criminal second, who was smirking as he brought in a small, collapsible table for the soup. "Blackmail, Anthony?"

"Absolutely," Anthony replied immediately. " 'Sides, the girls missed you, Boss."

"Mistuh Eli, Lizzy turned two last week," Jane announced proudly, tugging at his shirt. Then her face fell. "Mommy said you couldn't come to her party, Mistuh Eli. Didn't you want to?"

Rubbing his forehead with his free hand, Greg debated possible replies, but really, there was only one. Looking down at the little blonde, he removed his hand from her back and tipped her chin up. "Well, Jane, I was in jail last week, so even if I'd known about Lizzy's party, I couldn't have come."

Blue eyes widened in childish horror. "The bad men took you away?"

Dear Lord, how was he supposed to explain to a four-year-old that he was everything she'd been taught to hate and fear from her cradle. Drawing in as deep a breath as he could – and wincing at the protest from broken ribs – he said, "Jane, I haven't always been…Mister Eli."

She frowned up at him. "Mistuh Eli?"

"Do you remember how your Mommy and Daddy were very scared when you and Lizzy were separated from them?"

Jane nodded solemnly. "But you were with us, Mistuh Eli!"

"Well, Miss Jane, they were scared because the leader of the bad men liked to go after families, just like yours," Greg explained. "A long time ago, the cops arrested him and put him in prison for hurting a little boy just like you and Lizzy."

The little girl pondered that. "Then the cops were good that time?" she asked.

He inclined his head. "Yes, Jane, they were. But the bad man didn't give up just because he was in prison. He waited and planned for a very long time – and he escaped not long before your Daddy came to work for me."

"They let him get away?" Jane cried before her face twisted up. "Can't the cops do anything right, Mistuh Eli?"

Indignation pulsed in his throat and he throttled the urge to snap at the little girl. She didn't know any better. "It wasn't the cops, Miss Jane," he chided. "Once the bad man was in prison, it was their responsibility to keep him locked up."

"Boss, talk and eat," Anthony ordered, shoving a spoon at him.

His stomach growled, but he had to do this. No matter how much it hurt. "Not yet, Anthony," he countered, tossing his criminal second a frown – Anthony was the one who'd brought the little girl in. Turning back to his attentive audience, he continued, "Jane, once the bad man escaped, the cops knew he'd want revenge."

"Revenge?" Jane questioned, tilting her head. "What's that, Mistuh Eli?"

Greg's mouth curved in a sad smile. "Well, Miss Jane, have you ever pushed or hit someone because they did it to you first?"

She squirmed, dropping her eyes away from his, and he chuckled.

"I'll take that as a yes," he teased, grinning wider when her head shot up, blue eyes pinning him with childish outrage. "We won't tell if you don't, will we, Anthony?"

"Not a word," Anthony agreed, though his gaze was somber. "Boss, you don't…"

He lifted his free hand, turning his head to meet Anthony's gaze. "Yes, I do." Humor fell away as hazel lowered to the blonde again. "Jane, I was one of the people the bad man was coming after. That's why I recruited Anthony and your Daddy – to help me stop the bad man and keep him from hurting my family."

She drew back, staring up at him. "The bad man was coming after you, Mistuh Eli? Why?"

Greg met the little girl's stare with every bit of calm he could muster. "Because, Miss Jane, I was the rookie cop who arrested him all those years ago."

A gasp rang out and she jerked away, staring at him fearfully before fleeing to Anthony's protective bulk. It hurt, but it was no less than what he deserved.

Even so, he finished his explanation, twisting on the bed to keeping looking at her. "Jane, my real name is Greg Parker." He let his shoulders sag down. "I'm sorry for scaring you." For lying to you. "And yes, I am a Toronto police officer and I have been for twenty years."

Anthony lowered a hand to Jane's shoulder. "He's one of the best, Miss Jane. Been hauling me outta the fire, even though he's a cop." Despite the generous words, he glared at Greg. "You didn't have to tell her."

Parker winced, but held firm. "Yes, I did, Anthony." He met the other man's gaze. "I am a cop – that will never change. I can't live in your world, Anthony." His jaw quirked. "Besides, it's like you always said – once a cop, always a cop."

The lean, dark-haired man stared back at his boss for several long moments and Greg saw the emotions battling for control on his face. Then he sighed heavily, rubbed his face, and nodded. "You ain't stayin'."

"I don't exactly have a choice right now," Parker replied, dry. "But no, Anthony, once I'm on my feet enough to walk out of here, I'm going back."

"To prison," Anthony countered harshly. "They didn't even stick you in Solitary."

"That wasn't my guys or Holleran," Greg snapped. "It was Internal Affairs."

"So what – after everything you've done, they threw you to the wolves. You wanna go back to that?"

One brow arched. "Then I suppose it wasn't Will who sided with Hassler in there?"

The scarred man winced, acknowledging the hit. "It was," he admitted in the silence that rang in the wake of Greg's statement. "Guys inside – they think you put 'em there, Boss."

"You know I haven't been passing on that kind of information; anything they got caught up in is their own problem, not mine."

Anthony nodded without looking up. "But you been passing on some about us."

"You knew I'd have to," Parker countered, crossing his arms. "You knew that before you told me anything."

For a second time, Anthony winced. "Yeah, reckon I did, Boss." He scrubbed a hand though his hair. "Fanny's gonna have your hide if you don't eat that, Boss."

His stomach growled loudly in agreement and Greg huffed a sigh of his own. "Copy that," he replied, picking up the spoon and digging in.

In the middle of the room, Anthony crouched down in front of the frightened little blonde. "Miss Jane, sometimes Mister Eli is a little bit dumb. He thinks we should just kick him out for lying to us when he had to."

"Had to?" Jane asked, thumb sneaking towards her mouth.

The mobster nodded. "The bad man knew Mister Eli and his crew could take him down faster than you can beat your Mommy at checkers." Jane giggled. "So he found a way to cut Mister Eli off from his crew and make him fight by himself."

"That's not fair," Jane burst out. "He wasn't fighting all by himself!"

"No, he wasn't," Anthony agreed. "But Mister Eli found a new crew to fight back with."

"You and Daddy and everyone else?"

"That's right, Miss Jane. We were doing a really good job, too, and the bad man didn't like that. He tricked Mister Eli's old crew into hunting him down and attacking him."

Jane's eyes widened. "Parley!" she cried. "Mistuh Eli made parley work with cops."

Anthony nodded and flicked Jane's nose. "That's right, he did."

"They were Mistuh Eli's?"

"They were," Anthony confirmed, tone dropping down. "They are." He twisted, glancing up at Parker. "Not just them anymore, is it, Boss?"

Polishing off another spoonful of soup, Greg shook his head. "I'm the SRU's second-in-command now. Working with all the teams." Hazel came up. "How bad is it, Anthony?"

The mobster grimaced. "Bad. Hassler and a bunch of his guys made it out. Cut a hole right in the fence." He stopped, staring down at the ground. "We got in, found you inside. Thought you were dead till I saw you chokin'."

Parker swallowed hard and hazel darted to Jane. "I, ah, I think I'm done eating, Anthony."

Catching the hint, Anthony pushed himself up and inspected the bowl of soup. "Keep eating, Boss – you ain't had nothing for two days. I'll take Jane back to her mother."

The officer ducked his head, accepting the unspoken rebuke, then perked up when Anthony set down a bottle of extra-strength aspirin. The mobster tossed him a brief grin, then hefted Jane up on his hip and left. The little girl buried her head in Anthony's chest, not looking in Greg's direction as she was carried away. It hurt, but he knew very well that he deserved every bit of her scorn.

Picking up the bottle of aspirin, Greg tipped two pills out into his hand and dry-swallowed them, washing the sensation down with soup. Inwardly, he weighed what he knew and what he could guess. Hassler was loose, along with an unknown number of other prisoners. Unless Anthony told him differently, Hassler likely had a hardcore group of Castor Troy gangsters at his command, along with several former members of Carl Elias's organization.

All ties to the Ra Kacharz would've gone up in smoke as soon as that blasted news report aired – none of them would touch his organization with a twenty foot pole, not after finding out the mysterious Carl Elias was an SRU cop. That meant he wouldn't be able to get his hands on the BOLOs for the escaped prisoners – though he knew for sure that one of those BOLOs would be his own.

Worse, he could no longer be confident of his organization's loyalty. They knew he was a cop now; he could never again pretend to be anything else. How Anthony had convinced them to protect him was a mystery Greg was too exhausted to tackle. So long as he was under Anthony's protection, he was safe, after a fashion, but the negotiator knew well that it was a fragile protection at best. By protecting the 'enemy', Anthony had marked himself as a soft target – the challenges to his leadership would come thick and furious.

And – worst of all – he could not contact the SRU. Not without putting them all in legal jeopardy. If they'd been the ones to find and extract him from the prison, that would've been one thing – he would've still been in custody – but instead he was a fugitive. A heavily injured fugitive who desperately needed more than a couple aspirin, but a fugitive nonetheless.

Staring down at his soup, Greg wondered if he'd ever see his friends or his kids again. A tear trickled down his cheek – only his lawyers had been allowed to visit the prison and the only thing he knew was that his son and nephew had gone to the Lanes while Alanna had gone to the Wordsworths.

More tears followed the first, but determination balled within him. Hassler was one of Troy's – there was no question about who he would target. Unless Greg could – somehow – keep him busy, he'd go after the kids. And that, Greg could not accept. Not so long as he had breath in his body.

"Why Mistuh Eli tell?"

Scarface glanced down at the little blonde in his arms. " 'Cause he's a noble idiot."

Jane pondered a moment. "What's that?"

The raven-haired man sighed, but didn't reply until he and Jane had reached the kitchen where Bennet's wife Fanny was holding court. Even then, he jerked his chin, indicating the nearby room where little Lizzy Bennet was having her mid-morning nap.

Fanny followed Scarface into the small room and took back her daughter. Turning, the mobster focused on Jane, but flicked his eyes to include Fanny in his explanation. "Don't know the whole story, but the Boss never shoulda been sent undercover. Can't hack it long-term."

Fanny gasped. "Then he is a cop?" she whispered, fearful.

"He's SRU," Scarface replied. "One of their best – think he's a negotiator."

The matronly woman huffed. "Don't they know he can fight?"

" 'Course they do, Fanny, but…" The mobster trailed off, scrubbing at his hair. "Thinkin' maybe he learned fightin' later." His jaw tightened. "Fanny, they sent him undercover 'cause they knew he couldn't hack it."

The blonde gasped again. "Why?"

"Wasn't his guys that sent him under," Scarface explained. "Was Castor Troy's sister – she set 'im up. Cut 'im off from his guys, too." A sardonic grin. " 'Cept the Boss was better than they gave 'im credit for – kept it together, never let on even when he was whaling the stuffin' outta every rookie cop that tried to sneak in."

"Until Mistuh Eli went away?" Jane asked.

The mobster flinched. "No," he admitted. "I thought so, but…" He turned away, wrestling with old emotions. "When…when he came back… He was in bad shape – didn't know at first, not till he went down and I got one of his guys." Throat tightening, he rasped, "He told me the Boss spent two months jus' tryin' to get home."

A hand touched his elbow and he looked down into Fanny's gray eyes. "You trust him? A cop?"

"With my life," Scarface affirmed. "You know what they're charging him with?" Not waiting for an answer, he continued, "They're charging him for taking down Castor Troy. The worst mob boss in the city's history." A bitter pause. "For taking down a cop-killer."

"For goodness sake, why?" Fanny demanded. "Don't they want to protect their own?"

"Guess not," Scarface spat. "Left 'im to rot in General Pop, too." His free hand clenched into a fist. "Fanny, I ain't givin' him back. Far as I'm concerned, they had their chance – he's ours now. Cop and all."

Fanny wavered for several long moments, but little Jane perked up, delighted. She didn't really understand the adult fear of law enforcement, not yet. Scarface smiled back at her, grateful for her childish enthusiasm for the adults she loved – he was counting on that love to help him keep the Boss where he belonged. With them.

Author Note: Greetings and Happy Friday, all!

As ever, I do hope all of you enjoyed. *insert regular plea for reviews*

In Real Life news, my editing for Small Beginnings is still underway. In some ways, it feels like I'm now doing delicate surgery on the book. In others, I'm still just chopping out the 'dead wood'. But I'm getting through it - I think. Your prayers and support mean more to me than I can ever express.

May the Lord Bless each and every one of you - and your families - on the other side of the screen.