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It wasn’t fate.
Fate wasn’t a word in Frank Castle’s vocabulary, but it couldn’t be called coincidence, either. Shitbags did business with other shitbags. Made sense that ripping out one by the roots dragged others up to the light.
At first he didn’t even know who they were. Just that the Dogs of Hell stopped off at some bunker in the woods enough that they had to be friendly with the ones running it. He did only enough reconnaissance to know how to cut them off if any Dogs of Hell hid there. Bastards, for sure, but not one of the gangs from the park, the ones that had to die.
There would be nowhere to run when Frank came for them. That’s why he started with the Dogs, the most mobile group. Destroy their supplies. Burn their bases. Take away every avenue of escape. Get them scared and stupid. Tighten the noose, and herd them back to New York like sheep to the slaughter.
This was his last stop before heading back to the city for the real fun.
Sure enough- when he slaughtered a pack of Dogs on the I-90 in Delaware, he stalked the stragglers right back to their buddies. As if holing up in some crumbling old fallout bunker could save them.
That’s when he confirmed who these particular bastards were. Apparently the Dogs of Hell were friendly with Nazis. Real shit Nazis, more than some disorganized group of assholes playing dress-up. The ones from that heli-carrier thing that got leaked to the presses. Hydra. Had some sort of magic shit going on with the comic book brigade, or something. Didn’t matter.
Once he realized that, Frank decided he didn’t mind taking time out of his busy schedule to exterminate them all alongside the Dogs. Killing Nazis, magic or otherwise, was practically an American pastime, one he was de-fucking-lighted to take part in. So sure, technically this had been a bit of an extracurricular activity. Call it community service.
And now their little secret base was dark, silent, and bloody.
The Dogs were dead. Everyone else was too. Whole place was probably empty by this point, but Frank was nothing if not thorough. Door by door he cleared every inch of the bunker, looking for survivors or goodies to replenish his armory. This wasn’t some main base, he guessed, just a bolt-hole pitstop. There would probably be more freaky sci-fi Nazi shit here otherwise. Right? Isn’t that what Hydra was supposed to be about?
Probably. Not his area of expertise. Frank had the vague sense he was brushing up against a different world here. All the magic-alien-blowing-up-New-York shit that idiots in colorful costumes got up to while he was overseas with his boots in the sand. That had fuck-all to do with him. This was just business, putting down some Dogs and a few assholes along with ‘em.
Still, he half expected to find… he didn’t know. Weird shit. And each time there was nothing he felt stupider for worrying. Maybe he was wrong, and these were just regular piece-of-shit Nazis, not magic piece-of-shit Nazis. No way Frank was going to just run into that kind of mess.
Until he found the door.
It wasn’t the last one he checked, but it was the only door with a padlock on the outside. Maybe this was where they kept their good shit. Frank had already found a couple rolls of cash to tuck away, and if that wasn’t worth locking up, what was?
He shot off the padlock. The dimly-lit concrete hallway didn’t let much light into the rooms, but he had a light on his scope. Frank kicked open the door and went in muzzle-first.
One sweep of his light was all he needed to take the whole room in. Instantly he knew: no movement. No enemies. Halfway through another sweep, a bit over a second since he entered, was when it hit him.
An instinct, bought and paid for in blood, screamed danger. Not what it was or what to do about it, just to get the hell away. Frank did not gasp, or freeze, or try to get a better look. He flung himself back out the door and landed with his back to the wall, dark doorway yawning at his left shoulder. Counterattack at the ready before even consciously processing what it was.
Then he realized, remembered, computed, whatever. Knew what vague shape had set him on high-alert, and why. It hadn’t been a Nazi jumping out to kill him. The bright flashing danger sign was for something worse than just death. Death didn’t have him tensed tight and not breathing.
The people at the VA, the counselors he didn’t need but that Curtis had bullied him into paying some mind to way back when, they said that PTSD was the mind trying to protect itself. All those symptoms that could tear people apart, it was because the bad shit got nailed down so deep in their brains that just the threat of it happening again set off warning sirens.
Frank Castle had a bullet in his head, but that wasn’t what he was afraid of. He didn’t jump at fireworks or swerve in traffic around paper bags he thought were IEDs. The thing that destroyed him, the image burned bright into his eyelids, it wasn’t that he got shot.
“One batch, two batch. Penny and dime. One batch, two batch-” he was saying the thing he said, when he needed to- to just- he needed to not run away. After the alert of danger, but before he let himself think about what was- he knew already, that there was no running from this.
Goddamn, did he want to. He wanted to turn tail like a fucking pussy. But because God was a sick and twisted piece of shit, the one goddamn time Frank was ready to run from a fight, was the one fucking time he absolutely couldn’t.
Because in that room, there-
There was-
Shoes.
Sticking out from behind a, something, were legs and shoes. White. Sneakers. Small ones.
Kid’s shoes. He could think of it like that. There were kid’s shoes in that room. Wondering what was attached to those shoes was-
It wouldn’t be the first dead child he’d seen. Hell, his dead fucking children weren’t the first dead children he’d seen. But it would be the first, since. Since his kids had put on their own little sneakers, because they were going to the park to run around and fucking play.
Frank couldn’t run, because there was this distant, infinitesimal chance that the- shoes- hadn’t been reduced to meat and blood yet. And even if they had, then it didn’t matter what it would do to his broken fucking brain, because he couldn’t leave them to rot away alone in a Nazi hellhole.
He had to. He had to go back in. An order handed straight down from the fucking universe he had no choice but to obey. One step. Light forward. Turn. Look.
One batch, two batch, one batch, two-
Measure how big the bloodstain was. Count how many bullets were- find out if they were from- from his-
Shoes. White. Another step. Blue jeans. Legs. Red, red- sweatshirt. Not shiny-dark and wet like his little boy’s had been. In the bright circle of his light, the lake of blood vanished when he blinked. Face. Face, not meat where her face used to be. Unmoving.
Probably dead, still. But he had to check.
Then he was pointing his light at the ground, because Frank was the stupidest motherfucker who ever walked the earth, forgetting the first goddamn rule: you don’t point a gun at someone you aren’t prepared to kill, ever. And his light was on his fucking gun, pointing at-
“Shit shit shit.”
He ripped the light off, muzzle pointed at the concrete, set the gun aside, and trembled to his knees next to the kid. Didn’t think it was possible to brace himself enough to feel cold skin for a pulse that wasn’t there. Then he touched the pale neck anyway.
It was warm. The skin over the pulse, warm and present.
Alive. Alive.
Penny and dime, penny and dime-
No, alive.
Under his hard and bloodied fingers, he felt the kid’s heart beat again and again and again. Undeniable, unrelenting.
Frank listened for breathing, then realized all he could hear was himself. Great heaving breaths, like he’d just dodged a bullet or pulled himself up a cliff. Alive.
With no small effort, but in very few seconds, Frank brought himself back. Enough with the whining, he had a mission now, soldier, and it was time to get to work. Everything he had been blind and deaf to came rushing in.
Some office-looking room, storage cabinets. Nobody else in sight. The boy was on his back, unresponsive, tied up. Jesus, all his obsessing with the shoes, and he didn’t even notice that the kid’s ankles were zip-tied together. His hands were held in plastic cuffs in front of him, chained with a padlock to the wall. Like a dog.
There were not many reasons for a kid to be chained up in some evil shit’s basement, and all of them were bad. Some of them were worse than bad. If Frank had known about this, he would’ve killed them slower. Cut their fucking dicks off and made them beg for mercy.
Kids.
They had a kid, were probably selling kids, and he didn’t know.
All his recon, and for what? Didn’t have the first goddamn clue what they were really up to. Supposed to just be drugs and guns. He’d planned for everything in the base to be hostile. One stray bullet, that’s all it would take. So damn easily could have been his bullet.
In that exact moment, there were two things keeping Frank from utterly losing his shit: the fact that any scum in this place that might have laid hands on this boy were already fucking dead, and that the kid was alive.
The boy, Jesus, he needed to stay focused on the boy. Breath puffed against his palm when he held a hand over his face. Okay, he knew how to do this. Frank held the flashlight in his teeth and checked quickly for injuries. Felt around his stringy red hair for head wounds, neck under his hoodie, spine. Nothing. There were nasty scrapes on the kid’s face and hands, and the skin under the handcuffs was red and bruising, but nothing else wrong that he could see.
Kid was okay. Just not waking up. Drugs, probably. Feeling it safe enough to move him, he shook the boy’s shoulder.
“Hey,” he whispered, then louder, “hey kid, wake up. C’mon, wake up.”
Miracle of miracles, he moved. Some part of him was still convinced the boy was dead until he scrunched up his face and turned his head. Gasped and opened his eyes. The boy didn’t stir beyond his unfocused eyes blinking slowly. Whatever he was on must be strong. Frank realized that he was shining his bright-ass light directly in his face about a second before he realized that the boy hadn’t flinched away from it.
That probably wasn’t a good sign.
“Kid. Kid,” Frank’s voice was rough with urgency, “wake up. Please, just- wake up and look at me, huh?” He shook his little shoulder harder than he should’ve.
Finally, with a last slow blink, the kid roused, going stiff as a board under his hands. Then he slammed his fists into Frank’s chest.
“No!” the boy snarled, kicking out, with no less ferocity than a wounded animal. The momentum threw the kid on his back. He scooted back as he swung wildly again with his bound wrists.
Frank breathed out his overwhelming relief and didn’t try to chase him. He was already on his knees, holding his hands open in surrender. The flashlight dropped and rolled lazily, casting its spotlight on the wall and leaving the kid in shadows.
“Hey, hey, hey. It’s okay. I’m not with them.”
“Get away!” The boy propped himself up by the shoulder on some cabinets and tried to get to his feet. Between the tied ankles and the drugs, he didn’t get far.
Frank didn’t move a muscle. Didn’t want to spook the kid worse. Earlier, he had been welcoming the possibility that more assholes could show up any minute. Now it was a race to get the kid out before they could. “I swear to God above kid, I’m not with them. I’m not gonna hurt you.”
“Then- which- who are you with?” The boy was all uneasy movement. Trying and failing to get on his feet, pawing at his head like it hurt. Jingling that fucking chain all over the place. Still wouldn’t look at him.
“Ain’t with nobody.”
“Then who are you?”
There were a lot of answers he could give. He settled on, “Frank.”
“What are you doing here?”
A good question. One he’d asked himself more than once during his preparation and again when he took a couple bruising bullets to the vest.
Not anymore, though. He knew exactly what the fuck he was doing here now.
“I’m getting you out.”
That apparently, maybe understandably, was met with suspicion. “Out to where?”
“Home, to your parents. To wherever’s safe.” Frank wasn’t thinking that far ahead yet.
“What? Why?” The accusatory tone made it clear there were right and wrong answers to this.
“’Cause I don’t stand for shit like this happening to kids, alright? I’ll get you out, but I don’t know when more of them will show up, so we gotta move fast. You coming with me or not?” It wasn’t actually a choice. Frank would drag the kid out kicking and screaming if he had to. Better if he didn’t have to.
“Still can’t- ugh!” The boy growled in frustration, still rubbing at his ears, then shook his head sharply. “Okay. Fine.”
“Just do everything I say and I’ll get out of this. Got it?”
“Got it.” Didn’t sound happy about it. Didn’t matter.
“Alright. Now, are they holding anyone else? Any other kids?”
“No,” the boy said, a dark and bitter tang to it. Stupid question. They could’ve just kept them separated. Frank wasn’t going to leave this place without checking every square inch, not now.
Frank reached with one hand for his belt, keeping the other in the air. “Gonna cut the zip-tie with a knife. Okay?”
“Okay.”
He snapped to too-tight plastic around his ankles, more carefully than they probably had time for. But if he- if he nicked the kid, then- he just couldn’t. The boy was struggling to his feet the instant they were free. Frank didn’t miss how he moved away from him. He tried to look as non-threatening as a man like him could, brandishing a knife at a child. A terrified child who had been kidnapped by assholes that looked a lot like he did.
Goddammit.
This wasn’t different than any other mission to extract and protect an asset, not really. It shouldn’t be. Just that all those other times it’d been adults. Either kidnapping a hostile or escorting an ally, he always knew where he stood with them.
There just wasn’t time to earn the kid’s trust.
“Wrists,” Frank said, grabbing his arm. He didn’t miss the flinch, but ignored it as he sawed through the plastic. The goddamn chain rattled to the ground.
“Can you walk?”
“Yeah.”
“Can you run?”
“I- I don’t know. Everything’s all- I can’t tell- I feel weird.”
“It’s just whatever they gave you that made you sleep. You hurt anywhere? Hit your head?” He remembered the unfocused eyes from earlier. Retrieving his light, he took a good look at the scrape on the kid’s forehead. It didn’t seem bad, but if the boy was in danger of passing out, he needed to know now. Frank put his age at eleven or twelve, just small enough to carry without much difficulty if he needed to. As easily as he had carried his-
“I’m fine,” the kid griped, but he lifted his face as he said it, and again didn’t shy away from the light. Something cold fell into Frank’s gut.
He shined the light at one eye and then the other, probably longer than he should’ve. Because the kid’s pupils weren’t fucking moving. Pinprick and blown wide pupils were bad, he knew, and uneven ones. So what did not reacting at all mean?
“Kid, can you see alright?”
The boy had been trying to wiggle away the entire time; Frank finally let him. “No.”
“Shit. How bad? Does it hurt?” Was it the drug? A concussion? He didn’t know about either of those things messing with your eyes. Where was Curtis when you needed him?
“No, I was blind before, it’s fine. Can we just go?”
The boy was impatient, scared, surly, but not surprised. Not panicking or asking why the lights were out. Shit. Shit. What the fuck were these pieces of shit doing with a blind little boy? So he couldn’t identify anyone? Was that it? Thought they could do whatever they wanted and there’d be no consequences? Well, he showed those motherfuckers some fucking consequences.
God, he really should have killed them slower. Much slower. But there was no time for that now. Focus on what needed to get done.
“You got a name, kid?”
“No,” he shot back viciously, his favorite word. Good. Pissed off beat scared every time.
Brave kid. Even braver, more incredible, that he was trusting Frank without even seeing that he was dressed different than the other assholes. Probably didn’t trust him at all, really. Probably thought this was all a big trick and was just playing along. Fists clenched and ready at his sides, shaking. The unfocused glower under dark red hair. No doubt he was ready to unleash hell at the first provocation. Already had, judging by the scraped-up hands.
Brave, brave kid.
“Alright then, Red, here’s what we do,” Frank said, ripping the velcro off his vest. The boy flinched at the sound. “You’re gonna wear my vest. It’s bulletproof. Arms up.”
Thankfully, Red complied. Frank shoved it on over his head. It didn’t fit, obviously, but it could still catch a bullet. Of course if Frank caught a bullet instead, they were both screwed.
Didn’t matter. Wouldn’t let it happen. Frankie… autopsy said it had been a bullet to the lung that did it. So yeah, the vest was going on the kid.
Cinching the straps as tight as he could on the vest, Frank continued to act as if he was completely calm. Which he was. “I’m gonna check and make sure there’s no one else left that needs help. You’re gonna stay right here,” he said, maneuvering the kid behind a sturdy-looking file cabinet, “and not-”
“I told you nobody else was here-”
“-and not make a sound. I’ll be back in a minute. Promise. Okay?”
Curling into a little ball on the ground, Red huffed and nodded into his knees.
“Don’t move,” Frank reminded, unnecessarily, already antsy letting the boy out of his sight. But there were still a couple doors he hadn’t cleared. And oh, did he hope to god that they weren’t empty. Not to find more trussed-up kids, but any bastards that he’d missed. He’d make them tell him why the hell they’d taken Red, why he hadn’t found any other sign of human trafficking. If this was a new business venture or just a one-off thing. Maybe Red was the son of some rich guy and being held for ransom. Not that any excuse that could save them now.
Frank wanted to tear someone apart, but there was nothing, no victims or hostiles. Fine. Better this way. Nothing else to distract him from getting the kid out and safe. It took him less than a minute to get back.
“It’s Frank,” he said into the doorway. “Nobody’s here. Let’s go.”
A moment later Red emerged, hand braced against the file cabinet. “Why is it so quiet? Where did they all go?”
“Don’t worry about it.” Frank grabbed the kid’s hand and placed it on his arm. “You hold onto me and don’t let go. If you need me to carry you, just say the word.”
“No, I’m fine. What’s going on? What happened?”
Frank led them to the doorway and shushed him. It was clear, so he moved out. Tucked the kid behind him best he could.
“Why does it smell like blood?”
“I said be quiet.”
Red stumbled on a corpse, Frank pulling him along before he could fall.
“Wait, are they dead? Did you kill them?” Red screeched. No longer using his arm for balance, now he was trying to drag them backwards. Christ, there just wasn’t time for this. More could be coming at any moment.
Frank found that the straps of the too-big vest made convenient handles for hauling unruly kids up and shoving them against the concrete wall. Not to hurt him, he told himself a second later, just scare him a bit. Necessary, it was necessary. “Yeah, I killed them. They deserved it.”
The kid gaped, then snarled, “Why- you can’t just-”
“Can. Did. But I’m not gonna hurt you, alright? We don’t have time for this. Either shut up and listen, or I’ll knock you out and carry you. Capiche?”
Red shoved fruitlessly at his chest, and Frank was dreading he might actually have to go through with it when the kid froze, cocking his head to the side like a puppy.
“Someone’s coming,” he said, hushed. “Motorcycles and voices. I can hear them.”
Frank didn’t hear shit, but he’d spent the last ten minutes firing a semiautomatic in a concrete hallway. Ears were still ringing a bit.
“Shit.” Dragging the kid along, Frank headed for where he remembered their armory being. Figured he could stash Red behind the gun cases. The place was mostly long hallways, hard to find a position with a tactical advantage.
“Wait,” Red was saying, still pulling at his arm, kicking at his ankles and stumbling over corpses. “Wait wait wait, no, you can’t-”
“Goddammit, Red. You wanna die? Is that it?”
“I- no! I just, you can’t just kill them!” The little crack in his voice, how bloodless and round his face was in the dim yellow light- it hit him in a spot Frank was sure he didn’t have anymore. The spot that always had him letting his kids eat cereal for dinner because he was the pushover parent when it got down to it.
It was also not the time to be soft. Even ignoring the kid- which he wasn’t- nothing less than total obliteration would work here. Anyone who saw his face had to go down. There could be no witnesses, and Frank had taken care of the cameras already. He wasn’t about to be looking over his shoulder for Nazi fucks while doing his business in New York. And now that he was saving Red, they’d be after him even harder.
Red didn’t understand that. Probably shouldn’t. Frank laid off the commanding officer voice, setting the boy back down from where he’d unthinkingly pulled him right off his feet. “Don’t worry about them. Just stay down, cover your ears, and wait for it to be over. I’ll come back for you. Okay?”
That was about when even Frank’s ears caught voices and footsteps echoing down the halls. Without another thought he flung Red clear through the nearest open doorway. He’d feel bad about tossing around a blind boy later.
“Stay down!” he barked, ducking into a different doorway. Nothing to do but hope the stubborn brat listened.
Easy wasn’t the right word for what he did to them. Simple. Practiced. Straightforward. One action leading to the next leading to the next. He knew exactly what moves to make in what order, adjusting constantly and precisely. Bullets in short clean bursts. A short-barreled shotgun he pulled off a body- a little treat for himself. All the while keeping in view the dark doorway where Red was.
Six, then no more enemies came. Still had to move. The bunker had one entrance, but it was a loop, so they’d end up surrounded if they didn’t hurry.
It was his own fault, that Red took a swing at him when Frank picked him up from the little ball he’d made of himself in the corner. “It’s me! Sorry, it’s just me, we need to move.” The lighting was better here, enough that he could no longer pretend he didn’t see the tears on the boy’s cheeks.
“You killed them!” Red cried, going for another punch. Frank caught his wrist so he wouldn’t break a finger. “I heard it, you just- you can’t just-” he spat like the saddest little broken record.
Holding the boy at arm’s length did little to stop his wildcat flailing. “Hey. Hey. Do you wanna live?” Frank demanded. When he got no answer, he shook Red’s shoulder sharply. “I said, do you wanna live?”
“Y-yeah.” Hyperventilation rather than hesitation caused the stutter.
“Then say it. Say you wanna live.”
“I want to live.”
“Couldn’t hear you.”
“I said I want to live!” There was that anger again. Good.
“Then I’ll get you out alive. Nothing else matters right now. But you need to listen to me, okay? Hold onto the back of my shirt and don’t let go. I move, you move. I duck, you duck. I say get on the ground, you get on the ground. Let me do what needs doing. Understand?”
An eons long hesitation, then a nod. Finally. Frank put Red’s hand on his back, felt him clench the fabric in a vice-grip, and got on with getting them the hell out of here.
Not trusting the kid not to freak again, he kept hold of the vest with one hand and his pistol in the other, making sure Red was shielded behind his body as much as possible. The long hallway was clear. They were close. A sharp left turn in front of them, then a right up some stairs, a door at the top, and they’d be out. Optimistically, his truck would still be where he left it.
Voices echoed ahead. Frank stopped before the corner, pushing Red against the wall. Detached the little fists from his shirt and placed them over his own ears. Would be telling him to close his eyes too, if that would’ve done any good. Best he didn’t see or hear any of this.
“Shh,” he said lowly, “cover your ears.”
He checked around the corner with a mirror. Three people with guns were milling around at the base of the stairs, blocking their exit.
Frank decided it was time to return one of the baubles he’d stolen. He pulled the pin, tossed it down the hall, and was covering Red before the grenade had hit the ground. Then- boom.
He didn’t give them an instant to recover. Three bullets, three bodies, three kills, if they hadn’t already been. Red was suddenly dead weight when he retrieved him, letting Frank half-drag him without so much as a peep.
Just had to make it up the stairs. Another peek with the mirror showed an open door and setting sun at the top. To be sure, Frank hauled up a semi-intact corpse and eased it around the corner.
Being right was tiring sometimes. The body ripped out of his grip in a hail of bullets. Frank was covering the kid again before his brain caught up. Someone was guarding the stairs. It’d be like shooting fish in a barrel, if they were smart and held position.
They weren’t. Shooting the corpse had lulled them into a false sense of security. A shadow appeared in his carefully angled mirror. He had the shot even before slipping around the corner and firing. No hesitation. Smooth. The man went down with his finger on the trigger, spraying bullets.
Something bit into his back. One second diagnosis- still alive. Fine. Just a bullet fragment or ricochet.
Foregoing any argument, Frank scooped Red up around the middle in one arm and hauled him up the stairs like a gangly bag of potatoes. One more check at the top of the stairs and they were in the open air.
The stupid fucking child-kidnapping Nazi dumbasses had left his truck right there, unlocked and still running. Small mercies. Tearing open the passenger door, he shoved Red in like luggage with a barked order to stay down before slamming the door shut.
With the kid contained, Frank took cover low against the truck and listened. Didn’t want any more surprises, like- like another head popping out of the doorway, quickly dispatched. Idiots.
Time to move.
Frank wasn’t an idiot, so he shot out every tire besides his own before hopping into the driver’s side, peeling out of the gravel lot before his ass hit the seat.
“It’s me,” Frank announced again. Red didn’t seem surprised. Probably could tell by the way they were moving away from the bad guys. Big brown eyes peeked out from where he was folded under the dashboard. Hands made shaking claws on the seat, ready to pull himself up. Frank nearly threw himself on his side to put a palm on his forehead.
“No, stay down until I tell you it’s clear.”
Frank spent the next ten minutes focused on making sure they hadn’t been followed. The highway was quiet. Not empty, not even with only a couple hours until sunrise, but clear enough to maneuver.
“You can come up now,” he said once he was sure it was safe. Red hadn’t made a sound the whole time, but now he didn’t move, either.
“Red. Get in the seat.” Nothing. Passing headlights were only enough to make out the vague shape of him. “Red!”
Cold fear caught him like a knife in the gut. He took a bullet and you didn’t notice. He’s hurt, he’s bleeding out, he’s dead, and you didn’t stop it. Again.
Frank yanked the truck to the side of the road so fast he got honked at, and threw it into park. Slammed the overhead light with his fist until it clicked on.
No blood. Red was still tucked under the dash with his cheek squished into the seat, eyes closed. He scrambled to find his pulse point again. Just like back in the bunker, Red’s heart was still beating. He even let out a tiny annoyed whine and slumped against the seat.
Asleep. Of course. The shit they’d given him was still in his system. Kid had crashed the moment the adrenaline wore off. Everything was fine. Frank forced his own vitals back down to reasonable levels. Christ, the fucking firefight in the bunker hadn’t gotten his heart rate up like dealing with this kid. But that wasn’t really a surprise, was it?
Still needed to put more distance between them and that bunker. Hopefully Red should be able to sleep the rest of it off, but he needed to be in a seatbelt at least. Was he even tall enough to be riding in the front seat? They’d always been so strict about Lisa and Frankie not sitting in the front until they were big enough. But his children would never grow again, and the back seat was full of weapons.
Focus. Get the kid safe, worry about the rest later. Frank hauled him up onto the seat by the vest, awkward angle be damned, and got him settled best he could.
Memory hit him like a truck- hauling his kids around the same way, only they’d been wearing life jackets. The lake trip the summer before he’d shipped out that hellish last tour. Last trip they’d taken together. Maria went off fishing with her sister and dad, leaving Frank with the kids and their little cousins. He’d spent the better part of an hour flinging children by their life jackets off the end of the pier and into the water, seeing how high in the air he could get them. Each little squeal and screech egged him on for just one more. By the end even his arms were burning.
Lisa and Frankie’s vests had been blue with whales, not black and bulletproof. Red wasn’t his kid. Had nothing to do with him, really. He knew that. It didn’t matter. This was a kid, and you keep kids safe. You just do.
He didn’t try to get the vest off Red. Extra security couldn’t hurt, and he didn’t want to risk waking him yet. Once he tucked a spare jacket around his shoulders, Red looked like any other kid napping through a road trip. They looked like any normal- they looked normal. Enough to slip the asshole’s net and get to… wherever he was going next.
The stupidest part? Not until that fucking moment did the obvious question occur to him: what the hell was he going to do with the kid now?