Fallen Angel - TOC

Chapter Twenty-Three

"Aunt Ruby, don’t you think you’re jumping to conclusions? Frankie is probably fine. Maybe he decided to stay home for one more day."

"And not call Maxie?" Ruby shot back quickly. "He’s head over heels for her. He’d never stand her up on a date."

Bobbie sighed deeply. "Well, maybe you’re right. I’m trying to find the silver lining here, not make assumptions." Bobbie suddenly stopped talking and gasped harshly. "Ruby!" she shouted into the phone with a hysterical tone of voice. "Ruby, it’s on television," she said in a shocked, softer tone.

"What? What’s going on? Barbara Jean, make some sense," Ruby insisted.

"Ruby," Bobbie’s voice continued tearfully. "I have the television on. There’s a big news story about a coup that took place on the Smith estate in Atlantic City, New Jersey. They’re saying that there were several deaths. Frank Smith is presumed to be one of them. Over 100 people were arrested." Bobbie’s breath caught in her constricted throat. "Now they’re saying that his teenaged son, Frank Smith, Junior, is missing. No photographs are available."

"I don’t have cable," Ruby stated firmly. "I’m on my way over there. You hop onto the Internet to see if you can dig up any more information."

~*~*~*~

Several hours later…

"Barbara Jean, don’t you have any normal coffee in this house?" complained Ruby as she peered down into her coffee cup with a disgusted look on her face. "What’s all this gourmet crap that you’re always serving me? What kind of gal do you think I am?"

Bobbie shook her head at her tired, irritable aunt. "Aunt Ruby, I know it’s three o’clock in the morning, but chill, okay? This is all I have. I like it, so I buy it. Now what are they saying on CNN?"

Ruby shrugged. "They been replaying the same footage over a hundred times. We see a huge building that’s still burning here and there, firemen, and a representative of the National Guard. The emphasis is on how the situation is ‘under control.’ I suppose they’re trying to reassure a worried public, but it does nothing to soothe me." Ruby glanced up at Bobbie. "Any luck with the Internet?"

"There’s a bit more hard news on the ‘Net, but still no answers. They haven’t posted a photo of Frankie yet. They list him as missing, presumed deceased. This is scaring me," Bobbie said tensely. "Shouldn’t we bring Luke into this? He’s better at digging up information."

"Do you want to wake him up at 3AM after he’s returned from a long flight and a big trip?" Ruby asked sarcastically. "He’d bite your head off. No, we’ll have to proceed carefully with this. Let’s wait until tomorrow. Have him come over to the diner. I’m still not sure that we can convince him of Frankie’s parentage. He acts like he hates the kid. And, anyone who suggests that he’s his beloved Lucky gets his or her head bit off," she added wryly. "No, we’d better be cool about this."

~*~*~*~

Frankie sat down sullenly on a concrete ledge under the overpass. It had started raining twenty minutes earlier, but he’d been able to find no possible cover or protection from the elements. He’d walked as quickly as he could manage, but became soaked through anyway. His numerous guns stuck out from his stomach, giving him an impossibly bloated look. At least the rain had cleaned him up some, washing away the a little of the dirt and blood from his head, face and hands. Frankie’s $400 silk and cotton imported Italian sweater clung to him with all of its brilliant blue beauty, and his formerly immaculate black wool trousers started smelling like a wet sheep. His expensive, custom-made black leather shoes squeaked maddeningly with each step and pooled inside with cold, dirty water.

Frankie used his hands to wring out his sweater, and the water dripped repeatedly from the soaked garment. He’d started shivering uncontrollably, his jerking and twitching resembling convulsions. He didn't dare lie down on the concrete. He knew he would never rise again. As it was, he was having trouble concentrating or thinking. His mind felt fuzzy, and his eyes scratchy and dry with their intense desire to close and rest. He figured he’d walked nearly two miles, almost half the distance to the truck stop. He’d passed a sign for the place and relaxed immensely. At least the truck driver hadn’t lied. He tried real hard not to cough. Lately, he’d been coughing almost constantly, and he’d wiped away blood from his mouth the last time he’d coughed. He forced himself to stop dwelling on his extreme pain that bordered on agony. There was simply nothing he could do about it. His only hope was reaching a phone. Then, his money, Frank’s money, rather, would buy him what he needed – a limo to Port Charles.

Frankie debated on where to go when he finally reached Port Charles. His first instinct was to run to Ruby, but he knew that his head carried a price. The Caruso gang would not stop until they held his head on a platter, very chopped off, and very dead. He didn’t want to attract unwanted attention in her direction. There might be a shootout or something. Surely, the men had done their research and would look for him at his small apartment over Ruby’s diner. He figured that Johnny would tell him to look up Luke Spencer, so that was where he was headed. No one knew his connection to the man, so that would work. He needed answers before he could decide on his next move. Frankie began laughing hysterically. Yeah, no one knew about dat connection, he thought bitterly. Not even me.

When the rain slowed to a bare drizzle, Frankie hopped down to the road and renewed his trek to the truck stop. He’d given up hitchhiking an hour ago. No one had glanced in his direction with any inclination to help. It was the middle of the night, and strangers made people uneasy. Frankie shrugged. He wouldn’t pick himself up either. Not the way he looked, all alone out on a highway.

~*~*~*~

Johnny leaned back on the bed in his hotel room, wearing only a vest undershirt and a pair of jeans. He’d picked up a suitcase, a few clothing items and other essentials like toothpaste, a comb and razors at a store when he’d turned off the highway. He planned to hole up in his hotel room for several days until the worst of the coup blew over. Johnny placed his hand over the bandage on his arm and thought about the whirlwind of events that had crashed down in him in the last few hours.

*** Johnny walked up to Maria’s house and knocked hard on the front door. His arm hung down limply, close to his side, and he supported it with his hand. There were several rustling noises on the other side of the door as the person in the house inspected closely the front stoop and the man that stood on it.

The door opened, and a pretty woman with long, dark wavy hair stared at Johnny. "Johnny?" she asked with surprise. "What are you doing here? We don’t have any visits scheduled for two weeks." Maria exclaimed, "Oh!" when she saw the blood on Johnny’s arm. "Get yourself in here," she said hurriedly as she glanced left and right, and then pulled him into the house with a gentle hand on his good arm.

"Johnny Callahan," she said firmly. "What have you done?"

Johnny shook his head. "Me? Nothing. I just survived an assassination attempt."

Maria’s mouth hung open in shock. "What? Ohmigod. You’re shot?"

Johnny nodded ruefully. "Flesh wound, but it hurts like a bitch," he said with his teeth gritted. "Can you help me out here? I can talk you through what you need to do."

Maria nodded. "Let me get my first aid kit," she said as she headed for the bathroom. "You stay dere."

Johnny shook his head. "Like I’m going anywhere," he muttered irritably.

"The kids are on a play date," said Maria as she placed the first aid kit onto the kitchen table and led Johnny to a chair. "Dey won’t be back for an hour."

"Good," said Johnny. "That gives you time to fix me up, and then I can tell them goodbye before I leave."

"Dey’re getting used to dat," stated Maria with a sigh as she unraveled a roll of gauze.

"Not my choice," replied Johnny with a grimace while Maria removed his shirt.

"Use the alcohol and clean it out first," directed Johnny. "I can take it."

Maria dabbed at the wound while Johnny’s eyes bugged out with the pain. He panted when she finished. "Man oh man," he said. "The wound is open, so pull together the skin and cut off strips of adhesive tape to make it stay like a stitch," he said.

"Hey, Maria," he said conversationally as she worked over his arm. "There’s been some type of coup or revolution at Frank’s. He might be dead, probably is. If that’s the case, then I’m out – for good. I’m going to start a new life. No more mob ties." Johnny’s hopeful green eyes met Maria’s concerned brown ones.

"All I wanted was for you to ditch dat mob," she said tensely. "I saw what dat did to my mama. Losing daddy like dat. It’s no good."

"I know, Maria," Johnny replied with a sigh. "I never wanted to stay, but Frank forced me. You don’t walk away from the man. If you try to leave, you do it in a body bag. I wanted to let you know what was going down. I’ll probably have to hide out for awhile. I’ll call you later. In the meantime, take extra precautions with the kids."

"Always do," Maria said softly as she wrapped the gauze around Johnny’s wound and patted his arm gently as she finished.

"Daddy!" Sally’s high voice called out in delight when she saw Johnny sitting in the kitchen. "Careful of his arm!" warned Maria as she watched her daughter run toward her daddy.

"Baby doll," Johnny said softly as he nestled his face into his little girl’s long brown waves of hair. "It’s so good to see you." Johnny held his daughter at arm’s length. "You are the prettiest little girl that I’ve ever seen," he smiled softly as Sally’s eyes lit up. "Did you have fun playing?"

"Oh, yes, daddy," she said importantly. "The park is so delightful." Johnny’s eyebrows rose at his daughter’s attempt to impress him with her large vocabulary. "I can swing high on the swings. I’m not scared anymore."

"That’s wonderful," Johnny said.

"Dad," a male voice said reluctantly.

Johnny turned toward his twelve-year-old son who leaned against the doorway to the kitchen. "Rick," he said happily, holding out a welcoming arm. "Come say hi."

Rick shrugged his shoulders. "I’ll stay here," he said decisively. "What are you doing here?"

"I have to take a trip and wanted to say hello to my kids before going," replied Johnny. He noted his son’s belligerence and attitude. Nothing new, he sighed. His son was always angry these days at his absentee father. Johnny and Maria had spent many hours on the phone trying to understand and deal with their son. Maria was close to enrolling Rick in the Big Brother’s program so that he would have the father figure that he so desperately needed.

Rick nodded and rolled his eyes as he pointed at Johnny’s arm. "Another gunshot wound?" he asked casually.

Johnny colored and shifted in his seat. "An accident," he said evasively. "Your mother was kind enough to patch me up."

"Yeah," said Rick disinterestedly.

"I want to show you my new doll" Sally said excitedly. "You wait here," she ordered. Johnny smiled. Sally came running back into the kitchen seconds later with a doll from the latest cartoon series on television. Johnny smiled and looked interested, asking frequent questions, as his daughter explained the complicated history of this alien princess. He stroked Sally’s hair and gave her a hug and kiss when she dramatically finished with the alien princess song.

Johnny rose from his chair and walked over to Rick. He drew the reluctant preteen into a hug and said in a low voice, "I miss you, son. I love you." Rick relaxed a bit in his father’s arms and finally accepted his father’s embrace. Rick stepped away from Johnny and said shyly. "I’m on the baseball team now. I play shortstop." Johnny’s face lit up. "That’s wonderful," he said. "Do you want to throw a few balls around in the back yard? I still have some steam in my pitching arm." Rick nodded. "Sure," he said. "I’ll go get my glove." ***

Johnny walked over to the window in his hotel room and looked down into the street. So many people passed by – coming and going to and from who knows where. He sighed and ran his fingers through his dishwater blond hair. Things have got to work out, he thought. I’m going to build a new life, see my kids more. They know I love them, but they need to be with me, not separated from me constantly. He swallowed hard, his eyes misting over. I don’t know what I’m going to do if I lose Frankie. Johnny rubbed his nose and continued to stare out the window.

~*~*~*~

Frankie’s heart quickened. He wasn’t exactly sure which day this was – was it Friday or Saturday? He couldn’t remember. Or what if it was Sunday? He only knew that his watch read 6AM, and the blackness of night was beginning to disperse as gray clouds filtered the rising sun. His thoughts turned to Maxie. What if he’d missed their date? Maybe today was Saturday. He could call and reschedule their date. A favorite Sinatra tune stuck out in his mind, and he tried to sing it while he hobbled toward his destination. He’d do anything to take his mind off of the pain, and singing helped him to keep walking, too.

~ Call me irresponsible - call me unreliable

But it's undeniably true - I'm irresponsibly mad for you

"I like dat Maxie," he said out loud. "We’re gonna have a nice date – just how she likes. No monkey business."

Frankie felt his stomach twist and contort, but surely there wasn’t anything left. Half an hour after he’d indulged in all of the junk food that he’d carried with him, his stomach had revolted with a vengeance. He blamed it on the mystery meat sticks. He must have stopped every five minutes to heave into the tall grass alongside the highway. The highway had been very dark, so he hadn’t noticed the ropes of blood that he’d vomited. To him, it was just the tainted mystery meat. Frankie never did see the sense in eating anything but steaks and potatoes. That’s all that Frank ate, and he was tall and strong. Frankie flinched as the memories came flooding back. He kept forgetting that Frank wasn’t his father.

Frankie’s bulletproof vest was becoming very uncomfortable. Sure, it had always been heavy on his shoulders, but now his stomach and sides strained and rebelled against it. Frankie was determined to leave it on – it had saved his life twice in the last week. No way he was removing it. But his abdomen hurt so badly, and it got in the way. Frankie had to give in and at least loosen the straps a bit. He yelled out as the vest brushed against his sides when he manipulated the straps. He had abandoned four of his twelve guns further back, but the guns in his waistband were bothering him quite a bit, too, by pressing into his sore, sensitive flesh. He hadn’t been particularly worried about guns being traced back to him – all of Frank Smith’s guns were unregistered. Frankie had emptied the bullets from the guns before pitching them so some little kid wouldn’t pick them up and get hurt. Somebody like dat Lucas could find the gun.

With the straps on his vest loosened, giving him a small reprieve from its unending pressure, Frankie tried to pick up his pace. Every time he lifted his leg, though, he felt something grate and shift painfully in his hip. There wasn’t anything he could do about it, so he noted it and moved on. Frankie’s eyes looked up, and he saw the monumentally tall sign advertising the A-1 Truck Stop. He knew that he was close and nothing would stop him now. Nothing.

~*~*~*~

Luke and Sly walked happily back to Luke’s car after they left the Country Buffet. "We put them out of business, Sylvester," Luke said as he patted his extended stomach. "I had six pancakes, twelve strips of bacon, four sausages and endless orange juice and coffee. I lost count for you."

"I can’t determine how much I ate," Sly stated wisely. "But I did count seven plates."

Luke made a poof noise and fluttered his fingers in front of Sly’s face. "My goodness," he exclaimed. "I think I just saw you grow an inch. Perhaps we should do some time lapse photography on you. I can imagine your legs extending out as if by magic."

"Ha ha," replied Sly. "Like you never grew. You’re tall. And yes, Aunt Ruby showed me some of your pictures when you were a kid."

:"How dare she, " Luke declared in outrage. "Those are classified as top secret. No one should be subjected to those. I’m going to have to sue that woman." He playfully nudged Sly’s shoulder and swatted at him. "And, you’re right. I used to eat Aunt Ruby out of house and home. She said I’d eat up a box of cereal every two days. Legs run in the Spencer/Eckert family. Lots and lots of leg."

"With bony knees," Sly added with a snort.

"Watch it, Sylvester," Luke warned.

~*~*~*~

Frankie lay still in the back seat of the limousine. He hadn’t moved even slightly in an hour, and the driver wondered if he were transporting a stiff.

*** Frankie had finally made it to the truck stop. He’d endured the stares of several truckers consuming eggs and toast as he dragged and hopped back to the restroom. One trucker looked at the guy beside him who rolled his eyes and shrugged.

Once in the restroom, Frankie wearily relieved himself, not surprised to see the bright blood in the toilet. He looked in the mirror and flinched. Wow, he looked bad. Much worse than he’d imagined. The rain had flattened his hair to his head, accentuating the one-inch or so of lighter blondish brown roots peeping out of the dark brown hair dye covering the rest of his hair. The hairspray that he’d so carefully applied earlier had caused his wet hair to stick out in strange places and then freeze there. His skin had absolutely no color – it was as if he were an albino. The black eye and bluish purple bruise on his cheekbone sang out against the stark white background of his skin. Frankie thought he looked like a beat-up, tired old man. There was no way he was going to inspect himself for other wounds – he didn’t want to know. He had to get back to Port Charles. Frankie washed his face and hands and futilely tried to swipe at his hair to correct its more obvious deficits.

He made it to a public telephone and dialed around until he located a company that would drive him long distance into the city. He had forty-five minutes to kill until they said they’d arrive, so he wandered around the country store, picking up and inspecting various doodads and post cards. He liked a little black bear with a red collar and leash, so he selected one and walked up to the pay counter. The man looked over his glasses at the beat-up ragamuffin who wanted to buy a stuffed toy with a hundred dollar bill. The clerk inspected the bill to make sure that it wasn’t counterfeit. Lucky pocketed his generous change and sat at a table, happily touching the bear. He planned to give it to Maxie for their date. Hopefully, the date was tonight. Frankie had a thought, and left his seat to go find a newspaper. He stood stunned at the front page which read, Sunday Times. Shit, he thought. Shit oh shit. I bet she hates me now. Frankie stood in the center of the truck stop with tears in his eyes and a bobbing bear in hand, hanging from a leash. ***

The limo driver had been unsure of transporting Frankie when he saw the condition of the kid, but Frankie had paid him up front in cash, so who was he to argue with commerce? He had mentioned that he could drop the kid off at the hospital, but for some reason the kid got angry and yelled at him. The driver shrugged. He’d seen about everything on this job. He wondered why anyone would go out of their way to arrive at a crummy little city like Port Charles, but hey, whatever.

Now that they were on the outskirts of town, he needed firmer directions. He rolled down the window that separated him from the passenger section, and called out, "Sir, sir? I need directions to the exact address." When there was no answer, he turned to look behind him and saw Frankie lying motionless. Good thing he paid up front, he thought nervously.

"Hey!" he shouted loudly.

The boy in the back stirred slightly, moving an arm about an inch.

"Hey!" the limo driver shouted again.

Frankie slowly opened his eyes until they were slits. "Yeah," he said weakly with a cracked voice.

"I need directions. We’re almost in Port Charles. Where to?"

Frankie frowned. He didn’t have an exact address. "Go to a bar called Luke’s," he said.

"Which is where?" the driver questioned.

Frankie rubbed his eyes. "I think it’s on Maple Street?" he questioned. "I don’t remember. I was drunk."

The driver shook his head and raised the divider window. Takes all types.

~*~*~*~

The limo driver eventually found the bar called Luke’s, which was on Elm Street, not Maple Street. He eased his vehicle to the curb and rolled down the divider window. He frowned when he looked at the kid again. He sure looks dead, he thought. Not my problem. The driver exited the vehicle and opened the back door. He jostled Frankie’s leg several times, and the kid woke up.

"We’re here," said the driver.

Frankie tried several times to sit up, but couldn’t manage it. "Help me out," he said weakly.

The driver pulled on Frankie’s legs until his butt was at the end of the seat, and then yanked him upright. Frankie moaned when the driver assisted him to his feet. He swayed and almost fell back into the car. "You sure you want me to leave you here? You can barely stand," said the driver.

"S’okay," Frankie muttered. "I made it." Frankie stepped closer to the window of Luke’s and leaned against it as the limo driver left him on the street. His palms made prints against the clear glass, and he noticed that the bar wasn’t open on Sundays. He squinted and peered into the bar, and his heart jumped when he detected movement within. Somebody was in there. He saw the silhouette of a tall man and smiled slightly. Frankie hugged the window, moving closer to the door. He tried to open the door, but it was locked. Frowning, he pounded his curled fist several times on the door. He waited, but no one came. When he pounded again, he heard the movement of feet and someone yell out, "It’s Sunday. We’re closed!" Frankie pounded harder and longer, and he heard the man shout, "Dammit!" Frankie was hugging the door with the side of his face and hands, and he stepped forward abruptly when the door roughly opened.

"What do you want?" Luke yelled meanly. No more words left Luke’s mouth as he regarded the blue eyes of a beat up looking kid staring at him. He hadn’t expected to see a kid at his door. "What?" Luke began, but then he recognized the person standing in front of him. "What do you want?" he sneered. "Come back to finish the job, returning to the scene of the crime? Or did someone finally catch up to you? Looks like someone beat me to it, you little shit." Luke glared at Frankie, and the words seemed to escape the boy. He trembled with emotion, and his eyes filled with tears. "Dey killed him," he pleaded softly.

"Killed who?" Luke asked with irritation.

"Dey…dey killed my dad," Frankie cried tearfully.

Luke’s brow creased. This wasn’t business as usual. Something was up. Luke looked up and down the street, but nothing unusual presented itself. "Get in here," he ordered harshly as he roughly dragged in Frankie from the street.

"Now what are you talking about, little Frank Smith, Junior? Somebody finally offed your papa? Well, good riddance. It’s been a long time coming."

Frankie stumbled into the bar and stood unsteadily in front of Luke. Luke’s heart dropped a bit to see how badly hurt the kid seemed to be. He took in the bruises and uneven breathing, the dirt and bedraggled appearance of the boy standing in front of him.

Frankie gulped for air, and he tried to stop crying, but it was useless. "Dey want to kill me, too," he said. "Dey keep trying and trying." He was sobbing now and holding a hand to his forehead. He covered his eyes. "Everybody’s dead," he wailed. "Dere’s blood everywhere. Too much blood. Frank," he whispered. "Frank told me to come here."

"Frankie?" Sly’s voice traveled from the other end of the room. Sly held a broom in his hand. He and his uncle had been in the process of cleaning up Luke’s so that they could open for business on Monday. The workers had finished their repairs while they were on vacation in Greece.

"What are you doing here?" he asked curiously. "Oh my gosh," he added when he took in Frankie’s appearance. "What’s wrong? What happened to you?"

"That’s what we’re trying to get to the bottom of," Luke said tersely.

Sly walked up to Frankie. "Are you okay?" he asked in a hushed tone.

"No," Frankie wailed. He groaned and staggered to the side, almost falling to the floor. Sly rushed up to assist his friend, taking hold of him around his waist.

Frankie’s eyes shot open widely, and he let out an unnatural scream. Immediately, his eyes closed, and he collapsed to the floor, almost bringing Sly down with him.

"Uncle Luke!" Sly shouted fearfully.

Luke quickly assessed the situation and directed, "Sly! Go find the portable phone in the kitchen. Bring it here. Now!"

Luke knelt by the unconscious boy and patted him on the cheek to no result. He started panicking when he saw the trickle of blood starting at the corner of Frankie’s mouth and running down the length of his cheek. "Oh God, oh God," he said breathlessly. Luke frowned when he touched Frankie’s side. It felt like the kid had something there. Luke lifted Frankie’s sweater and swore as he looked at the lined up pistols. Luke began extracting the guns and laying them on the floor beside Frankie. One, two, four, six. It was unbelievable. Luke patted the kid down, and there were more two guns in his socks.

Sly arrived with the phone and looked aghast at the artillery beside Frankie. "Don’t ask," Luke said tensely. Luke dialed 911. "We have a kid here, a visitor. He looks beat up, and he fell unconscious. We can’t wake him, and it looks like he’s bleeding. Okay. Thanks. My name is Luke Spencer. The address is 917 Elm Street." Luke turned the phone off and handed it back to Sly.

Luke resumed his pat down and wondered at the bulletproof vest the kid was wearing, a vest that was full of indentations from bullets. Luke pulled the heavy wallet out of Frankie’s front pocket. Maybe he has some ID or an insurance card, Luke thought sensibly. Luke’s anger flowed hotly when he unfolded the wallet and saw Frank Smith’s driver’s license. He smirked when he saw the rows of hundred dollar bills lining the wallet. Figures. Luke’s shock went through the roof when he leafed his thumb over the thick section of photos in Frank’s wallet. There were photos upon photos of Frank Smith’s kid. Luke turned the protective plastic covers and whispered in despair, "No, no, ohmigod, no," when he saw the one year old picture of an infant in the wallet. It was the same portrait as the one that he had in his apartment, the picture of baby Lucky. Luke lifted the portrait from the plastic and turned it over. He sat back abruptly on his rear and started crying when he saw the name Lucky Spencer crossed out and replaced with the name Frankie Smith. He dropped the photo and wallet to the floor and bent over Frankie, pulling him up and to his chest. "Lucky?" he questioned tearfully. "Ohmigod, no, you have to be all right. Lucky?" Frankie lay insensibly in his arms, making no movement at all, and Luke gently lowered him to the floor. He stroked Frankie’s face. "You’re going to be okay," he said over and over, as much to reassure himself as the unconscious boy lying in front of him.

Sly watched the whole scene with shock. Frankie is baby Lucky? No. No way.

Luke hopped to his feet and grabbed the phone from Sly, rapidly dialing a number with shaking fingers. "Barbara!" he shouted into the phone. "Oh, Barbara. It’s Lucky. He’s back. He’s here. But…but, he’s hurt. He looks real bad. The paramedics are on their way." Luke dropped the phone down to his side when he heard the sirens. "They’re here. Meet me at GH. Okay?" Luke hung up the phone and placed it on the floor. He reached out and hugged his nephew when he saw how upset Sly was. "It’s okay," he crooned as he stroked his hair. "Everyone is going to be okay." Sly shook under Luke’s touch and gulped back his tears.

The paramedics entered the building and ran over to Frankie. "How long has he been unconscious?" the one man asked.

"About fifteen minutes," Luke answered. "He hasn’t moved at all."

The paramedics removed Frankie’s sweater and exclaimed at the dented bulletproof vest. "Man," one guy said. "I’ve never seen this." They unstrapped and pulled Frankie’s vest over his head. Luke took in a sharp breath and began crying harder. Frankie’s stomach was distended, and the majority of his trunk was thickly covered with bruises. One paramedic palpated his abdomen. "He has internal bleeding," he said. "Let’s get him in quickly."

The other paramedic called out, "BP is 80/40, respiration 30, and pulse 140." Both men nodded. "Definitely internal injuries. Phone it in so they can prepare an OR."

The men gently lifted Frankie onto a stretcher and strapped him in. "Are you his father?" the one man asked Luke. Luke looked at him with wide eyes and then nodded. "Yes, yes, I am," he whispered. "His name is Lucas Lorenzo Spencer, Junior, but his nickname is Frankie. Call him Frankie."

Next chapter...