Page 40 of Sullied Saints

This past hour, there’s been only quiet, the rioters sifting out of the building, and whatever is happening on the street is too distant to reach us here.

But now, the voices take on an authoritative volume, echoing through the station. Tristan straightens, and I stand up from the bed. On the other side of the glass, the door slams open and two men in heavy riot gear burst through. Even though Conrad isn't moving, there’s a gun by his side, and they tackle him, shoving his face down onto the hard floor. He doesn't resist, but still, the way they wrench his arms behind his back makes me cringe in sympathy, my hand coming to my mouth.

I want to tell them to calm down. The fight was outside, if indeed there was one. The threat has passed now.

Then, the clicking outside the heavy door on my right warns me before it’s opened, too. Tristan tugs me back, away from the door and behind him as I brace, expecting more of the over-zealous riot squad. Instead, I’m breathing a sigh of relief as Dirk rushes through instead. Tristan steps aside, towards the back wall, as Dirk’s eyes lock on me. I’m in his arms in an instant, his face buried in the side of my neck. "Thank God you're okay, thank God."

I've barely had time to squeeze him back, emotions warring inside me as I remember him on that TV, so exposed, and feel him here with me. I’m sinking into his relief, and my own elation that this is all over, when the door slams back and three of the riot squad rush the room.

Tristan lifts his hands to his shoulders, just standing there, but for whatever reason—blood running high, the fact that he happened to be standing nearer to the door, or maybe even what they'd just learned along with everyone else—the first one lunges and clips him in the jaw, knocking him sideways. He doesn't make a noise, just catches himself with a hand braced against the wall. He should have gone down, because the other two take this as a threat and kick him in the back of the knee, violently forcing him down to the ground, dealing more blows as they do.

"Stop!" I scream, breaking away from Dirk. "He protected me,stop!"

Dirk pulls me back before I throw myself in there and probably get a concussion, pushing between two of them himself. "Ease up!" he's shouting, and he catches an elbow to the jaw for his efforts. Stumbling back a step, hand to his chin, I have a second to see his brow darken before he lunges in again, grabs the first officer—the same one still throwing punches downwards—by the back of his vest and all but lifts and tosses the man into the wall.

He stands up immediately, slightly dazed but looking ready to charge while the other two hold Tristan—who still isn't resisting—down. Dirk points. "Step out of that corner, officer, and I'll break your fucking arm."

Thankfully, finally, there’s a pause in the room. No one moves, no one punches anything. I hold my breath. "We've got it from here, officers," I say evenly. Two of them look at me. "Get out. And send in the medics." They still hesitate, and it’s probably for the best that I don't have a gun on me to wave around. "Now!" I shout.

One by one, like fizzled sparklers, they march out, the one in the corner making sure to thump against Dirk's shoulder, in that age-old way of subtle violence men have for each other, on the way past. The door closes.

Crouching next to Tristan as he lifts himself tentatively off the floor, Dirk takes his shoulder and helps him sit up against the wall. Tristan grimaces, his lip cut and bleeding freely, locks of his blond hair darkened. One of his eyes is swollen near shut, and that’s just the injuries we can see. Jesus, how did this all happen so fast? The corner of Dirk's jaw is blooming dark red and angry.

"You sure know how to create an impact, detective," Tristan creaks, pressing his palm to his own temple.

Dirk rests back on his heels. "This wasn't exactly the outcome I was going for."

"There's probably going to be a lot of outcomes you weren't going for," Tristan says wryly. I come up beside him, offering a tissue from my pocket, which he holds to his lip.

"Well, I guess you're not going to be Tregam's poster boy anymore."

Tristan chuckles, though it seems to pain him, and I wonder if he's got a cracked rib too. "You can't still think I was doing all this for a fan club?"

"No," Dirk admits.

There's an urgent knock on the door, out of place, funny even, considering we're all locked inside a cell. "Medics!" The voice comes through muffled. Glancing towards Needler, ascertaining that he can't see, I put the code in, admitting the man and two women in protective gear and their first aid bags.

Needler looks up at Dirk as he steps back to allow them access, and asks him, "But if I'm not the poster boy anymore, who is?"

***

"He thinks it’s you," I say, wearing his wince as I smear the cream as gently as possible on his swollen jaw.

"Mm-hm," Dirk grunts, keeping his chin tilted up. We're on my couch, facing each other, the room dim. One of the longest days of my life has finally ended with the station reclaimed and Conrad locked up. The riots are quelled for now, the streets taking on a kind of sombre quiet. For now. "He can think what he wants."

"If it’s not just him…"

"El." Dirk catches my hand, grip closing around my fingers. "You know why I had to do it, don't you?"

I drop my gaze. "I just wish you’d told me any of that before."

"I know. I wasn't ready."

"But you told all of Tregam."

"Not because I was ready. Because I had to. You were locked in that station. I didn't know if you were safe or…" he breaks off, pulling me closer, into his lap. "It was all I could do."

I let my forehead rest against his. "I just… Cocooner…"

---