Dirty Break (18+)

In Which Progress is Made

Lydia was on the floor, covered by a large masculine body as shit went down around her. She didn't know who had wrapped their body around hers protectively, but she also wasn't particular. There had been what sounded like gunshots - she'd never heard one in real life, but it sounded remarkably like on the TV, if not a little more loud and frightening - and a lot of shouting. She couldn't tell, sheltered by her protector as she was, if the lights had come back on if someone had been caught but lifting her head to see seemed like a risky business so she stayed there, breaths heaving out of her. Then, as the minutes stretched out nothing in particular seemed to happen she realised she could be utilising the moment to look for an escape or a hand to play - anything that might help her. She had tried throwing her lot in with Leon and he'd rebuffed her, so if someone was taking pot shots at him then that was probably who she needed to be seeking out. Slowly, so as not to present a target, she lifted her head, stopping whens she came into contact with the protective hand that her guardian held over her. The lights were indeed back on everyone seemed to be relatively unharmed. She glanced up to see how had shielded her, and seeing Charlie Putnam, her heart gave a little, unwanted flip at the fact that Leon cared that little that he'd left her to be shot by some random gunman.

Charlie seemed to realise that the danger had passed and rose, holding out a hand to help her up whilst still casting a weather eye about the place. The shock on his face was what alerted her to the fact that everything might not be as alright as it had first appeared, her eyes following the direction of his as unwanted worries flashed through her head. What if Leon had actually been shot? Someone was after him, that much was clear. And considering the business he was in, the idea that it might be someone in this room could hardly be discounted.

"Malcolm." However, seemed to be the word going around the room and Lydia couldn't say she would be exactly heartbroken if that was who had been shot. In fact, she stepped forward at the thought, eager in a bloodthirsty way she wouldn't have expected of herself to see if Malcolm had born the brunt of the attack. He was sat in a chair at the other end of the room, hand clasped to his shoulder and his men around him. Conor stood closest to his father's side, looking out at the gathered people as though he might be able to determine who had shot his father simply by glaring at them. Leon stood off to a side, his eyes not on his leader, but on her.

"Are you ok?" Charlie asked, putting a hand out as though to touch her and then seeming to think better of it.

She didn't trust her voice enough to answer him out loud so she just jerked her head at him in a way that could have meant either yes or no. He accepted it with a wry nod.

"We'd better show willing and go make sure the old man's ok then, although I can tell you that there won't be many people who are particularly broken up about this."

Lydia followed in a haze, unsure why exactly she was supposed to show willing but equally not wanting to be left alone with someone running around shooting at people.

"...see anything?"

She heard as they reached the edge of the crowd of guests.

Malcolm shook his head no, stopping suddenly as it evidently pulled at his shoulder, where a small hole marred the suit jacket and a bloom of red was spreading on the white shirt beneath.

"And in my own fucking house. The bastard wants to hope that I'm not the one that catches up to them."

Lydia had supposed that the Irish name was a remainder from days gone by, and so far Malcolm has spoken with a perfect, middle-class English accent. However, in his anger she could hear a brogue that suggested he had seen Ireland at some point in time.