Happiness Is a Warm Gun // Lennison

Two

Darragh O'Giddly was quite possibly the luckiest man alive at that second, for the phone rang just as the question escaped George Harrison's lips. He swallowed thickly and shivered under the younger man's paralyzing gaze.

"I'll get it." The brunette whispers and slowly retracts his knife, slinking over to the phone on the wall. With a wicked sort of elegance, his thin fingers grasp the phone and he puts it to his ear. "O'Giddly residence." He answers cooly, nothing in his voice even hinting at the fact he was just looming over the man in question with a deadly blade.

"Where is he? I need to talk to him!" The voice on the other end seethes and George's eyes immediately flicker over to where Darragh was a shuddering mess on the floor by the fridge.

"He's in the john. What's he done?" George asks, fire lining his pupils as he glares Darragh down with such ferocity, it could melt the skin off of your bones.

The menacingly low voice on the other end of the line scoffs and growls with fury. "Gotten himself in some serious shit, that's what. Tell him, he's a dead man walking!"

"I'll tell him. But what did he do? I need the specifics." George snarls, not letting himself blink as he held Darragh under his poisonous glare.

"He killed them! Eight fucking people are dead! The cops are all over him! Next thing we know, they're gonna be after the gang!" The man spits with such anger in his voice that heat radiated off of the phone. "I am going to come over there and kill him!" He screams.

"Let me help you with that," George replies calmly before gently placing the phone back against the wall and hanging up.

A dreadful, deathly silence washed over them, as George's eyes didn't offer a single blink. They held Darragh where he sat and didn't show any signs of letting him free. Like a sly tiger pouncing on prey, the Harrison heir leapt forward and tackled the other man. With trained skill, he managed to trap the redhead into a choker hold and squeeze. At first, Darragh thrashed and squirmed, tearing at the brunette's arms in attempts to make him let go, but then he slowed. His motion eventually came to a sloppy halt as he lost consciousness. Not dead.

Not yet anyway.

George swiftly proceeded to find a roll of duck tape and strap Darragh to a chair in case he awoke before the man on the phone could pay a visit and decided to make a pathetic run for it.

He left a small note on Darragh O'Giddly's chest.

You'll thank me later
- G

Was what it read and he exited the apartment with enough cool to fool anyone into thinking he had just had a cup of tea with a friend.

He stopped at the mouth of an alleyway to light another cigarette but just as he leant the end of it into the flame of his lighter, a set of strong arms pulled him into the dark and dreary alleyway.

One hand cupped his mouth and the other trapped his arms as his attacker dragged him further up the lane and away from any sort of protection. He saw people walk past the alleyway and it was a painful tease to not be able to call out for their help.

George kicked and spasmed, trying to rip his arms to freedom. He screamed hopelessly into the palm of his abductor and his eyes were wide with fear.

He was used to playing the cat.

But now he was the mouse.

Was the Dukes? Or was it the Cleavers? Being the biggest of his rival gangs, he guessed his abuser was one of the two. His father was one of the three men who ran London's drug underground. The other two were Reggie Duke and Martin Cleaver, and it was safe to say that they hated each other's fucking guts.

It was then though that George felt cool metal slide around his wrists and the clicking of handcuffs.

"You are under arrest on suspicion of criminal activity and the involvement in a massacre that occurred yesterday morning."

Shitshitshitshitshit.

Cops were his biggest rival. Forget everyone else.

"Get the fuck off me!" He screams, kicking and trying to wriggle out of the cop's grasp as the policeman dragged him closer to the opposite end of the alleyway to which he had been snatched. A police car sat at the curb and George tried his hardest to not go any closer to it. "I haven't done shit!" He pleads, but the cop was taller than him, stronger and most likely older too.

The cop scoffed right next to his ear, not letting his grip loosen at all as he pushed and shoved the younger one over to the car. "You think I'm daft? I tapped into your phone line and could hear everything." He states and a weight drifts off of George's shoulder because the murders were one crime he wasn't part of.

"Wait, wait! This is a misunderstanding! I didn't kill anyone, the guy who did is still in the apartment!" He howls in protest, but the cop had successfully gotten him to the car and didn't show any signs of letting him go.

Having been attacked from behind, it was only now that George got a look at the cop's face. Not a good look, mind you, he was being shoved into the back of a cop cab so it wasn't thorough but it was enough. Enough to know about his hooked nose, almond eyes that sat behind his tinted round glasses and thin pale lips. Right now, he wished for nothing more than to punch those lips and make a tooth go loose. But, beggars can't be choosers so he settled for the next best thing, and spat at him instead. He missed by a mile, but it still sparked quite the reaction in the cop.

"Look, kid," he growls and yanks at a handful of George's hair. "I know who you are, I know who you're with and I know what you do. This will be a lot easier if you just get into the fucking car." He explains through gritted teeth as his voice drips frustration.

Knowing when to pick his fights, George shuts up and is pleasant enough to let the cop push him into the back of the car. He grits his teeth and clenches his fists behind his back, but doesn't dare say another word until they're driving. Even then it's soft and hesitant.

"I've never seen a cop who looks like you." He says quietly, examining his capturer's features through the review mirror.

"That's because I'm not a cop, I'm a detective." He answers monotonously and keeps his dark eyes on the road.

"What's the difference?" George snarls.

"One's called a cop and one's called a detective."

"Haha, very funny," George replies with quite possibly the most sarcastic and dry voice ever and a suitable eye roll to match it.

It's silence for a long while after all until the 'cop' pulls the car onto the side of the road and turns the engine off. With a huff, he spins around in his seat to face George fully, his eyes sternly taking hold of the younger man's.

"Do you want to go to jail?" He asks.

The gangster scoffs and furrows his thick eyebrows. "That's a stupid question."

"Good, because you would be stupid to refuse my offer."