Sullivan Saga 2: Sullivan's Wrath by Michael K. Rose Page A

him.
    Sullivan eventually wandered away from his old neighborhood and made his way to Bingham Park, in the center of the city. He walked to the middle of the park where a rotunda stood and climbed the steps of the rotunda to look out across the grass.
    The late afternoon light cast long shadows across the lawn. Before the war, a day like this would have seen dozens of people out enjoying the park. Now Sullivan could spot just a single figure making its way up the path toward him. As he watched, the figure came nearer. It did not take to any of the side paths but kept on coming straight toward him, toward the rotunda.
    The man peered up at Sullivan from the base of the rotunda. Sullivan nodded, and the man returned the gesture before continuing on around the rotunda and making his way across the other side of the park.
    Sullivan was about to leave the rotunda when he heard a clipped yell. He turned to see the man besieged by four others. Sullivan ran down the steps and toward the group. They had encircled the man, and by the time Sullivan reached them, they had him on the ground and were kicking him.
    “Hey!” Sullivan yelled, drawing their attention. He stopped ten paces from them as they turned toward him.
    “Leave that man alone.”
    The man who appeared to be their leader stepped forward. “Fuck off.”
    Sullivan smiled. “Do you recognize me?”
    “Should I?”
    “Yes. I’m Richard Sullivan.”
    The gang leader’s sneer turned uncertain. “Fuck you are.”
    “I want you to leave that man alone. Turn around and walk away, and I won’t have to hurt you.”
    In a movement that would have been missed by most people, the thug pulled a knife from his pocket. He lunged at Sullivan, his cronies quick at his heels.
    Sullivan sidestepped the attack and used his assailant’s momentum to throw him to the ground. His head hit the concrete with a loud crack, and with a quick jerk of his arm, Sullivan pulled the knife from the thug’s hand and arced it upward just as the next man rushed at Sullivan.
    As the knife met the attacker’s stomach, a shrill scream escaped his lips. Sullivan pulled the knife out and threw the man to the ground. The other two had stopped cold. One held a knife, the other a nightstick.
    “Come on, you bastards!” Sullivan said, turning toward them. “Give me a reason!”
    The two standing thugs backed away then broke into a run as soon as they were clear.
    Sullivan tossed the knife to the ground and jogged up to the man who had been attacked. “You all right?”
    The man looked up into Sullivan’s face. “It is you. Richard Sullivan.”
    “Yes. Let me get you to a hospital.”
    The man stood up and rubbed his side where he had been kicked. “No. No, I’m okay. Thank you. What are you doing back here?”
    “Just checking up on the place. It seems the war is still taking its toll.”
    “It is. Predators like these are everywhere. The military tries to patrol the city, but they can’t be everywhere.”
    “Are you sure you’re all right?”
    “Yes.”
    “Where are you going?”
    “Home. I’ve been out looking for work all day.”
    “How far is home?”
    “Just on the other side of the park. I’ll be okay.”
    Sullivan nodded. “Be safe.”
    He watched the man continue on down the path, limping slightly. Once he made sure the other thugs weren’t lying in wait, he turned back to the two who had attacked him. The man he’d stabbed was dead. The other was still unconscious. Sullivan knelt down beside him with the knife in his hand. He brought the blade to the man’s throat and took several deep breaths before pulling it away. He dropped the knife from his shaking hand, stood, and walked away, still trying to concentrate on taking deep, calming breaths.
     

13
     
    ALLEN SLID THE credit card across the park bench. The man who had identified himself as Brooks waved it across his tablet.
    “It’s not much,” said Brooks.
    “But is it enough?”
    Brooks grunted. “Way things are,