Free The Rolling Bootlegs by Ryohgo Narita Page A

groans, the two remaining thugs swallowed hard. They should have gone at him all at once, four on one, but they seemed to have underestimated the boy and found themselves idling by the old man.
    This kid was bad news. The ringleader was just beginning to register the true skills of the boy in front of him.
    Meanwhile, his buddy already had his knife out and was pointing the tip of its blade at Firo.
    “…Aww… You drew? Seriously?”
    His expression looked troubled, but inside, Firo was as composed as ever.
    Moving casually, he closed the gap between himself and the two-bit muggers, raising both hands:
    “C’mon, now. There’s no need to bring shivs into a fight like this, is there?”
    “Shaddup! It’s way too late to go all diplomati—”
    Midsentence, a shock ran through his knife hand. Firo had nailed it with an unerring toe kick. Involuntarily, the man dropped the knife. The metal bounced a bit when it struck the pavement, and Firo kicked it out of reach.
    “Uh…”
    By reflex, the attacker’s eyes followed the blade.
    From the lower edge of his field of vision, something closed in on him.
    By the time he realized that “something” was Firo’s fist, it was toolate. He took a powerful blow below the nose, a kick to the stomach, and ended up rolling around on the ground.
    “And? What’ll it be?” Firo asked, turning to face the leader.
    The man’s hand was still inside his jacket.
    “From now on, save the kiddie games for school.”
    Firo returned the insult he’d received a few moments earlier. But it was unclear whether or not the man left standing had been listening as he walked over to the crony who’d grabbed Firo’s shirt at the outset and been laid out. That man had since gotten up, but was still rubbing his throbbing throat. After exchanging two or three words, they each booked it to one of their fallen crew, lent them a shoulder, and hauled them to their feet.
    With a final, hate-filled glare at Firo, the men took off running.
    That left just Firo and the unconscious old coot.
    “Hey, Gramps! Gramps! …You all right?”
    At the sensation of a hand smacking his cheek, Barnes came to.
    He sat up hastily. There was no pain. The internal bleeding and broken bones seemed to have fully “recovered.”
    In front of him, he saw the face of a lad who looked younger than the earlier group. The youth seemed to be bending down, watching him. AndBarnes still held the crate.
    On confirming that fact, Barnes sighed in relief. Then he shot a suspicious glance at Firo.
    Had this boy saved him? He couldn’t imagine that the young man had run that gang off all by himself, but at any rate, the crate was safe. Barnes was worried about its contents, but when he opened it a crack and looked, the bottles were fine as well, their contents safely inside.
    “It’s more important than you? Whatever’s in that box?” Firo asked, sounding highly interested.
    At that, Barnes immediately closed the lid and shouted, hugging the crate to him more tightly than before:
    “S-silence! It’s nothing to do with scoundrels like you! Are youafter this liquor as well?! If it’s money you want, I’ll give you as much as you ask for, so begone!”
    “…Hey. That’s a fine thing to say to the guy who saved your life… I think I get how the other guys felt.”
    He grimaced as he spoke, but he didn’t seem to be all that upset.
    “By the way, Gramps. Did you see a lady wearing a lightweight black suit?”
    Barnes was momentarily confused by the abrupt and incomprehensible question. A woman in a suit! All that came to mind was some theater somewhere… But when his imagination had taken him that far, he realized it
did
remind him of someone.
    Master Szilard’s chauffeur…
    Barnes had spoken with Ennis several times, in order to contact their employer. She was the only being beside Szilard who could kill him.
    “No… No idea.”
    “I see… Never mind, then. Sorry to have disturbed you.”
    After those few words, Firo