THE RETURN OF THE RED BUTCHER

7

Simon’s blood went cold.

Bako’s voice broke through the phone again, shaking and full of panic. “Simon, did you hear me? Your stall is burning, and your boys are trapped inside!”

Simon did not answer. His legs were already moving.

He ran into the road and waved down the first taxi he saw. The driver almost cursed at him, but one look at Simon’s face made him unlock the door without argument.

“Betford market,” Simon said. “Fast.”

The driver stepped on the accelerator. “What happened?”

“Drive.”

The man swallowed and faced the road. Simon gripped the edge of the seat, his knuckles tight. Isabella’s cold words were still fresh inside him, but now another fear was cutting through it. The boys were inside the stall. Toma and Elik. Two orphans who had started as hungry children asking for leftovers and ended up becoming the closest thing he had to family in Betford.

“Faster,” Simon said.

“I am trying,” the driver replied. “Traffic is ahead.”

“Then break through it.”

The driver looked at him through the mirror and quickly turned into a side street.

A few minutes later, smoke appeared above the market roofs. Thick black smoke. Simon opened the door before the taxi fully stopped and ran toward it.

People had gathered in a wide circle around his stall. The heat pushed them back. Flames climbed through the wooden frame and swallowed the signboard that once read Simon’s Fresh Fish. The shops close to his were scorched and smoking, but his own stall was the heart of the fire.

“Water!” someone shouted. “Bring more water!”

“It is too much!” another man cried. “Nobody can enter that place.”

Simon forced his way through the crowd. “Move!”

People turned.

“It’s Simon Gallagher!”

“He owns the stall!”

“Simon, don’t go near it!”

A woman grabbed his arm. “Your boys are inside, but the fire is too strong. Please, wait for help.”

Simon pulled free. “Where are they?”

No one answered.

He looked at the burning stall, his chest rising hard. “Where are my boys?”

A man pointed with shaking fingers. “They were inside the back room. We heard them shouting before the roof dropped.”

Simon’s jaw tightened.

From the side of the crowd, someone muttered, “This was not ordinary fire. I saw men around here earlier. Iron Fangs men.”

“Shut your mouth,” another trader snapped. “Do you want trouble with the Iron Fangs?”

The first man lowered his head at once.

Simon heard it. He stored it.

But the boys came first.

He grabbed a large cloth from a nearby basin and plunged it into dirty water. Then he wrapped it around his arms and face.

“Simon, stop!” Bako shouted from somewhere behind him.

“My boys are inside,” Simon said.

“You will die!”

“Not before I bring them out.”

He ran toward the stall.

The heat struck him like a wall. Smoke filled his nose and burned his eyes. Burning wood cracked above him. The smell of burnt fish, plastic, oil, and flesh mixed in the air until his stomach turned.

“Toma!” Simon shouted. “Elik!”

Something broke overhead and fell close to him. Sparks burst across the floor. Simon covered his face and pushed deeper into the stall.

“Toma!”

A weak sound came from the back.

Simon kicked through a half-burned wooden frame and entered the small room where the boys used to clean baskets. His heart stopped for a second.

They were there.

Toma lay near the water drum. Elik was beside him, one arm over his face. Their clothes were burned. Their skin was badly injured. Neither of them moved.

“No,” Simon said.

He lifted Toma first and pulled him close. Then he dragged Elik with his other arm and forced his way back through the smoke. The cloth around his hand caught fire, but he slapped it against his side and kept moving.

Outside, the crowd screamed.

“He found them!”

“Help him!”

“Move back! Give them space!”

Two men rushed forward and helped Simon carry the boys away from the fire. He dropped to his knees beside them and placed two fingers against Toma’s neck.

“Come on,” Simon said. “Toma, breathe.”

No pulse.

He turned to Elik and checked again. His hands were steady, but his face was not. He pressed against the boy’s chest, then tried to clear his airway.

“Wake up,” Simon said. “Elik, wake up.”

A woman started crying behind him.

“Simon…” Bako said softly.

“Shut up,” Simon snapped. “Get water.”

Someone brought water. Simon wet his fingers and touched the boys’ mouths, then checked again. Nothing. Their young faces were blackened by smoke and fire. Their hands, the same hands that had once counted fish badly and laughed about it, lay still against the dirt.

Simon’s breath left him.

For a moment, all sound faded.

The crowd was still shouting, but it came from far away. The fire crackled. People cried. Someone called for an ambulance. But inside Simon’s head, there was only a buzzing sound.

His business was gone. His equipment, freezers, knives, tables, baskets, and delivery tools worth hundreds of thousands of dollars had turned to fire and ash.

But that meant nothing beside the boys.

Toma and Elik were orphans. He had given them work because nobody else cared if they ate. They called him Boss, but they looked at him like a father, a brother, a hero.

Now they lay dead in front of him.

Something old moved inside Simon.

A place he had buried began to open.

He saw another fire. Another battlefield. Men screaming under burning tents. Children running through smoke. His own hands covered in blood. The Red Butcher had lived in that world. Simon Gallagher had escaped it.

Now Betford was dragging him back.

His eyes lifted.

Bako stood near the crowd, pale and shaking.

Simon rose slowly and walked toward him.

Bako stepped back. “Simon…”

Simon grabbed him by the collar and pulled him close. “This fire did not start on its own.”

Bako’s lips trembled. “Please, calm down Simon.”

“Do not tell me to calm down.” Simon’s voice was low, but it carried through the crowd. “I sell fish. There is nothing inside that stall that could burn like this by accident. My shop was the main target. The others were only touched.”

Bako looked away.

Simon tightened his grip. “You are always in your shop. You never leave. You saw what happened.”

“I…”

“Who did this?” Simon asked.

Bako’s eyes moved toward the crowd, then toward the burning stall.

Simon leaned closer. “Was it the Iron Fangs?”

Bako shut his eyes.

His jaw tightened. His mouth opened slowly to answer Simon, and he looked like a man about to make the worst mistake of his life.