Page 50 of Unseen Danger

“Sir. Enough.” Branson pulled the man’s arms at an awkward angle, as if to twist them around the guy’s body. “I don’t want to hurt you, but if you don’t calm down, I may have to for the safety of everyone here. Do you understand?”

The beginning of discomfort pinched the corners of the man’s eyes. The fight drained out of him, and he sagged, all but collapsing against Branson.

A sob quaked his body.

Holding the guy up, Branson half-carried him over to the sofa, bystanders parting to let him through.

He lowered the attacker to the sofa but angled him so his back faced out. Branson grabbed a zip tie from his pocket and cinched it around the man’s wrists before turning him to lean his back against the sofa.

Branson straightened and took in a breath as he scanned the room, his gaze landing on D-Chop.

Darren stood in front of the rapper who now inched around his protector to see the attacker.

Darren should’ve gotten D-Chop out of the room entirely, but the rapper had probably refused to go. Didn’t help when the principal thought he was too tough to let them do their jobs.

D-Chop walked toward them, his eyebrows drawn together in a pensive expression Branson had rarely seen on the rapper’s face.

Branson stepped a few feet away from the perp to hold out a hand in front of D-Chop. “That’s close enough.”

“DT3, clear the room.” Branson didn’t bother identifying himself over coms since Louis was watching from the doorway.

“Roger.” His response came through Branson’s earpiece as he moved into the room and spoke to the fans. “Meet and greet is over. Clear the room, please.”

Murmurs and some groans came from the people as they drifted toward Louis and the doorway. But they looked peaceful enough.

“What did you mean?” D-Chop’s voice was raspy and quieter than normal as he stared at the attacker as if he’d never seen a man before.

The guy’s eyes were mostly covered by his lids, his gaze fixed downward. “My boy was happy. Smart. A good student. He was going to make something of himself. Until he started listening to your trash.” The man went silent. As if that were enough explanation for why he wanted to physically attack someone.

“I don’t make anybody listen to my music.” D-Chop’s tone took on a defensive edge, though his consternated expression didn’t change. “They listen ’cause they love it.”

The attacker's gaze finally lifted and aimed at D-Chop with eyes so full of hate that a warning jolt shot down Branson’s spine. But tears pooled there, too. “Do they love being told to ruin their lives? To take drugs until they die?”

D-Chop’s eyes narrowed, but he pressed his lips together, then let them go—his tell-tale sign he was uncomfortable or nervous.

“You hooked my boy on drugs. He killed himself with the stuff, listening to your trash.”

Branson braced his jaw at the depth of raw pain in the man’s voice. Dear Lord, please help this man. Such a loss, especially that way, would be devastating. It was destroying the father just as his son had been destroyed.

Compassion wrenched Branson’s heart. He opened his mouth, wanting to share words of comfort with the grieving father. The only words of comfort that could make a difference. The comfort of Christ and His redemption, His defeat of evil, the hope He offered.

“Police are here.” Darren nodded toward the door where two uniformed police officers entered.

D-Chop jerked his head toward Darren. “You called the police?”

Darren stayed silent. Louis had probably called it in when the attack started. Good move. Though D-Chop wouldn’t like it.

Branson looked at the rapper. “We can’t let this one go.” The attacker was too dangerous.

As if he could read Branson’s thoughts, the grieving father glared at D-Chop through watery eyes. “You better lock me up. Or I’ll still kill you.”

One of the officers moved in and raised the man to standing as the other one started asking questions.

Branson took the lead on detailing the incident and charges. By the time he finished, and the officers escorted the angry dad from the room, he found D-Chop nursing a glass of wine as he sat on the same sofa his attacker had vacated.

Branson exchanged a look with Darren, who stood by the arm of the sofa. He lifted his eyebrows and flattened his lips in a uniform line that said D-Chop wasn’t cooperating with whatever he had suggested. Probably that they take him home.

“Ready to get out of here?” Branson scanned D-Chop’s face, noting the bags under his eyes, the thoughtful frown, the furrows between his eyebrows.