Royal Dick

by Melinda Minx

  I see native Nordians rolling their eyes at us as we jostle around, and I feel a little bit annoyed that they can pass by such ancient and impressive architecture every day taking it all for granted.

  Viktor’s Hill comes into view soon after, and I try to identify as many of the famous buildings as I can. I see the clock tower, the old prison, and behind that, I can make out one of the corner towers of the castle.

  Then the train ducks into another tunnel, and we lose sight of everything.

  The tourists chatter a bit, but with nothing to see, we all eventually settle back into our seats.

  By the time we exit the tunnel, we’re at the very bottom of the hill. All I can see now are the Danish Steps, named for the Vikings who stormed the hill more than a thousand years ago.

  “Next stop,” a robotic female voice announces over the intercom. “Viktor’s Hill and Danish Steps.”

  The stop after this is “The Castle.” I’m pretty tired from the long flight, and I decide I’ll just take the train up the hill, and then use the Danish Steps to get back down. Usually the touristy thing to do is to climb the steps up the hill, but there are hundreds of steps, and I’m spent.

  The train starts to climb the mountain. The castle must be directly in front of us because I can’t see it through the side windows.

  When I finally get off the train and exit the station, the castle is right there in front of me. It completely dominates my view. Even though I can see the marble clock tower and gothic prison behind the castle, they just look like little afterthoughts, or tiny decorations, compared to the majesty of the castle.

  It has more towering palisades, too numerous to even count, each one made up of thousands of bricks. The southernmost wall meets the side of the cliff, which almost makes it look like the castle was carved out of the side of the mountain rather than built atop it. Even when the Danish stormed the Steps, they were unable to penetrate the castle itself.

  “Wow,” I whisper, my jaw dropping open in astonishment.

  Thank God Mark isn’t here to ruin this for me. As much as I’m into the history and architecture, a little part of me can’t help but imagine being a princess living in there. All those fantasies I had as a kid are awakened in me when I look up at the castle―a dashing prince sweeping me off my feet and taking me to be his princess.

  I laugh those fantasies away. I can see hundreds of other women pouring out of the train station and walking toward the castle. I’m sure each one of them has had similar fantasies. I’m just another drop in the rain next to them. Nothing special.

  I wait in a long line to enter the castle, and then I buy my ticket and wait in another line. They only let a few dozen people in at a time so as not to overcrowd the castle. Once the first group has made it through several rooms, only then do they allow another group to go in.

  Finally it’s my turn, and they let me pass through across the drawbridge. I look down over the side into the moat, and then up at the portcullis, which is halfway down. I can only assume it is to show it off.

  “This is the original portcullis,” the tour guide says, pointing up. Built in the year 1168. It takes several men turning a crank at least a minute or two to shut the door, but one single man can unhook the chain, and the portcullis will drop in seconds.”

  “Can it cut someone in two?” a kid asks.

  The tour guide laughs. “It could, but you’ll be safe.”

  We walk through the huge doorway into a big courtyard. I notice that I jump across the space where the portcullis could fall. I don’t want to risk being cut in half, no matter what the tour guide said.

  “This is the ward,” the tour guide says. “You see all those walls up there? Even if you somehow got in across the moat, through the portcullis, and into the ward, there’d be archers lining up along that wall and footmen rushing toward you across the ward. You’d have to fight through all of them with arrows raining down on you to even make it to the next door.”

  “If castles are so cool,” the kid asks, “then why don’t they use them anymore?”

  “Cannons,” the tour guide says. “A few good cannon shots and you could take the whole wall down. Which is exactly what happened here in 1412. The French cannons tore down the entire north wall, and even after it was repaired, the king no longer felt safe behind these walls.”

  I see the tour guide squint and look over my shoulder. “Excuse me? This way please.”

  I look back and see two big men standing near the chains and ropes that control the door and portcullis. One has his hands stuffed in his pockets, and the other is tugging at one of the chains.

  “Please, don’t touch that!” the guide says, pointing forward. “Stop!”

  The man tugs on the chain, and it starts to move, jangling loudly and echoing through the courtyard. The portcullis drops down, the sharp spikes slamming into their recessed holes in the drawbridge.

  “Get the door, too,” the man says, pulling a gun from his pocket.

  My heart turns to ice for a long breath, and then it pounds nearly up into my throat. I hear people around me screaming, and then the gun goes off.

  I half expect the bullet to hit me, for me to die before I even know what’s happened. But then I see the tour guide stumble and fall to the ground. Blood stains his white shirt, and his eyes stare blankly open as he falls over.

  The man trains the gun on us. “Everyone move forward, through that door.”

  He points with the gun toward the entrance of the inner castle.

  No one moves; many people scream. The kid from earlier is crying.

  “I said move!” the man shouts, firing off a round into the air.

  Everyone, me included, frantically races toward the door. If only to get away from the two men.

  3

  Rikard

  My team is packed into a van that’s racing toward the castle.

  My team consists of just four men, myself included. Magnus, my cousin and best friend, and the twins, Karl and Nils. Since Magnus is only fourth in line to the throne, they let him fully commit to the Special Forces. Where I was only allowed to take part in missions deemed “safe,” Magnus was able to take part in all of the most dangerous assignments.

  Karl and Nils served with Magnus on most of those assignments, and I’d trust these three with my life.

  Still, Magnus looks apprehensive.

  “If your father is this sick,” Magnus says, “then―”

  “Save it,” I say, cocking a gun. “This is an attack directly on our country. I can’t sit this one out.”

  His strong jaw bulges out as he grinds his teeth, but finally he nods. “You’re right, and fuck it, if you die, I’ll be one step closer to the throne!”

  We all laugh, but then the radio cuts in.

  “Hostages taken at the castle. All forces needed at the castle. Repeat―”

  “Fuck!” I slam my fist down. “We’re too late.”

  The plan was for the four of us to sneak into the castle as tourists. We were going to take down the terrorists before they executed their plan, but now it’s too late.

  When we arrive, there are dozens of police cars and military vehicles pulling up at the same time as we do.

  Even within the military, very few know what I look like. I still need to keep my head down, as high-ranking generals will recognize me. I pull on a black beanie and tighten my scarf. Since we planned to infiltrate as tourists, I’m still wearing civilian clothing. No time to change now.

  My team walks up to another squad and asks about the situation.

  “They’ve closed the drawbridge,” a bald guy with huge arms says. “They’re using our own fucking castle against us.”

  “How many separatists are inside?’ I ask.

  He looks at me and shakes his head. “We aren’t sure. But their leader has told us he has at least thirty hostages in there. Most of them are foreigners.”

  Fuck. It’s just like the guy I captured said it would be.

  General Bre
ivik will be calling the shots now, along with parliament. Even though I’m next in line to the throne and father is unresponsive, I won’t be expected to make any real decisions until I’m actually crowned king. I trust Breivik’s experience to handle this like my father would, but I already know there’s no good option.

  Giving into the separatists’ demands will give them legitimacy and make us look weak. Worse, it will invite more incidents like this. Cut a deal to let the hostages go today, and we just create more hostages tomorrow.

  Storming the castle will mean a lot of dead tourists. It will cost innocent lives, and it will make Nordia look like a cold and heartless nation on the national stage.

  “They’re claiming they’re Russians,” Magnus says, the veins on his forehead bulging. “Those fuckers!”

  “Of course they won’t admit they are Sydians,” I say. “This is to make us look bad.”

  Magnus, Karl, Nils, and I watch with growing anxiety as negotiations begin.

  General Breivik tells the terrorists that he’ll consider reasonable requests, and the terrorists counter by asking for five hundred million Euro and a helicopter.

  Once he’s off the phone with them, he tells his advisers that they will need to get ready to storm the castle.

  “Fuck this,” I say, digging through the equipment crate. I pull out a grappling hook gun.

  “What the hell are you doing with that?” Magnus hisses at me.

  “Our plan was good,” I say. “It’s just harder to pull off now.”

  “You’re going to―”

  I cut him off. “Yeah, just don’t tell anyone.”

  “Let me do it,” Magnus says, grabbing the hook gun.

  I pull it away from him. “Look, man, you’ve got to let me do this. If father doesn’t get better, I may be king soon. This might be my last chance to fight for my country.”

  He starts to shake his head, but he lets go of the grappling hook. I take it back, and I look him straight in the eyes.

  “I can do this,” I say. “You know I can.”

  He nods begrudgingly, and we pull up a map of the castle, intent on finding my best entry point.

  4

  Jane

  When we get inside, we meet up with two other tour groups. Each group is held by two more men, for a total of six terrorists.

  I’m counting them and taking note of what kind of weapons they have―four submachine guns and two assault rifles. I don’t know why I’m doing it, maybe I’ve just read too many thrillers and watched too many movies? There’s no way I can think of to get out of the situation or do anything with any of the information I gather. Even if I could get one of their guns, I’ve never fired anything but a paintball gun. By the time I figured out where the safety was on one of those submachine guns, I’d probably have five terrorists emptying their magazines into me.

  The hostages are mostly women, children, and out-of-shape men. If I somehow got them to all work together and try to rush one or two of the terrorists, we’d probably all just get killed.

  Their leader, who calls himself Yuri, has been negotiating with the Nordians outside the castle. My best bet is probably that the Nordians give into the terrorists’ demands and let us all go.

  All of the hostages have been forced to sit on the ground in the center of the old throne room. There is only one door leading out of the throne room, and it’s guarded by the two men with assault rifles. The other terrorists are spread out from the two guarding the door, so that if we tried to rush one, the others would have a good shot on us.

  I’ve noticed that there is a type of catwalk―I don’t know what else to call it―running along the walls of the throne room. There are small windows above it, but I don’t see any stairway within the throne room that could get me or any other hostage up to that catwalk. It might lead to the castle walls, but even then, we’d drop down into the near freezing water in the moat.

  Out of the corner of my eye, I see the light from one of the catwalk windows die out, and when I look up at it, I see a man’s shadow entering through.

  I nearly gasp and point up at it, but then I realize it might be a Nordian commando of some kind. It might be our only hope of rescue. The worst thing I could do is call attention to him.

  He slips through the window and dives down onto his stomach, dropping into a crawl. Once he’s down, I can only make out the very top of his body, and his movement is barely visible unless I’m really looking for it.

  I look down and away from him as soon as I can. I can’t risk gaping at him―one of the terrorists might notice.

  The hostages are pressed against the wall furthest from the door, and the man entered in through a window across from us. Each time I risk a glance up, I notice he’s crawled around and closer toward us.

  It’s one man, so he’s likely not going to just open fire. He must be trying to join in with the hostages.

  How the hell is he going to get down into our group without being noticed? Even if he did, at least one of the hostages will be dumb enough to make a noise or otherwise point him out to the terrorists.

  I realize it’s somehow going to be up to me. I seem to be the only one who noticed him enter.

  I wait until he’s just above us. I can’t even see him anymore unless I risk looking straight up, which I won’t do. He might not even know I spotted him, but I have to create a diversion for him. Right now.

  I stand up and take a step toward the terrorist nearest me.

  “Sit the fuck down!” he says, raising his gun toward me.

  I stop walking and put my hands up, but I don’t sit down.

  “I really need to pee,” I say.

  “I don’t give a shit,” he says, keeping the gun trained on me.

  My throat feels as dry as a desert, and I feel horribly tempted to just sit down and let it all go, but I know this is my best chance of getting out of this alive.

  “Please,” I say. “I’m not the only one. How long do you want to keep us here like this? Imagine how it’s going to smell in here if you don’t let us relieve ourselves.”

  He looks over toward Yuri, who is standing near the throne, clutching the phone.

  “There’s a toilet,” Yuri says. “Just through the door there. I don’t want to clean up piss and shit. Vladimir and Mishka, you take her.”

  One of the men looks at him. “I’m Mishka, right?”

  Yuri hisses at him. “Yes, you fucking idiot.”

  I knew they weren’t really Russians. If they were all Russians, why would they talk to each other in English?

  I run toward “Mishka” and hug him. Squeezing him so hard my breasts push into him. Mishka does not hug me back, and I feel him trying to break free of me.

  “What the hell are you doing?” Yuri shouts.

  Just over Mishka’s shoulder, I see the commando drop down into the group of hostages. No one else was looking at him. They were all looking at me idiotically hugging a man with a machine gun.

  “Let go of me!” Mishka says. “I’ll take you, fucking hell.”

  When I get back from the bathroom, Mishka shoves me back into the group of hostages, which now has one extra man in it. He’s keeping his head down, trying to escape notice and blend in.

  He looks at me, though, and my heart nearly melts. Not because I’m relieved that he made it in and that he could save our lives – though I am, of course – but because he is so drop-dead gorgeous. His jaw is stronger and more solid than the castle walls, and his eyes are a deep blue that pierces right into my soul. He has golden blonde hair that is just long enough to show how wavy it is—the golden curls wisp just right along his forehead. His wide shoulders and huge arms reveal his massive size and strength, but he’s crouched down as low as he can to avoid detection. His cheekbones are high and perfectly sculpted, and when he grins at me, his smile reveals perfect white teeth. Dimples form in his cheeks, and he raises a finger to his lips, indicating for me to be quiet.

  I give the slightest of nods to him, wishi
ng I could smile back and laugh like an idiot. I can’t believe I’m more worried about flirting with this guy than I am about getting out of the life-and-death situation we are in, but he’s so handsome that I can’t help it. My body longs for him more than it does for survival.

  I wait in silence, trying not to look at him. When one of the women pulls her child onto her lap, he slides forward, closer toward me.

  Then I hear his voice in my ear, and I feel his strong arm brush against mine.

  His voice has a strong Nordian accent, which has always been my favorite accent on a man. It has almost the same refinement of a posh British accent, but it’s more rough around the edges, where it counts.

  “Listen,” he says. “No one else is coming. It’s just me.”

  Mmm, how I wish he’d say that to me in another context. Maybe by candlelight at a cozy little table in―”

  “So,” he says, “I’ll need your help.”

  I nod. Anything for him.

  “Put these on,” he says.

  I feel something hard pressed into my palm, and I look down to see a pair of glasses.

  I put them on casually, as if they’ve been in my pocket all along.

  His voice is barely a whisper, and all of the hostages’ sobs and whines create enough background noise that no one else can hear him.

  As soon as I have the glasses on, I feel his finger brush against my ear. I wish he was going in to kiss me, or to lick and bite at my ear―

  He presses against the glasses, and I hear a whirring sound as yellow outlines begin forming around everyone I look at.

  “You paint the targets,” he says. “Tap on the left side of your glasses for a bad guy, tap on the right for a hostage.”

  I look at Yuri, and I pretend to scratch my nose, then I tap the left side of the glasses.

  The yellow outline around him turns red.

  “Try to keep looking around,” he says. “If you lose sight of someone for too long, it will revert to yellow.”