Flynn’s ears pricked up. What was she talking about? The Preacher controlled Lower Manhattan, Battery Park. Nobody messed with the Preacher.
“Rose, listen— I have a friend, a girl, Mercy Dawes. She invited me into Angel territory. She has an agreement with Laurient. She said she would vouch for me. We got separated by tropes in Central Park. We were heading to Mercy’s place to rest up, then I was going to leave, go back to my crew.” Flynn stopped, running out of words.
“Tawny said you’re a Flyer.” Rose said. “We killed one of yours not so long ago, he screamed like a pig when we stuck him. Will you scream when I stick you?”
Flynn pulled a face. “That was a friend of mine, Jack. He wandered into your territory by mistake, it was an accident, he meant no disrespect. He got caught up in the hunt. He took a chance and now he’s dead. Laurient’s made her point.”
Rose came close to the bars and peered through. “I had a brother, he was four years older than me. He tried to stop the men from killing my father so they shot him in the head, then they shot my mother and father. I was too small, I hid beneath my brother’s body in the car, they didn’t see me. They took our food and water—” she paused. “Do you have girls in your gang?” Rose asked.
Flynn shook his head. “We had some girls, once. But they went over to the Preacher, he offered them things; food, security. He’s got generators, electricity, lights, music. Drives the tropes mad but he’s able to fight them, he’s got the men and weapons.”
“Men and weapons,” Rose repeated pulling a face. “So your sisters went over to him? Are they happy now they have those things?”
Flynn bit his lip. Where was this going? What did it matter? It’d be better to engage with the girl, get her on side, establish trust. Trust? The word felt alien, hopeless. What use was trust nowadays? There was no trust, no hope. Safety lay in mistrust, now he understood why Mercy operated alone. Things were simpler alone, but sometimes coming together worked too.
“Happy?” Flynn reflected, “Not sure about that, not happy, numb maybe. The Preacher gives his people religion— and drugs. He’s got amber for his special ones, his women.”
Rose looked away. “I’ve heard about amber,” she paused then looked back at him. Her anger was palpable, “I’ve heard his amber makes you do whatever he says, it bends your mind, takes your spirit—”
Flynn shifted uncomfortably, his muscles were complaining, he was cold, his mouth dry. “Yes, you’re right, he’s got a chemist, the Professor, he makes the amber and the Preacher gives it to his women… to see the light.” Flynn’s lip curled.
“I’d like to show him light,” Rose replied, “I’d like to burn him alive. He took my blood sister, Maggie, she’s in there with him, in his harem. He’s got her on amber, she’s trapped. Laurient says he’s too strong to attack and that we’d better hold back— but I can’t stop thinking about Maggie, she’s been my blood sister ever since Tawny found me. I was supposed to look after Maggie, she was my responsibility— now she’s gone.”
Flynn saw the pain written on Rose’s face. He drew closer to the bars and looked at her, “We’ve all lost someone Rose. It hurts, it’s fucked up. Maybe you’ll see Maggie again—”
Footsteps echoed from the corridor, Rose turned away but not before Flynn saw the tears in her eyes. Rose wiped her face and stood up. Two young women rounded the corner and approached the bars. One was tall, with a ring through her nose, the other was short with tattoos on her neck.
“He’s still alive,” the first one said.
“Pity,” the other replied.
They looked at Flynn with open contempt.
“Don’t see why we had to keep him alive. Maybe Tawny’s gone soft—” the taller girl said.
“Laurient gave the order, you know that.”
“Yeah maybe, whatever—”
The tall girl turned to Rose, “Scoot Rose, you shouldn’t be here. Go on, clear off, if Laurient hears you were here she’ll go ballistic.”
Rose shrugged, “I want to kill him, Tawny promised me I could kill the next one we found.”
“Yeah, well, we’ll see, this one’s up to Laurient. She wants to see how he copes with the wall of tears first,” she gave Rose a knowing nod.
Rose’s demeanour changed. “The wall of tears? Really? When?”
“Rose, just get out of here, you’ll find out later,” the tall girl sighed.
Rose looked as if she wanted to say something but she held back and nodded. She took a last look at Flynn, he wasn’t sure if it was pity or anticipation that shone in her eyes. Rose turned and walked away.
Flynn looked at the two young women. “What’s the wall of tears?”
The tall girl produced a pistol from behind her waist and pointed it at him. Flynn stepped back.
“Just give me a reason to use this, please—” she said. Then to her companion, “Let him out and check his bindings.”
The tattooed girl unlocked the cell door and knelt beside Flynn checking the cable ties at his wrists. She cut the ties binding his feet and kicked him in the leg.
“Come on, get up. You think we’re gonna carry you?” She kicked him again when he didn’t move.
Flynn’s mind raced. His eyes darted to the gun, it was useless, he would need to bide his time. He pulled himself to a sitting position and managed to stand with difficulty.
“So what’s the wall of tears?” Flynn repeated.
“Oh, you’ll see,” the tattooed girl replied. She pushed him towards the corridor, he staggered, barely managing to keep his balance. The pistol was shoved between his shoulder blades and they forced him forward.
No hood this time, Flynn noted.
That was careless of them, or maybe they didn’t care, he didn’t know what to think. He looked straight ahead taking in as much detail as he could. They pushed him up a flight of stairs into a large open space, water and sky lay beyond the windows. He spotted a sign on the wall; Manhattan Cruise Terminal, they were beside the Hudson River. He recognised the view over to New Jersey.
At the end of the room was an area full of crates and a living space similar to the warehouse properties he had seen in the Lower East Side. Off to one side was a stuffed tiger its eyes fixed and distant. In another corner a Harley Davidson hulked leaning on its kickstand. In the centre of the space was a woman in her twenties with long, sleek hair, part tied in plaits, her dark eyes watching him from under a low fringe. She wore a leather jacket, black embroidered jeans and army boots and sat on a golden chaise longue. Two knives were strapped to her waist, a long sword lay on the floor beside her. Flynn knew this was Laurient.
Laurient who had ordered Jack’s death.
Laurient who had carved out this territory for the Angels.
Laurient who had survived and even thrived against the odds since the Fall.
Flynn hated her and admired her. He wanted her dead, he wanted to understand her and her way of thinking; her power was based on fear. Everything that came out of a human skull was based on fear and had been ever since the cave. Flynn was afraid of what this woman would do to him, of her power, of her beliefs. But he was not afraid of death. Death was cold to him, he had seen enough death in the last two years. Death was a constant companion, a friend, to be relied on. His escort pushed him forward onto a lush blue carpet. “Kneel boy,” the tattooed girl snarled.
Flynn, hands behind his back, dropped to his knees and raised his eyes to Laurient. She watched in silence then stood and walked over to him, he smelled perfume. He couldn’t recall the last time he had smelt perfume, it was an odd detail but powerful, almost pushing him over the edge.
“So you’re Flynn,” Laurient said, a statement not a question. “You’ve been caught in Angel territory,” another statement. “The penalty for a man to be caught on our territory is death. You know this, we sent a message to the Flyers not that long ago and still one of your crew trespassed.” She turned and looked out the windows across the Hudson. “He’s dead now—”
>
Flynn bit his tongue. This was going somewhere, he should’ve been dead by now. Something was coming, an audience with Laurient was significant.
Laurient picked up the sword from the floor and withdrew the gleaming blade from its scabbard. “Pretty isn’t she, found her in The Met, funny, you wouldn’t associate an art museum with weapons and armour, but there you go— our forebears crafted beautiful weapons. I like to think there is art in dying, dying a good death, there is so much bad death around us— I can give you a good death Flyer. What do you say?”
Flynn understood the invitation. This was his chance.
“Mercy Dawes invited me onto Angel ground. She said she had an understanding with you. She was going to vouch for me. We were attacked by tropes in the tower, we escaped to Central Park, but they attacked again, we were separated. We had agreed to meet at Mercy’s safe house, where your crew picked me up— she should be at her place sometime soon, just ask her, ask Mercy Dawes.”
Laurient smiled. “A nice story, convenient. Weave some truth amongst the lies and plausibility follows, your words are sly like your eyes. All men lie to women, they always have and always will, they can’t help it, they are weak. So, if I discard ninety percent of your words you are left with one lifeline. Mercy Dawes. Yes, I know Mercy and yes, we do have an understanding. But where is she? I don’t see her, my scouts don’t see her, for all I know you could’ve killed her.”
Flynn thought fast. “Her safe house is 314 West 52nd Street, get your scouts to look there.”
“You’re running out of time Flyer. Under normal circumstances you would’ve been executed on the street by my crew, no questions. Dawes’s name has got you this far and will buy you twenty four hours more. We will wait for Dawes, if she shows that may change things. If not, well, you will have a good death.”
Flynn stared at Laurient and saw the contempt in her eyes, he kept silent.
“Twenty four hours is a long time to wait. I get bored easily, so while we wait for Dawes, you’ll entertain us,” Laurient said sheathing the sword.
Flynn’s eyes flicked left and right. A hollow feeling opened in the pit of his stomach.
“You’ll be taken to the wall of tears, there you will fight for your life,” Laurient said, steel in her voice. She nodded at his escort, he was lifted to his feet and pulled away. The tiger’s eyes seemed to follow him out of the room.
Flynn was numb. His feet felt like lead, they dragged him up another flight of stairs up to a fire exit, he was pushed through a set of doors, bright sunlight hurt his eyes. A hand shoved him forwards onto the flat roof. He blinked shielding his eyes. A crowd of women and young girls were gathered at the far end of the roof. They looked at him, all were armed; guns, knives, machetes, baseball bats. He swallowed, his mouth parched.
The tattooed girl cut his wrists free and pushed a bottle of water into his hand. “Here, drink this. You need to hydrate before your fight, you’ll give us good entertainment, like those that have gone before. See? Over on the wall, those men who came before you, they gave good sport. They are given a place of honour on the wall of tears.”
Flynn took the bottle and drank, his thirst raging. His eyes drifted over the crowd, what was she talking about? Then he saw the wall. The crowd parted allowing a figure to enter the centre ground. Flynn’s eyes were glued to the wall, men’s heads, all ages, arranged in rows, hanging from meat hooks, at least twelve of them.
Then he saw their tears. Someone had painted red tears on their faces. He shuddered looking at the crowd, they were mad, all of them. He tore his eyes away from the wall and looked at the man who faced him at the centre of the crowd; mid-twenties, muscular, strong looking, with cuts and bruises up and down his bare arms. He held a sword in his left hand and a metal dustbin lid in his right hand.
Flynn took the water bottle from his lips, understanding reaching into his brain. Shit, this is really happening— they wanted him to fight this man, who he didn’t know, who didn’t know him, for entertainment.
“Here, take these. There are no rules except stay alive, it’s over to you— and him. May the best man win,” the tattooed guard said. She handed him a sword and a dustbin lid. He looked at them in disbelief. He shook his head.
“No, you can’t be serious. This is a game right? You’re screwing with my head—” Flynn asked.
“Look at the wall. Do you think we’re screwing with your head?” Laurient’s voice pierced the air as she stepped out of the crowd. “We had a deal, you get twenty four hours of life, enough time for Dawes to get here. Meantime you entertain us. Winner takes all, well winner gets the lock up cell. We only have one cell, so obviously one of you guys needs to die. We’ll give the loser full honours though, there’s a fresh hook waiting on the wall.”
“I don’t even know him,” Flynn objected. He squinted at his opponent and noticed the tattoo on the side of the man’s shaven skull. A crucifix, the crucifix— one of the Preacher’s men.
“All you need to know is this man is from the Family of Love— let’s call him Saint Luke, one of The Preacher’s bastards. He tried to take one of my sisters, like the last time and the time before. Well this time we took his ass, if you don’t kill him he’ll sure as hell kill you, now I suggest you quit talking and start fighting,” Laurient said. She nodded at Tawny who whipped the other man, signalling the start of the fight.
Gladiators— the word flashed through Flynn’s mind.
Civilization was just a thin veneer, it was true, barbarism lay just below the surface, the human race was predictable if nothing else. Flynn took the sword and dustbin lid, he made eye contact with his opponent and knew there was no common ground, this man meant to kill him.
Kill or be killed.
They circled, getting the measure of each other. The crowd was quiet almost respectful, odd, Flynn reflected, considering what was about to happen. He looked at the man Laurient had called Saint Luke. Where was his weakness, where was the advantage? They were equally matched, except his opponent was left handed. Flynn had fought left handers before.
Watch out for the left upper cut, the right flank—
Their eyes locked, the crowd melted away. Men had been in this visceral embrace for as long as history. Flynn saw it, the flicker in Saint Luke’s eyes, the first micro movement, the shift of balance of the feet. Flynn’s brain registered and prepared his block. Saint Luke’s movement was a feint, the expected blow never came, instead his enemy used the feint to push Flynn off balance with his right hand.
Flynn staggered back recovering, breathless with the exertion. Saint Luke watched Flynn’s sword arm and his feet, he swung around to Flynn’s unprotected left flank. Flynn saw Saint Luke raise his blade— it was a dance, a dance to the death. Flynn allowed himself to be flanked and instead of backing away he flung himself to the ground rolling hard against his enemy’s legs. An audacious move, high risk, he had seen it once before, had understood it, seen the results and never forgotten. The fact it had not worked then was unimportant— it should’ve worked.
As Flynn hit Saint Luke’s legs, he brought up his shield to protect his face and neck as his enemy unleashed a wild swipe from above. Saint Luke’s sword struck Flynn’s shield and nicked his forehead, shock travelled up Flynn’s arm, he nearly lost the shield. Saint Luke overbalanced and fell to the ground.
They lay sprawled on the roof inches from each other. Flynn’s vision blurred, he blinked as a trickle of blood obscured his sight. He reached up and felt the cut in his forehead, blood ran into his mouth, he spat it out. He tried to get up, his eyes glued to his opponent. Someone in the crowd stood on his heel stopping him from rising. He cursed and rolled away, the advantage going to the Preacher’s man.
As he rolled he saw Tawny standing where he had lain, loathing in her eyes. He registered her look in a microsecond, he knew in that moment she meant to kill him if he somehow lived through this day. His opponent rose and charged at him brandishing his sword. He would die if he made the wrong choice, l
eft or right? Flynn managed to move his head two inches to the right, his cheek buried in the roof’s gravel. St Luke’s blade parted the air just to the left of his nose and struck the gravel.
Saint Luke cursed and followed through with a kick to Flynn’s torso. Flynn pulled away but his enemy’s foot still connected, partially winding him. Their eyes met, his enemy was gloating, preparing for the coup de gras. In that moment Flynn’s fingers released his shield and grabbed a handful of gravel flinging it at Saint Luke’s eyes.
The gravel took Saint Luke by surprise, he brought his sword arm up to protect his eyes. Flynn lurched forwards thrusting his blade up and into his opponent’s groin, he felt the soft resistance of flesh and twisted his steel hard to the right.
Saint Luke’s scream pierced the crowd, they groaned as one, all eyes on the death struggle. A kind of ecstasy hung in the air. Blood gushed from Saint Luke’s groin, running down Flynn’s blade. Saint Luke staggered back and stood, a look of shock on his face as he saw the blood gushing from his wound. Flynn rolled back and rose to his feet as his opponent sank to his knees.
Saint Luke’s breathing came in ragged gasps his chest heaving, the pool of blood growing on the roof.
“Finish it,” Saint Luke gasped.
Flynn stood there frozen. His heart pounding. The voice from his old life shouting at him to stop the fight, to help this man. The voice from his new life met and understood his opponent’s request. Flynn lifted his blade and delivered the killing blow through Saint Luke’s heart. It was all over in an instant.
Saint Luke’s eyes closed and he slumped forward. The whole fight had taken less than three minutes, it felt like a lifetime to Flynn. He looked at the fallen man, he felt nothing. He looked at the crowd and saw Tawny licking her lips smiling at him. She turned her back and pushed her way through the crowd disappearing.
The Survival Chronicles (Book 1}: Mercy Kill Page 7
