“Ok, so you guys aren't soldiers. You've been running around rooftops getting shot at for a few hours and you've accomplished next to nothing.”
“We got the King -” begins Chloe, and the Trespasser cuts her off.
“You got an imposter. Two out of ten for effort.”
Jamie glowers at the soldier, his shoulders sagging.
“You three aren't soldiers, and you don't fully understand the scale of the shitstorm that we are in, so let me lay it down: the Agency, probably the most capable para-military entity in the world, is hunting you. They wanted to capture you, but not long ago that was changed to a kill order. Most likely because this guy,” the Trespasser points at Mark, “started shouting in the street about bringing down the King. Not a coincidence: my superiors weren't allowing my unit access to certain buildings, to certain streets. Trespassers are elite units: we've never been given no-go orders until today. Add the facts together and you get the bigger picture. The Agency are either helping, or at least covering for, the King. A warlord,” he sighs. “In my line of work, you learn what a city in fear feels like. This entire place stinks of it; it reeks like a kennel when the vet comes in with a needle. I knew something was wrong the minute I stepped off.”
“Looks like you were right,” says Chloe.
“Surprise surprise, the entire operation went to shit,” he says. “We expected space-debris, explosions or something – instead we get superman and his pals punching helicopters out of the air and people getting nosebleeds then collapsing bridges.” He looks at Mark. “I am not trained for this. Nobody on the planet is trained for this – and now I find out, at the cost of my career and perhaps my life, that everything comes back to the King.”
“It always does in Glasgow,” says Jamie.
“Well, we've got two options,” he says, lowering his voice. “We don't know how high this goes: if the Agency is involved, then pretty damn high is my guess. We can either blow this entire thing wide open, or we can get buried under it. Those are our options.”
“What are you saying?” asks Mark, his voice small and weak.
“We stick to the plan and take down the King; better yet, we expose him.”
“What about my mother -”
“Two birds, one stone.”
Mark breaks his staring competition with the wall and look up.
“What?”
“You remember that patch on your arm?” the Trespasser leans down and presses it in with his thumb. “I just turned it off. It's a tracking device. It's inactive, but once you push your thumb down on it, it'll switch on. I've got the other half of the device that'll show me where you are, within a range of two hundred miles. It's accurate to about a meter.”
“Yeah: this is how you found us here.”
“You're going to let them take you in. When you meet the King, activate it again.”
“What if they search me?”
“Put it in the waistband of your trousers, or something. It's hard to spot as it is.” Mark gives him a reluctant nod. “The King wants to control you, Mark: you have to bargain with him. Get to wherever they're holding her before you cooperate. Then activate the tracker, and we send in the cavalry.”
“I thought,” says Jamie, “that the cavalry were trying to kill us?”
“I'm working on that,” says the Trespasser. “When I said we needed to blow this wide open, I meant it. Trust me: I'll think of something, and if I can't then I can assure you I'm worth ten times my number in a fight. Worst comes to worst, I'm the cavalry.”
“And the King?” Chloe asks them, emerging from her contemplative silence. “On the off chance that the man that you meet is the King, considering there might not even be a single man in charge of everything, what next? How do you pin him to anything that's happened? There won't be any evidence, I can guarantee you. He lets his lackeys – men like Jamie – get their hands dirty so that his are clean.”
“We have to trust that once we bring the world's attention to this, the evidence will come forward,” says the Trespasser. “Once we have the man himself in custody, the fear vanishes and the tower of cards collapses. The evidence will be there.” He takes a deep breath as though he is breaking bad news. “We're also going to need a helicopter.”
“A helicopter?” asks Mark, sitting up. “What for?”
“Firstly, I need something that can respond to your signal wherever you are. Secondly, I intend to contact my superiors,” the Trespasser pulls a tiny USB device out of a pouch on his belt and holds it up. “This is my comms unit. As soon as I plug it in, Command will know exactly where I am: I need a vehicle capable of outrunning whatever they send after me for long enough to get the message out.”
“How are we going to get a helicopter?” asks Jamie.
“Use ourselves as bait,” he says. “Then I can handle it when it gets in close.”
Jamie laughs and shakes his head,
“I'd rather not get shot at again, if we can avoid it.”
“I'll do what I can,” says the Trespasser. “You might be better off staying here if you're concerned -”
“No, don't misunderstand me,” says Jamie. “We're coming with you. If you're going to bring the Agency's attack dogs down on yourself, fine, but before you do it: drop us somewhere far away. We're leaving.”
Although he is addressing the room, Jamie looks Mark in the eye as he says it. The janitor is silent for a moment, and the room holds its breath. Then he nods, and says,
“I understand.”
“Jamie?” asks Chloe. “I thought we were going to help take down the King?”
“They've got a solid plan,” he says. “If it works, great: we're safe. If it doesn't, I want us to be as far out of this city as we can be. I'm not putting you in harm's way again.”
“If we can fix this,” the Trespasser says, “then you should hand yourselves in. Corrupt or not, the Agency are helping the people who were hit by the fire. Your powers might be killing you.”
“Not interested,” Jamie raises a hand to stop him. “I know what I can do. As long as I don't push it too hard I'm fine.” He turns to Chloe, who is giving him a look that he can't quite understand. “I can use this power to stay away from anybody who might catch us. We'll be fine.”
“There's a chance,” the Trespasser says, “that even if this plan works, the Agency might still come after you.”
“Then I'll outrun them,” says Jamie.
“You're sure about this?”
Jamie nods, though Chloe hasn't said a thing.
“I'll help you get this helicopter – and then you drop us somewhere else before you make that broadcast.”
“Ok,” says the Trespasser. “If you're sure.”
Mark stands up.
“In that case,” he announces, stretching his arms and coming to terms with what he's about to do. “I'd best go and sit downstairs.”
They all stand up.
“We're heading for the roof,” the Trespasser tells Jamie and Chloe.
“There's a hatch,” Jamie nods. “Can you fly a helicopter?”
“I can.”
They walk past Mark and out into the Garden's central chamber, halfway up. The Trespasser nods to Chloe and Jamie, heading away up the curved staircase. The three civilians exchange expectant glances amidst a heavy silence.
Chloe breaks it.
“Listen, if I don't see you again,” she turns to Mark, shrugs, and wraps her arms around his shoulders. He returns the embrace with a confused smile. “Good luck,” she pats his back as they separate.
“Yeah, and thanks for everything,” says Jamie, and extends an awkward hand. Mark takes it and they exchange a firm shake devoid of words but filled with meaning.
“Don't mention it.”
“It's a shame this place didn't work out. I know we could have used a place like this,” he motions to himself and Chloe, “back when the streets were home. You're not a bad man, Mark.”
“Neither are you,” Mark says, and the two
lock eyes. Those words echo in Jamie's head, all the louder for the firm, but endearing and honest look in Mark's eyes.
Jamie lets go of his hand and turns, following Chloe and the Trespasser. The Trespasser turns as he ascends the stairs, shouting back,
“I'll see you soon, Mark. Remember, wherever you are – once you can hear the helicopter, I'm nearly there. Get a drink when you next can, too.”
“I'll need it, I'm sure,” Mark replies, and then the trio are gone, nothing but a clattering set of footsteps.
Mark sighs and wraps his own arms around himself as he walks in the opposite direction, all on his own. He wades through halls full of grey memories, the stench of his own body filling his nostrils, a foul taste on his tongue. With every blink his mother stares back at him.
Eventually he reaches the bottom steps, and sits on them like a lost and upset child. He folds his arms around his naked torso, wishing now that he weren't so exposed, and waits for the King's men to appear.
Before long, he hears the thick revving of an engine outside. It dies down, and he hears doors slam shut.
The oak doors to the Gardens click open and swing free to let the wolves in. Mark's hair stands up on his neck, his stomach aching with acidic bile, as the men walk in.
They should be swaggering, he thinks. They should be swinging clubs and crowbars and taunting him, playing some sick theatre act – but instead he gets the cold, professional stares of men prepared to kill on the orders of a faceless man.
His body goes slack, and he stands, his head bowed.
“Mark,” the black-jacketed bald man at the front says, clasping his hands behind his back.
Mark does not look up. “Yes?”
“The King would like to speak to you.”
Mark nods, and steps forward. They almost step back, flinching. The bald one calms them with a hand as though they were attack dogs, and turns back to Mark.
“We're going to put a bag over your head and take you into the van.”
“Ok,” he says, and stares at the floor until a man steps forward and the material snags under his chin, turning his world dark.
Without a word, he is led like a condemned man out of the fortress that he built with his own hands, into the cold rain, and then into the fume-choked back of a waiting van. He stumbles and falls to the floor, and hears the clatter of four sets of business shoes joining him. There is the distinct sound of a loud, metallic click-clack of a weapon. Then another three.
He sits up, feeling the comfort of the small cylinder pressed against his flesh in the back lining of his trousers, digging into his leg.
“We shouldn't be long, sir,” the leader tells him. There's the faintest hint of sympathy in his voice.
The van trundles off, rain pattering on the metal roof like dirt tossed atop a coffin.
Episode 11
Leverage
Rain tickles Jamie's forehead, washing his face for the first time since the fire bathed him. He breathes, and the rain finds his open mouth. It stings his eyes and tastes of sour metal – it soaks through his blood drenched shirt and chills his skin.
It feels like a baptism.
“You ok, Jamie?” Trespasser One asks him as they stroll across the gravel rooftop. Jamie looks at Chloe, and then shrugs.
“Yeah, I'm fine.”
“How do we get a helicopter close enough to steal?” Chloe asks him, shouting over the constant pattering drum-roll of the rain. Her blonde curls are flat and plastered to her forehead. What little make up had survived her ordeal until now is streaking from her eyes.
“Easy,” says the Trespasser, and stops in the middle of the roof with his mask in one hand. He looks up, letting the rain wash the sweat out of his jet black hair. The scarred half of his face catches the rain like a sieve and it falls off his chin like a waterfall.
“Easy how?” Jamie shouts.
“There are more satellites pointing at this city today than there are pointing at North Korea.”
“What? How many have we got pointing at North Korea?” Jamie asks.
“Lots.” The Trespasser gives him a look that questions his naivety. “And these satellites are good, so trust me when I say that there'll be a helicopter here within a few minutes.”
“Really?” Chloe asks him.
“I just pointed my face to the sky. They know I'm here.”
Jamie paces towards him over the roof, arms out in confusion.
“But how do we get the helicopter?”
“We wait until the helicopter appears. They still want to capture you – the termination order was only for Mark and me. Capturing you means troops on the ground: they'll land soldiers on this rooftop. We let them come down, and then I neutralise them and we go up the rope. Ok?”
“I was with you until you casually said we neutralise some soldiers,” says Jamie.
“I can do that,” he says. “You can – what is you do? Turn invisible? Just do that and wait for the shooting to stop.”
“I don't turn invisible,” he squeezes the bridge of his nose. “I stop time.”
“Oh,” says the Trespasser. “Just for yourself? Or can you do it for others?”
“I can do it for you, yeah.”
“Well in that case: let them get down, and then stop time and we'll scramble up into a chopper together.”
“I have to be touching you,” Jamie shakes his head.
The Trespasser barks out a hollow laugh. “Well, that complicates things.”
“How?”
“I can't climb a rope and take control of a helicopter whilst dragging you with me. We'll need to do it differently.” He thinks for a moment, folding his arms. “Ok, we let them get on the ground first. All of them. Then we stop time, neutralise them, and then I climb the rope.”
“Fight them?” asks Chloe.
“No way,” Jamie says. “We're not getting into a gunfight, not whilst she's here.”
“I never said we'd get into a gunfight,” the Trespasser cuts in. “If you can stop time, I'll neutralise them myself.”
“Kill them?” asks Chloe, her voice lost in the pitter-patter of the rain.
“They're only men following orders, just like I was. They don't need to die. Look, I'm a professional. You just stop the clocks, and I'll handle the rest.”
Trespasser One and Jamie lock eyes like bulls lock horns. Chloe squeezes his hand and Jamie eventually looks away.
“I don't like this either, Jamie,” she tells him under her breath. “Every bloody second you spend using your power, you come a little closer to pushing it too far.”
“If we can do this, then we get a ride out the city. To safety.”
“Are you sure that's where you want to go? Out of the city?”
“This place has nothing left to offer us, Chloe. I promised you a life together: that's still what I want to give you.”
“Jamie I don't give a damn where we go, or what we do. As long as we do it together. We're a team.” She gives him a brave smile despite the rain drowning her face and screwing her eyes up. “But if we run – well, we'll always be running.”
“Is that a problem?”
“I don't mind so much if I'm running with you.”
“I know, but I didn't promise you a life as a fugitive. I promised you a life that you could be proud of – that we could both be proud of.”
He hangs his head, and she kisses him softly on the mouth and pats his cheek.
“I've got your back,” she says, “no matter where we go. If you want us to run, I'll run with you. If you want us to stay: I'll stay with you.”
The Trespasser interrupts them, shouting and pointing.
“Here they come.”
They follow his pointing finger and see the helicopter's cutting through the low mist.
Mark feels the van stop in the pit of his stomach, bile and acid rushing against his belly's walls as he is flung forward. The rain taps its long, grey fingers on the van's roof as if taunting him to come outside. Everything is dark
under the damp hood; it smells like grease and motor oil.
“On your feet, sir,” somebody commands him.
Mark complies, standing with his hands out for balance, trying to feel his way around. Then the van's doors are opened and a gush of wet wind rushes in to meet him with a swooping howl. He stumbles towards the faint light penetrating the hood.
Mark jumps when hands grab at him, leading him out. He hears them chatting as though he were a troublesome animal being led to a butcher.
“Will I remove the hood sir?”
“Do it.”
The darkness is torn away, and even the faint light blinds him. He savours the fresh rain on his skull, reminding him that he's alive. The men let go of his arms, and step back as though he were about to go off like a firework.
Mark is standing in a wide open parking lot that he has never seen before. Old industrial buildings box them in like watchtowers, all girders and corrugated iron, each playing a different drumbeat under the torrents of rain.
He almost asks where they are, but he knows better than to expect an answer. Mark can see the tall buildings of the city centre in the distance – he's perhaps four or five miles north of the city.
As he works it out he realises that he isn't as drunk, and therefore perhaps isn't as strong as he'd have liked to be. An unwelcome fear tugs at his bowels and settles in for a long stay.
Holding their compact, angular assault rifles, the suited men lead him forward, through the rainy mist that seems to steam off his bare torso, towards a fire door installed in the side of a vast warehouse.
The door has no visible handle, but it opens as they approach. Another man who may as well be a clone of Mark's captors motions for them to come in. Mark is led into the gloom, two men in front and two behind him, and the rain becomes a distant memory as he takes in the chilled, hollow feel of the building's interior.
Kingdom: The Complete Series Page 12
