Kingdom: The Complete Series

by Steven William Hannah

  The room itself is the shell of the warehouse – a wide open dusty room that extends from the unkempt floor to the thin roof overhead. Waterfalls dot the industrial desert, falling from holes in the roof and bursting on the floor, an endless round of applause for the captured hero as he is led through them. He sees no other men, no other signs of life, and wonders if they intend to try and kill him.

  Despite his bulletproof skin, he feels fear creeping up his spine. The relief, when they kneel in the middle of the floor and lift an unseen trapdoor, is little more than a cold breath down his back. He can feel the cold, he realises, the damp air, and if he can feel that then chances are he'll feel the stinging of their bullets enough for it to matter, should it come to it.

  The stairs down into the earth are clean and well lit. The ageing concrete – from a time when Glasgow still had some industry in its veins – turns to exquisite wood like the cabin of a ship as they descend. Muffled by the layers of concrete above them, the world is left on the surface to rot as they walk deeper and deeper into the skin of the city.

  Then they hit the bottom, and Mark can feel the weight of the world above them, ever conscious of the distance between him and that safe, open sky. The roof is the barrier, concrete and steel, that is going to trap him down here where the King can talk to him, face to face.

  "The King is waiting for you just ahead, sir."

  Hearing the name sends a jolt of sickness through his stomach. Mark is surprised at the tone they speak to him with: respect, almost. A kind of sympathy, like nurses admitting him to a hospice.

  As Mark is led down the corridor, filled with warm lights and the scent of hot printer ink, he hears the bustle of work. It takes him a minute to place the sound, and when he does it's an instant realisation: offices.

  The entire place sounds like a busy office. If he listens, he can hear printers and computers, the low hum of electronics, servers and information flying through cables in the walls. This entire place is like the administration sector of a busy company.

  "What is this?" Mark asks as they walk. "Is this an office, or something?"

  "The King will answer any questions you have, sir," says the man behind him.

  Finally, the long corridor ends in a wooden door with a large steel lock hiding the handle. The man at the front waves his hand over the lock and it clicks open, hissing as it beckons them in with a mechanical creak.

  “Pneumatic door?” Mark asks, frowning.

  “Airtight, sir, yes.”

  Mark says nothing, but his mind is racing.

  Airtight?

  The procession stops within a large, cosy room lit by a series of lamps hanging on the varnished walls, adorned with colourful murals in an exact pattern than screams of obsessive compulsion.

  A patterned rug sits at an exact right angle to two leather armchairs facing one another, a small table in between them; Mark suspects that a protractor and a laser pointer were used in their placement. The ceiling is low enough to raise the hackles on Mark's neck – he isn't short, and he can feel the roof pressing down on his personal space, as though the ceiling is trying to crush him.

  “Take a seat, sir,” says one of the men – Mark doesn't bother to see who; they're all the same anyway. “The King will be with you shortly.”

  “Uh...”

  The four men then step back and align themselves against the wall like palace guards, becoming just another part of the scenery. Mark takes a reluctant step towards the leather chairs, and points at them, looking back at the guards.

  “Any particular one...?”

  “The one closest us, please sir.”

  Mark takes a seat, feeling the fine leather stick to his bruised torso. The rain on his silver trousers squeaks against the material and he cringes. Sitting forward to give his back a chance to escape the leather's grip, he leans on his knees and cups his hands around his mouth.

  “Is she here?” he asks after a long silence filled only by muffled office chatter.

  “Sir?”

  “My mother; is she here?”

  “The King will answer any questions -”

  “Well he isn't here,” says Mark, his eyes dark. “So I'm asking you.”

  One of the guards has raised a hand to his ear and is muttering something under his breath.

  Mark looks them up and down, appraising them like animals at a market, judging whether or not he could take them. The men must see it in his face: he hears the click of their safety catches switching to off.

  “Sir, the King will be with you shortly,” says one, and Mark hears the nerves in his voice.

  The man is scared and he's trying not to show it, but the reality is that he's in an enclosed space with a man who, earlier today, punched a helicopter out of the sky.

  The hiss of an opening door lets the tension out of the room like a pressure valve, and the men relax. Mark whips his head around to see who has joined them, from the door opposite the one he entered through.

  This man is shorter than the guards, but only just. His face is unassuming, neutral in a cheerful sort of way. His left eyebrow seems to always be raised in pleasant surprise and his hair is slicked to the side like an old soldier's. His three piece suit isn't quite as exquisite as Mark might have expected; it looks like it was tailored for comfort rather than style, and it's navy blue.

  He walks into the middle of the room, and every eye is on him. Looking between the guards and Mark like misbehaving children, he says in a clipped Glasgow accent:

  “I sense some tension here, lads. Am I missing something?”

  The guards say nothing, meeting his eyes but remaining silent. He turns to Mark, eyebrows raised in question.

  Mark's voice is as flat and ordered as the perfectly aligned furniture.

  “I was asking them where my mother is.”

  The man smooths his suit and sighs, turning to the guards.

  “Leave us.”

  “Sir? But -”

  “He's bulletproof, Gregor. You'll only make matters more difficult. Now leave us. Go and see to Mark's mother, see if she needs anything.”

  Mark stands up out of his seat at the mention of his mother.

  “I want to see her,” he demands, and the look from the blue-suited man stops him in his tracks.

  Like am owner staring down a bad dog, the man glares through Mark's skin, into his soul, and Mark sits back down in his seat.

  The malice leaves his face with a deep breath.

  “Remember the scenario, Mark,” the man tells him with an apologetic smile. “Neither of us want this to get out of hand.”

  The four men leave the room, heads down, the door sealing shut behind them.

  Taking the seat at an angle to Mark and leaning forward, the man in the blue suit extends a hand, which Mark looks at in disgust.

  “Hello Mark,” he says, smiling and looking at his hand again. Mark says nothing, and the man withdraws his hand, sighing again. “Ok,” he says, smoothing his tie. “I understand why you're angry.”

  “Do you really.”

  The man stands up from the seat, and paces out into the middle of the floor like an orchestra conductor.

  “You have every right to be. Try to see this from my point of view, Mark. I can't threaten you directly; I needed leverage. It's regrettable, and it makes me feel a little dirty, so I'd like to remove your poor mother from this equation as soon as possible; a desire I think we share.”

  Mark cuts to the chase, conscious of the small tracking device attached to his hip.

  “I don't know who you are,” he says, “but I want the King. The real King, not some imposter. The last imposter who tried to negotiate with me got his knees broken, so get me the real King.”

  The man looks around in confusion.

  “I'll wait, don't worry,”says Mark, leaning on his knees again and staring at the man. “I'm in no rush.”

  “Well,” the man lets out a breath, and puts a hand on his chest, nodding in understanding, “how rude of me.�
�

  Mark watches as the façade slides from the man's face, and the raised eyebrow and the quiet charm are replaced with the hollow shell of a man that's been emptied out as a vessel for something much worse. Mark can almost smell his ego from the chair; his face betrays no patience for anything save his own ends, his lip curled in a smile that no painter could capture. Mark almost moves back in fear from the sudden change.

  “You are a significant investment, Mark,” he says, his neat-clipped tones gone and replaced with a businessman's charm. One hand goes in his pocket like a street-corner dealer and he leans backwards on his own confidence. “I wouldn't be so stupid as to try and play with your expectations, not when we can offer each other,” he smiles a cruel grin, “so much.”

  Mark narrows his eyes.

  “You're him,” he says; and he knows it's true. He can sense it. Taste it in the air – that aura of absolute control. He fights the urge in his bones to submit to the man and offer his services, so overcoming is the sense of crushing dominance.

  He seems to smile at the recognition.

  “Paul King,” he nods. “The King. In the flesh,” he lets out a hollow, lifeless laugh that has no humour in it, “which makes me sound like some cartoon villain. I got lucky as far as surnames go. Could've been worse, could've been called Queen. You should be flattered, Mark,” he barks his name. “I can count on two hands the number of people who get to deal with me face to face. I believe you've met one of my...” he waves his hand, searching for the word.

  “Doubles?”

  “Aye, double. He was a good lad. Really bought into the role.”

  Mark tries to match the lifeless tone in the King's voice.

  “So much so that he'd rather eat cyanide than talk to me.”

  “I know,” the King shrugs. “Dangers of the job, they all understand when they take the position.”

  “He died for nothing: I'm here anyway.”

  “Yes you are, and I didn't think you'd appreciate another double. They wouldn't have the authority to make the kind of negotiations that I want to anyway.”

  Mark tilts his head back, trying to show his refusal to bow down, but the King is still standing above him by merit of the chair.

  “I wouldn't have spoken to anybody else.”

  The King observes him.

  “You're confident. I'd expect no less from a bulletproof man. No less.”

  “I want to see her.”

  “I'm sure you do,” the King shrugs, and steps back, motioning to the door. “You'll understand if I stay out of arms-reach, of course. Just follow me through this door – oh, and Mark?”

  Mark stands up, staring at those icy, black eyes – and they are pitch black: huge pupils and little else, barely any white.

  “Yes?”

  “I understand you may have come here with certain... assumptions. I assure you – we want the same thing. We both want this to go smoothly, but right now we, as two upstanding businessmen, are in what we call a Mexican stand-off. You have a gun to my head and I have a gun to your head. You could kill me with a single punch if you wanted; I could kill your mother with a single word. We're trusting each other not to pull the trigger here, ok? Think of this like a nuclear deterrent, mutually assured destruction – look, I don't want to kill anybody, ok?”

  Mark says nothing.

  “It's my firm belief,” the King gives him a confident smile, “that you will shake my hand when this is over, and leave here as a valued business partner. An equal, of sorts.”

  The King turns and walks to the door, opening it with another hiss. Mark lets the hiss mask a tense breath that he lets out. Holding the door open, the King gestures for Mark to walk through first.

  Mark runs a hand around the waistband of the trousers and depresses the tracker with his thumb. It buzzes like a phone being switched on, letting him know it's there. He stretches the rest of his body to keep up the act, and then steps through the door as the King watches him, wincing at the invasive scent of the man's aftershave as he does.

  On the rooftop of the Gardens, Jamie stands with one hand on the Trespasser's shoulder and the other entwined in Chloe's. The roar of helicopters drowns out any chance of words – two are coming in quickly over the distant roofs, flying low.

  The Trespasser holds up a thumb: they're transport choppers. All to plan.

  Chloe squeezes Jamie's hand in the deafening storm, rain lashing them like whip strokes. He turns to her, and she mouths:

  Ready?

  He nods, and squeezes her hand tighter to try and fight the shaking. The helicopters, wide and round-bodied beasts, circle them like waiting vultures. Jamie watches the Trespasser raise his hands in mock surrender, and the helicopters come in closer. He tempts them in like a snake charmer, taking his time to show them he means no harm. They come closer in concentric circles as he lowers himself to his knees.

  The last thing that Chloe feels is the roaring, whistling hurricane that the helicopters are making: the wind from their rotors buffets them, driving her back. She holds onto Jamie, her own safety line, as the helicopters lower themselves at either corner of the roof, and – sure enough as the Trespasser predicted – twin ropes drop from the open doors and onto the gravel.

  The Trespasser watches them, waiting, his unmasked eyes following them like a nervous fox surrounded by wolves.

  “Be ready,” he roars to Jamie, and whether the thief hears him or not, he understands:

  Wait until they're all on the ground.

  Like shadows falling amidst the static rainstorm, more soldiers in black armour descend the ropes in rapid succession, dropping to the roof and spreading out, keeping their weapons on them. Jamie tenses, ready to stop the clocks at the first hint of a trigger being pulled.

  The roof is filled with armoured men aiming rifles at them. Jamie looks at the Trespasser, who is counting under his breath, marking each of the men. He nods, and turns to Jamie as a soldier approaches through the crowd.

  The soldier points at the Trespasser, and makes a sign with his hand that Jamie does not understand.

  The Trespasser shakes his head, and turns to Jamie, his eyes telling him everything that he needs to know.

  Jamie puts his hand on the Trespasser's shoulder, takes a deep breath, focuses his mind, and watches as the colour and movement drains from the world, turning the soldiers into lifeless statues before his eyes.

  Time stop.

  Drawing his pistol, the Trespasser quickly takes aim and, with surgical precision, begins to incapacitate the soldiers with knee and shoulder shots, leaving thin trails of half-exploded rain drops in the air where the bullets have flown, little clouds of pink mist marking the soldiers that are hit.

  Like a metronome the pistol shots echo rhythmically, every second: aim – fire – aim – fire.

  Then silence.

  “Hold in there, Jamie, I'm reloading,” shouts the Trespasser, deafening in the silence that has encompassed them.

  “Hurry,” Chloe urges the Trespasser, and the soldier looks around to see why.

  Jamie is trembling, his nose gushing blood again.

  Without a word, the Trespasser slots a new magazine into his pistol and racks the slide. He resumes his task, turning as steadily as a clock hand, disabling career soldiers who might never walk again unaided. He grits his teeth and, mentally apologising as he goes, pulls the trigger over and over.

  Out of nowhere, time returns with a rush of colour and light, knocking the Trespasser off aim. A shot goes wild, and now he is surrounded by screaming men, writhing and falling to the ground. All he can hear is the roar of the helicopters and the desperate confusion of the soldiers.

  Turning to look, he finds Jamie clutching his head and screaming, inaudible over the noise. Chloe has sheltered him with her body, grabbing his shoulders and trying to shield him from the rain. Blood is pouring from his nose and pooling around his knees in the storm water.

  Training takes over.

  He may not be able to stop time, b
ut the Trespasser's adrenaline kicks in and time slows for him. The operating system of his own training guides his thoughts before he can think them, and he quickly assesses the situation and acts.

  There are five soldiers left standing, confused and disorientated by the sudden split-second burst of gunfire that has disabled three quarters of their unit.

  There's a seventy five percent chance that their officer is screaming in pain rather than screaming orders at them, so they haven't acted.

  He has a second, maybe two, to use before they gun him and the couple down. A mental check-list tells him what he has left to use: his rope gun is useless here. His parachute is gone and it would be no use anyway. His launcher is empty. His pistol is already up and raised, but he can't out-shoot five trained men.

  Whilst this is happening in slow motion for him, his mind is running down a flow-chart at just under the speed of sound: which is as fast as the human brain can work.

  He does have one weapon that he hasn't considered. Trespasser's are equipped to deal with more than just combat situations. His belt also holds things like an emergency first aid kit, electronics, surveillance devices... and a fire-retardant canister; it's that last one that he yanks out of his belt and tosses towards the soldiers. It arcs through the air, a pressurised container that contains enough fire dampening foam to rapidly extinguish a kitchen fire. It's not particularly harmful, but it does cover a wide area in a white mist within a split-second.

  He has time for one bullet, and he puts it straight through the canister in mid air.

  The world goes white with a loud pop.

  Whilst they cry out and struggle to wipe their eyes and visors clear of the foam, the Trespasser has imprinted their silhouettes in his memory, and he drops to one knee and, moving like a machine, puts five rounds into the white mist, following the line he had mentally drawn across their knees and shoulders.

  They all drop. Five shots, five hits, five targets down.

  He turns and grabs the couple, who are curled on the ground, and lifts them as the first badly-aimed shots are returned through the smoke. With the helicopter's so close, the mist won't last long.