Kingdom: The Complete Series

by Steven William Hannah

  He's already out of it and dragging Jamie and Chloe past prone soldiers who clutch at their wounds. One scrambles with their free hand for their side-arm, trying to get a pistol out. The Trespasser aims and fires, clipping the pistol out of his hand.

  Above him, he sees the look of horror on the pilot's face, and the sound of the engine changes as the machine begins to lift itself away, taking that life saving rope with it, trailing it out across the buildings.

  “Jamie,” the Trespasser grabs the man and realises that he's sobbing in pain, his eyes are bleeding. “Jamie, I need one last burst of power. Can you do that? Put your arms around my neck, hold on, ok? Just stop it until we're on that chopper, ok? Chloe, you too, come on, I can carry you both.”

  He trails off. Jamie is shaking his head.

  “Go. Get the chopper, bring it back. I'll protect her. Just...” Jamie pushes him towards the chopper as it lifts off, and with no other choice, the Trespasser runs.

  The first gun shots whistle through the air around him – one ricochets off the breastplate of his armour.

  He reaches the edge of the roof just as the chopper leaves, leaps onto the ledge, and puts everything he has into his legs.

  Trespasser One leaps into the sky, arms outstretched, and sails through the rain without anything to save him if he misses.

  He doesn't.

  Clutching on with desperate strength, the Trespasser grabs the rope and swings under the belly of the helicopter, wrapping his legs in the rope and tensing his muscles against the speed of the chopper as it accelerates away from the scene.

  He turns for a moment and sees, through the rain, black figures rising from the gravel – he only incapacitated them after all. One of them fires a shot, but Jamie and Chloe flicker as though they are dropping out of reality, and the shot misses.

  “Just hold on, Jamie,” he grunts as he begins pulling himself up towards the cabin. “Just give me time.”

  On his belt, the tracker starts beeping.

  Mark has activated the tracker.

  He pulls himself up into the helicopter's open cabin with a roar, spending what little remains of his strength, and grabs onto a seat for balance before leaping at the cockpit like a wild animal, where a panicked pilot is screaming for help.

  Series 1 Finale

  Judgement

  “Mayday, mayday, this is Eagle Four, I have been boarded by a hostile -”

  The Trespasser grabs the pilot's head in a talon-like hand and slams it forward into the controls, catching his form as he slides, limp, out of the chair. Rolling him aside, the Trespasser sits himself in the pilot's seat as the helicopter begins to drift to the side. Breath held, he wrestles the controls back in line and rights the craft, turning it to give him a decent view of the rooftop, where dark figures close on the young couple like malicious shadows.

  “Just hold on,” he murmurs, urging the chopper forward as his eyes scan the controls, flicking switches above his head.

  On the rooftop, Jamie is clutching his head in one hand, his other arm wrapped around Chloe as the rain pounds their skin.

  “Behind us,” she tells him, and a gunshot punches through the sound of chaos. Chloe sees the flash and hears the whip-crack of the pistol, but the shot never finds them. The world flickers, and the shot misses them.

  “I can't keep doing this,” Jamie groans, his eyes screwed shut, stinging with the salty blood seeping out of them, as though his brain is tearing from the inside

  Looking into his eyes, Chloe sees that blood vessels have began to pop – the whites of his eyes are filled with little clouds of red mist suspended in mid-explosion. Another gunshot – another flicker, and they are crouched down now. Jamie whips his head around, looking for their assailant amongst the prone, helpless soldiers.

  One, no – two of them are getting up, clutching their shoulders, aiming pistols at the couple. They take aim.

  Jamie flinches away, trying to protect Chloe with his body, but the soldier's aim is thrown off by the rapid descent of the transport helicopter above them.

  It arrives with a mechanical rumble, the thick city air slapping the soldiers to the ground as the rotor blades whip it into life. Blocking out the grey sleet that lashes the roof, its protective halo shelters Jamie and Chloe, who stand in its shadow as a rope is thrown down at their feet like an offering.

  Chloe grabs it, entwining her arm in it and motioning for Jamie, in his weakened state, to latch onto her. She stops, her eyes catching something, and then -

  She's screaming his name – he can't hear her, but he knows that she's screaming, pointing just behind him.

  Jamie turns, and though he cannot hear the gunshot he sees it, a flash like lightning, and then -

  Everything is dull.

  Everything is grey.

  Time stands still.

  The rain hangs in the air like pencil lines drawn across the entire world, and through it flies a single bullet, shattering raindrops as it travels. Jamie feels blood rush out of his nose – if his brain were a muscle, its hamstrings would be twanging and snapping.

  His mind traces the path of the bullet as though he has all the time in the world. If he steps aside, it will miss him – and hit Chloe, her feet off the ground as the helicopter lifts her away from this mess.

  A few thoughts flash across his mind: he can't just step aside and let her take the bullet.

  He could grab her, bring her into his spare few seconds and try to climb the rope with her, to get out of the way, but his strength is failing him, and fast.

  Or he could take the bullet and let her escape.

  Except she wouldn't escape, he thinks, would she?

  He turns and looks at her, frozen in the moment, like an acrobat hanging off a wire, arm outstretched, offering him her hand. Her make-up has ran clear of her face, two great black streaks running from her eyes to her chin like a panda, and her hair is plastered against her head, letting rivulets of water run down her cheeks. Chloe's clothes are all soaked through, clinging to her frail figure like torn rags. But she's still beautiful, and she'd never let him lie and bleed to death on a rooftop. She'd never forgive him for it, either.

  Which leaves him only one option.

  He reaches out, and grabs her hand, bringing her into his little universe. The moment shocks her: she's still screaming his name until her eyes adjust and the calmness of the silent, timeless world silences her.

  She looks down at him, tightens her grips around his hand, and helps him up on to the rope.

  “We need to climb,” he grunts as his hands find the rope, and motions for her to hold on. She wraps her arms around his neck and clings on like an injured animal. With blood cascading down his chin, he begins to pull them up the rope.

  He feels his mind begin to crack and splinter like rotten wood. Trying to focus, to keep climbing despite the pain, becomes impossible.

  She sees it in his eyes, the struggle going on in his mind: without a word she unlaces her hand, wraps her legs around his midriff, and tells him,

  “You keep the clock stopped,” she grits her teeth, motioning for him to hold on, “and I'll climb.”

  He considers arguing, but the throbbing, screaming pain in his head is too much. Jamie hangs onto her like a frightened child, putting every last bit of his effort into keeping the angry, thrashing passage of time at bay. His mind becomes a blockage in the river of time, and the pressure builds with every second that doesn't pass.

  Chloe holds a tense breath and puffs her cheeks out as her thin arms begin pulling them upwards an inch at a time, her face red with effort.

  Jamie's concentration snaps, and the world slaps them in the face with its rain and its noise. Somewhere below them, a shot passes through the air where a split second ago they both stood.

  With the rain lashing against his face, Jamie tries to shout out, to apologise, to tell her to keep climbing, but blood clogs his throat like bile, salty and bitter. He splutters it down his chin, gasping for air.

  Befo
re more gunmen can take aim, the helicopter lurches into the sky, dragging them like an afterthought. Jamie's stomach lurches and Chloe shouts at him to hold on, wrapping the rope around her arm for grip again, her legs tightening around Jamie as they are dragged through the sky.

  There is nothing beneath their feet but the promise of a long fall to their deaths.

  A minute passes as slowly as an hour in a waiting room, whilst they hang below the chopper's stomach, eyes screwed shut in terror. Chloe feels her grip weakening, her hand burning as the metal twists of the rope cut into her palm. She wants to scream to the Trespasser to stop, to pull them up, but her voice is frail and small under the booming blades.

  The helicopter decelerates – she feels it in her stomach first, and tenses herself for what she knows is coming.

  “Jamie, hold on,” she says through gritted teeth, and she feels his hands lace over hers, joining them around the rope.

  “I've got you,” he whispers, their heads side by side, locked in a twisted embrace half a mile above the city. “Don't look down, sweetheart. Don't look -”

  The helicopter comes to a stop, swinging them. Gravity tugs at them, trying to undo their fingers and pull their palms, slippery with blood, down the thrashing rope. It bucks and sways like a wild snake trying to throw them off. Every gust of wind tugs at them, tempting them down towards the distant, grey earth.

  Then the rope begins to move. It starts pulling them towards the helicopter's body, and all they can do is hold onto the rope and each other.

  “Nearly there,” Chloe gasps, her muscles failing.

  Jamie senses the rotors getting closer, the wind forcing his eyes shut -

  Then the wind is gone, and they are hanging in front of an open door: the Trespasser has both of his arms wrapped around a rope that is locked in a pulley, dragging it towards himself like a one-man tug of war team. Jamie and Chloe hang before him like two caterpillars, locked in a chrysalis together, and Trespasser One secures the rope and reaches out to them, pulling them inside the helicopter.

  “Chloe we're in,” Jamie says as his grateful feet find the floor, “you can let go.”

  She almost doesn't. His hand laces over hers, sticky with blood where the rope cut into her palm and her wrist. He eases her hand open, and together they let go.

  The Trespasser catches her as she falls off the rope, and Jamie stumbles for the seat, desperate to hold onto something before the helicopter tosses him out into wind.

  “Trespasser,” he shouts over the racket, and the soldier lifts his head. “Get us out of here, and for christ's sake shut the bloody door.”

  He nods, leaping to the doors and yanking them shut, totally at ease on the edge of the drop. He puts an arm on Chloe's shoulder, and she looks up and gives him a nod – I'm ok.

  The last door slams shut and the screaming storm outside is muffled by the craft's shell.

  With that done, the Trespasser leaps back into the cockpit, checks that the pilot is still out, and steers the aircraft away from the rain-soaked rooftop, away from the city. He tilts it forward until it is racing at full speed towards the green hills of the distant countryside, rising towards the misty grey clouds with every second. Through the cockpit, they see the washed out orange tint of the distant sunset, as though the horizon was on fire.

  Jamie fastens a seatbelt around his waist and lets his body go slack, extending one hand to Chloe to help her into her seat. He leans over as she seats herself, as though he's half asleep, and helps her bloodied, slippery hands to fasten her belt. Finally secured, she rests her head on his shoulder, and with gentle care they wrap their arms around one another, grateful for the moment just to be alive.

  Across the city, Mark walks into a room that is divided in two: on his half stand four men with assault rifles, the same men in suits that walked him in earlier. The other side of the room is bare. Oak panelled walls, the same warm lights, the same low ceiling and the same impression that he's standing in the most exquisite torture chamber he's ever seen.

  The other half of the room is hidden behind a heavy metal door, the type you'd expect on a submarine, that looks thicker than the wall it is set into. The room is as silent as a mortuary, and as the door closes shut behind him the room fills with the sickly smell of hospital waiting rooms: a sterile bleach-stink, a reek that catches in his throat.

  “She's through that door, Mark,” the King appears from behind him, motioning to the door as he addresses his men. “Would one of you men be so kind?”

  One of them steps forward and works a lock and a latch, then opens a shutter like a prison door, letting Mark peer through a letter box slit into the room.

  His stomach lurches as he bends down to look through.

  Mark's mother sits on a wooden chair, unharmed except for a yellowing bruise on her forehead. Her short hair, greying at the roots and black at the edges, sits ruffled on her head, and her make-up looks as though it has been applied by a drunk: she looks unkempt, unwell, and weak.

  It breaks his heart.

  “Mum?” he says through the letterbox, and she looks up. She'd know his eyes anywhere, even if she can't see the rest of his face. Her pained expression shifts to joy,

  “Mark,” she smiles; then the realisation sets in, and she realises what this means. “Oh no.”

  “Mum, I'm going to get you out of here, ok? Don't worry -”

  “Mark don't do whatever he wants you to,” she begs him as though it were her dying wish, “it's not worth it, don't worry about me, you hear? Don't worry about -”

  The guard slams the letterbox shut and Mark snaps up, his temper flaring and his fists clenching.

  “Easy, Mark,” the King soothes him, letting the guard back away. Mark turns, face scrunched into a scowl.

  “Let me speak to her.”

  “Look Mark,” the King shrugs, “let's be honest here. If you don't get her back, you'll tear this place, and probably me and my operation, to pieces. You're walking out of here with your mother whether we shake hands or not, you have my word.”

  “I know how you work,” Mark's eyes narrow, “you wouldn't let me walk out of here without taking something from me.”

  “That wouldn't make sense, Mark,” the King assures him. “If I don't let you have your mother, I become your enemy, and since guns don't really work on you, I don't have much option other than to appeal to your common sense. This sorry situation is just... a stop-gap. A shameful requirement for our negotiations to take place.”

  “You can't expect me to negotiate anything with you, King. I came here for my mother.”

  “And you'll get her.”

  “Alive and unharmed?”

  “You have my word,” he says, and motions back to the other room. “Now, you can't think straight in here and you know she's safe... shall we return to the comfort of the conference room and you can hear me out?”

  “I don't need to hear anything. I know who you are.”

  “I told you, Mark,” the King gives him what appears to be an honest smile – more disturbing than any grimace. “We're very, very similar. I still believe that we'll leave this place as equals, having put this behind us.”

  Mark gives him an uncompromising look, glancing back to the metal door.

  “I can walk out of here with her? Ok, I want to do that just now.”

  “Once you've heard me out, you can take your dear old mother,” says the King. “Regardless of your decision. But you do have to hear me out. Ok?”

  “Then make it quick,” Mark says under his breath, and gestures towards the door. The King smiles to himself and opens the pressurised door, returning to the room with the two chairs and the small table.

  “Please, Mark,” he says, indicating the chairs, “sit down and listen.”

  With a look of impatience and contempt, fighting the anger that's boiling up in his stomach like a violent chemical reaction, Mark lowers himself onto the seat and takes a breath.

  “Go on then.”

  The helicopte
r races over the suburbs of the city, over winding spaghetti loops of houses and driveways, far enough now to avoid the chaos of the city centre. No fire fell here: no soldiers, no fighting.

  Trespasser One is messing with the dials and switches on the helicopter's controls. Jamie, leaving Chloe to nurse her cut hands, undoes his belt and approaches the pilot's seat, where the two seats are occupied by the Trespasser and his unconscious extra passenger.

  “Uh... Trespasser?”

  “Jamie, everything ok?”

  The soldier does not turn his eyes away from his job, but out of the corner of his eye he sees that a large, red mark has formed around Jamie's lower face, remnants of his bloody nose.

  “What's the plan now?” asks Jamie.

  “Mark's tracker has began broadcasting. I need to try and get the Agency on my side for this next part. I'm guessing you want me to let you and Chloe out before I bring hell down on our heads? Where will I drop you?”

  Jamie looks back at Chloe, who is opening and closing her hands, wincing with pain as her cuts close and reopen.

  The question hangs in the air as Chloe senses his stare and looks up, both of them a half-dead mess.

  “What?” she mouths, her voice drowned out.

  “Where do you want to start running from?” he asks. She doesn't answer to start with, she just looks at him with her eyes. There used to be a sparkle in those eyes – it's still there, but it's being smothered. “Chloe?” he asks her, waiting for a suggestion.

  She says nothing – her eyes tell him that it's not that simple, that it never is. In those eyes, he sees everything that they've been through in the past twenty-four hours.

  Torture. Extortion. The threat of human trafficking. They've been shot at by criminals and law-enforcers alike, they've skirted death more times in one day than most people do in a lifetime.

  At some point, Jamie knows, they'll have to stop running. It'll kill them eventually.