“The King was merely in check, Tam. Threatened. The game isn't over until the King is put in checkmate – and things never went that far. They were never going to.”
Gregor kneels over Tam's face, producing a second, white King piece from his pocket.
“Gregor, I've got money, man. I've got a shit load of money.”
“I know,” says Gregor, passing his sledgehammer up to one of his men. He motions for them to come around, and they kneel beside Tam's head and plant their knees on either side of his face to stop his head moving. “You got it from selling things that didn't belong to you. They belonged to the King, Tam.”
Gregor can feel Tam shaking in fear beneath him. Above them, one of the men raises the sledgehammer like an executioner.
“Gregor man, please.” Tam is almost screaming now. “I'll do anything you want, man, anything, just please, no -”
Gregor ignores his pleas as he places the first black chess piece over Tam's screwed-shut eyelid. Tam struggles as he feels the piece press down on his eyeball, his legs thrashing and kicking.
“Shh,” Gregor tries to calm him, talking with the soothing tones of a doctor. “Shh, Tam. No more struggling. It's over. Just some pain, then it's over. It won't take long.”
He gives the signal, and the man above them brings the sledgehammer down with the precision of a craftsman, driving the chess piece through Tam's eye.
His scream splits their ears, and Gregor winces at the sound as he lines up the second piece.
“Hold him still, hold him still.”
When the second piece is driven through his other eye, Tam finally stops struggling.
Dropping the sledgehammer with a thud, the executioner picks up his nail-gun and leans forward, pressing it against Tam's forehead and pumping the trigger until it clicks empty, each nail driving his forehead back against the floor with a pneumatic hiss.
Gregor stands up, brushing himself down. Spittle and blood coat his suit jacket and he wipes them away, clenching his jaw to stop the shaking from the adrenaline.
His men look at him. “What now, sir?”
“Hang him out the window for the city to see.” Gregor shakes himself, producing a cigarette packet from his pocket and lighting up, taking a long draw to steady himself. “Then pack your shit up. We've got two more targets before the day's done.”
“You want me to do the tag now, sir?”
“Yeah, go ahead.”
One of the men pulls out a can of spray paint and finds a suitable wall. When he is finished the red writing drips like blood across a wall covered in yellowed wallpaper from two decades ago.
It reads:
Thy Kingdom Come, Thy Will Be Done.
Episode 4
Jagged Crown
Mark leads the way into their new assault course: the thick metal door hisses aside as he approaches, tense and low, his eyes darting around the room as he enters. The layout has been changed since their last run to keep them on their toes.
“New room,” he announces, and stops.
Behind him the rest of the squad pause, crouching. Peering through the visor of his mask, he takes in the chamber: it seems plain enough, a steel cube with a slit cut along one wall and a door straight ahead.
“I can feel something behind the wall,” says a nasal female voice.
“Can you tell what it is, Stace?”
“No. Just that it's mechanical.”
“Might be guns,” this comes from Jamie, who turns and finds Gary. He pats him on the shoulder. “You're up, wee man.”
Gary, staying low like he was taught, comes to the front of the squad and steps in front of Mark.
“We'll go when you're ready, Gary.”
He nods and lowers his head, focusing. A blue screen of light, like the reflection off the ocean on a hot day, fades into existence along the middle of the room like a parting wall. The path to the door is clear.
“You first, Mark,” says Jamie, pushing him.
Mark shrugs and jogs across the room.
Without warning the wall across from him explodes with sound and light, and he flinches and turns, braced for the impact of a dozen rubber bullets like the last time.
He opens his eyes and relaxes as he sees hundreds of tiny plastic ball-bearings bouncing off Gary's forcefield. He gets to the door and waves the others across. Once the squad has gathered at the door he opens it and sends them through, pausing only to make sure that Gary makes it.
“Whenever you're ready, Gary, come on.”
Gary moves slowly, trying to hold his concentration. The guns behind the firing-slit haven't stopped, their barrels popping like bubble wrap over and over again. Finally, Mark gets Gary into the cover of the doorway and the forcefield collapses. Gary leans against the wall as though he has finished a sprint.
“How's your head?” asks Stacy.
“Sore, but I'll live.” He checks the armband on his left arm: the same one that they all wear now. It flickers from green to orange, and then back again. “Vitals are green, I guess?”
“Good man,” says Jamie. “Next room.”
“Oh I remember this one,” says Cathy as they enter and spread out along the wall.
“They'll have changed it somehow,” Donald reminds her. “Trust me.”
This one is a mixture of various tests. The only way through is a thin corridor, and at the far end is a camera linked to two guns that will spit pellets at them if they set it off.
“Cathy, you or I could get this one,” says Jamie. “What do you think?” She shuffles back, folding her arms. “Cathy come on. You need the practice.”
“I don't want to let everyone down -”
“It's training, Cath,” says Donald, patting her arm. “Relax.”
“Ok fine,” she says. “Everybody hold onto me.”
They grab her arms wherever they can find a grip, and begin to manoeuvre like a large crab towards the hallway. As they walk, the camera begins buzzing as it zooms in, focusing -
A fog descends on them.
As though they were caught in a shock blizzard, the steel walls fade away, leaving them to push through a dense mist. Cathy has fallen silent, rigid with concentration as she guides them down the hall. Only when he focuses his eyes can Mark make out the camera in the distance, obscured by the clouds.
“That's it, Cathy,” whispers Donald, squeezing her arm. She shushes him, concentrating.
Halfway there, a break appears in the fog as though the wind were blowing it away. Cathy stops, one hand on her head: the fog fades back in.
“Keep it together Cath,” says Gary. “We're halfway. That's further than you got last time.”
Mark hazards a look at the armband on Cathy's arm and sees it flash from green to orange.
“My head,” she groans, stumbling onwards. By now they're supporting her, holding her up as she stumbles forward. “I can't -”
She drops to her knees without warning, and the fog dissipates as suddenly as it had appeared, leaving them visible.
The camera chirps.
The guns click on, their slides racking back to load.
“Ah I hate this bit,” says Gary.
Mark throws himself to the front of the group, arms spread to cover them as they help Cathy up.
The shots never come.
“Everybody go,” says Stacy, her hand outstretched towards the guns. He can hear the strain in her voice. “Just go.”
Mark turns and helps Cathy up, lending his immense strength to help push the group up the corridor. They get to the end and head for the door, getting clear of the guns, before Mark turns and heads back in.
Jamie grabs his wrist and stops him.
“Mark, I can get Stacy -”
“I'll get her – she needs to practice, you don't.”
Shrugging, Jamie nods and follows the rest through a door, Cathy still clutching her head.
Mark heads back down the corridor, where Stacy stands with one hand on the wall and another on her head, trying to f
eel her way out.
“Stacy, I'm here,” he says, getting under her arm and lifting her. “Just try to keep the guns off, ok?”
She manages a nod, and Mark notes that her armband's indicator has also turned orange. Together, they stagger towards the end of the hall. He can hear her grinding her teeth beneath her mask.
“Almost there,” he whispers. “Almost there -”
She lets out a breath and collapses onto him, clawing at him for purchase. Expecting this, Mark loops a hand under her limp legs and lifts her, sprinting down the hallway.
The camera chirps. The guns rack their slides.
He turns his back to them throws himself the rest of the way, catching the harmless pellets on his back. Mark doesn't even feel them. Sliding along the floor, he comes to rest against the bottom of the guns' parapet and stays low, carrying Stacy out through the open door, beneath the electronic eyes of the cameras.
They meet the others outside and, as Stacy climbs down from Mark's arms, Jamie grins and high fives his friend.
Behind them, the others are leaning on their knees and catching their breath. The warm lights of the training hall catch the shine of sweat on their foreheads as everybody removes their masks for air, glad to be out of the halls.
“Hey, we made it to the end.”
“Of two rooms.” The Trespasser appears behind them, mask off, arms folded. “Nevertheless, that was good. Nobody's vitals spiked into red, so well done. You're getting better.”
“Still not enough.” says Cathy, still panting and clutching her temples. She gives up and sits on the ground, sighing, jaw slack from exertion.
“Cathy you made it halfway. You did well. It looked better on the cameras too – you started your thing early enough. We didn't even see anybody's feet in the camera room.”
She manages an exacerbated smile and gives him a sarcastic thumbs up. “What does it look like from outside anyway? Do you see the fog too?”
“You vanish. No sight, sound, like you're not there. Infra-red, sonar; nothing; as if you dropped out the universe.”
“I dunno, Cath,” says Gary. “That sounds a bit spooky. Where do you take us?”
“Bathgate,” says Mark, chuckling and taking a swig from his flask.
“That's not even funny,” says Stacy. “Your jokes get worse the more you drink.”
“They'd be worse if I was dead. You know, I also get stronger the more I drink,” Mark points out. “Which is why I can do things like... oh, carrying you through the last half of a training room. Whilst getting shot. Just saying.”
“I could've made it.”
“You swooned into my arms. Swooned.”
“Swoon my arse. I felt light headed.”
“You swooned. Just wait until I start wearing my pants outside my overalls and put a cape on. Everyone'll be swooning then.”
“Are we getting capes?” asks Gary, perking up.
“We're not getting bloody capes.” Trespasser One sighs. “That was well done by everybody. Stacy, you've come leaps and bounds. How did it feel?”
“It's still easier to make technology work than it is to stop it working.”
“Practice makes perfect. Keep using the training dummy we gave you.”
She sighs. “Aye ok.”
“Donald, how's your training in medical going?”
“There aren't a lot of injured people,” he says, “but there's enough to do that I can practice.”
The Trespasser almost says something else, pointing at Gary next – but he stops, lifting a hand to his earpiece. His eyes deaden and his face drops, his professional demeanour returning.
“Oh no,” says Mark. “I know that look.”
“Everybody to the briefing room,” he says, dropping hand. “It's time you all heard this.”
“- a spate of brutal murders, likened to ritualistic executions,” says the voice of the female news presenter as the camera pans over Glasgow in the early morning frost. “The nature of the killings, and the profiles of those involved, seem to confirm the fears that official sources have continuously denied: that the criminal warlord known as the King has indeed escaped custody, and is once more at large. Plans to reduce the amount of military personnel in the city have been cancelled in the wake of this news, giving weight to such claims. A spokesman from the military had this to say -”
The Trespasser turns off the screen, and silence falls over the room.
“We all knew he'd escaped, so this isn't a surprise,” he tells the squad seated in the plastic chairs. “I'm sorry I didn't tell you about the murders sooner. The news won't tell people the details, but I want you guys to know. You deserve to know; and I don't want you getting a shock if you hear it from somebody else.”
“I'm hard to shock,” says Donald.
“We aren't all doctors, Don,” says Cathy, folding her arms.
“The first victim was a black-market merchant who lived in St George's Cross. He had his kneecap blown out, two chess pieces – the white and black kings, respectively – forced into his eye sockets, and was shot seventeen times in the forehead with a nailgun. Autopsy confirms that the nails came last. He was hung from his flat's window in full view of the street.”
Mark leans forward, clasping his hands in front of his face.
“The second victim was a man who used to run a garage for the King. His jaw was forcibly removed from his head and his tongue attached to his chest with – again – a nail gun. He either drowned on his own blood, or died when a playing card – the King of Spades – was nailed into his left eye.”
Jamie looks up. “He used to run a garage?”
“Yes. For the King.”
“Huh. I probably knew the poor bastard.”
“I have his name if you want -”
“No.” Jamie raises a hand. “Better that I don't know.”
“As you wish.” The Trespasser continues to read off the horrifying murder accounts as though he were reciting a poem. “The third victim was a police officer under investigation for his involvement in the Kingdom Project. He was presumably forced to wear a steel crown which had been sharpened and was too small for his skull. They put it on him upside down, whereupon it was then hammered onto his head until it began to cut through his forehead, his eyebrows, and eventually his nose, shearing them off. The killing blow was delivered with a sledgehammer to the back of the skull, rendering the crown almost impossible to remove.”
Cathy clutches her stomach, putting a pale hand on Donald's knee and swaying.
“You ok?” asks Donald.
“I think I'm going to be sick.”
“I wanted you all to understand precisely why we are not returning to Glasgow for anything other than what is necessary. The King is trying to rattle our cages. Each of these victims was displayed for the city to see, and left with the same graffiti at the murder scene.”
Jamie narrows his eyes. “What did it say?”
“It said: thy Kingdom come, thy will be done.”
“From the lord's prayer?”
“Yes – perhaps it means something different in this context. We've got people analysing it all, of course.”
Mark stands up without a word and heads for the door, knocking two chairs over as he goes. The Trespasser depresses a button on his desk and the door seals shut before Mark can reach it.
Mark tugs on the handle without effect, turning with his face simmering with rage.
“Open the door before I rip it off.”
“You're not going to Glasgow, Mark.”
“I know,” he mutters, trying to keep his voice from shaking. “I'm going to the training room.”
The Trespasser stares into Mark's eyes until he's sure that he can trust what he says, and then presses the button again. Mark throws the door open and storms out, leaving the group in silence.
“If he's trying to get to us, he's succeeding with Mark at least,” says Jamie. “I'll go and talk to him.”
“Let him be,” says the Trespasser. “I'v
e seen guys like that before; he needs to hit something.”
This room is smaller, the size of a gym, with treadmills and stationary cycles along one wall. In the middle of the room are a set of mats for hand to hand practice – something that they don't get enough of.
In the corner, in an area designed just for him, stands Mark. His overalls are lying in a heap on the floor, leaving him in his shorts like a bare-knuckle boxer. Before him stands a grimy metal column, protruding from the floor like a tomb stone. The monolith is dented and scratched on one side, pristine on the other.
Mark grits his teeth and punches it again, planting his feet wide and leaning into the blow. The pillar trembles as he punches it again, leaving small indents where his knuckles sink into the steel. Punch after punch, high then low, jab then hook. The dust jumps from the floor with every strike, sending a deep booming sound through the facility.
He finally stops, breathless. Sweat pours from his head, soaking his hair and plastering it to his reddened face. Jaw slack, he leans forward against the pillar and closes his eyes.
Tired though he is, his temper still burns in his gut like a hot brand. He slams his fist against the pillar once more, planting his forehead against the cold metal as if it will cool his anger.
Something makes him stop, and he perks his head up like a curious animal and listens. He hears it again – a loud metal clunk. Frowning, he wonders for a moment if his assault on the punching-beam has dislodged something in the facility. He steps away from the beam, still breathing hard.
The door to the hall hisses open, and a small figure in black overalls appears, their face hidden with their back hunched over. They're dragging something, and Mark cranes his neck to see.
“Hello?” he shouts across the hall.
She turns, and he recognises Stacy's mouse-like features. She's dragging something heavy with her.
“Thought I'd find you here,” she says, breathless like him. Standing up, she puts her hands on her hips and then wipes the sweat from her brow.
“You uh,” Mark raises an eyebrow, still unsure what she's dragging with her. “You need a hand with that?”
Kingdom: The Complete Series Page 22
