Illegal King

by Mason Dakota

  Both attacks were weak, fueled by zero energy and breath, but the knife’s sharp edge sliced flesh and any blow by a shotgun to the back of the head stuns. Rigs cringed in pain and disorientation. I lifted my legs and kicked out as hard as I could against his knee-cap. He dropped to one knee, catching himself with his hands upon the ground, and growled at me.

  He prepared a lung which I stopped by driving my knife into one of his hands and ramming the shotgun once again into his face. His head shot back and returned, lips bleeding and face twisted into a snarl. He lifted a fist and drove it into my hip. I tried to twist out of the way; it was the best I could do in such a cramped position, and the blow glanced off my hip.

  Pain exploded from my hip, despite such an awkward blow from Rigs, and brought air back into my lungs with a searing pain like hot coals being forced down my throat. But it gave me the air I needed to ram the shotgun repeatedly into his fat Noble face until he thudded unconscious to the ground.

  I let my head fall back onto the ground. The only sound I heard was my heavy breathing and whimpers from those in pain around me. Somehow I did it. The woman was saved and the bad guys were taken out. Now all that remained was to leave an anonymous tip for Alexandra’s new NPFC and have them come arrest these two gangs. Slowly, very slowly, I stood up, wincing as my hip and ribs burned.

  I’m going to need an ice bath after tonight.

  Maybe what Chamberlain accused of me was a little right.

  I stumbled forward, picking up my weapons and leaning upon my bo-staff to balance myself. The burning in my lungs and my hip distracted me. I never heard the click of a gun behind me.

  “Hands up! Turn around slowly. No funny business or I splatter your brains all over these walls,” said a familiar and a really unpleasant voice to hear at such a time.

  I grunted and gingerly raised my hands into the air. Cautiously, I turned around to stare directly into the eyes of a man who swore to bring Shaman to justice one way or another. A man who was both an ally and an enemy.

  Agent Jeremiah Lorre from the NPFC.

  This just got interesting.

  Four

  “Agent Lorre, it’s always a pleasure,” I said.

  Lorre’s eyes flashed with infectious misery. Former Agent Jeremiah Lorre was a man beaten by time’s cruelty, crushed by a spirit that had seen far too much corruption and wickedness and not enough justice. Lack of compensation for his attempts to squelch evil left him angry and bitter. It was that anger which drove him to assist me—me as Griffon not as Shaman—when I was handcuffed to a hospital bed, and, one of the few good cops in Chicago, to leave the NPFC when he discovered how his partner and boss collaborated with Ziavir to destroy Chicago.

  People like Lorre never stop seeking justice. In the months following the blast, I heard rumors about some ex-cops, the few who weren’t part of Alexandra’s payroll, who abandoned the force when she took power, taking it upon themselves to clean up Chicago. They called themselves the Justicars.

  In many ways they had become just another gang in Chicago. They used lethal force to hunt down Nobles and Outcasts committing crimes the NPFC ignored. Their solutions often involved lethal aggression. While the Sabols targeted those they deemed as failures to Chicago and cause for its desecration, these ex-cops worked as an underground police force hunting down criminals who killed and stole during the crisis, like the Sabols, bringing them to their form of justice. Rumor was that Jeremiah Lorre was a member of the Justicars. Unfortunately, along with the Sabols, the Justicars also wanted me dead. They thought I was the criminal responsible for the blast.

  Everyone wants to get a shot at Shaman these days.

  Lorre’s reasons for wanting me dead were a bit more personal. Yes, he helped me once, for the sake of the city. But I still killed his partner and got away with it. His old partner, Agent Murray, a dirty cop, worked for Ziavir and Nebula. In my attempts to stop Ziavir, I ended up in a face-off with Murray. The situation became grave…a pendulum swinging between two deadly outcomes; either I had to kill Murray, or my friends would die.

  I hated myself for what I did, but I had no choice. My friends’ lives were at stake. I would do it again in a heartbeat. But that didn’t mean Lorre would forgive me.

  “Shut up, Shaman! I’m taking you in for murder,” growled Lorre.

  “Taking me in? I thought your little group of justice-seeking ex-cops preferred shoot first, interview later,” I said.

  “I’m not a murderer.”

  “Oh, so you do agree that they’re murderers? Do you see the irony there?”

  Lorre growled in his throat. “Resist and I will shoot you. Either come quietly with me or you can make my day.”

  “So it’s going to be like that now, huh?” I licked my chapped lips behind my mask. I was grateful to have it’s cover. If Lorre ever discovered my true identity, there was nowhere I could peacefully lay my head at night. Not to say I could anyway being on so many hit lists. I expected a bullet around every corner.

  “And you plan to do this all by yourself? Wow! Someone put his big boy pants on today, Lorre,” I said. He didn’t return my banter. It wasn’t his style. The icy cold stare he gave me, however, was.

  “You wouldn’t shoot little old me now, would you?” I said in my best southern lady drawl. I thought I did it rather well. Lorre didn’t appear to agree with me or my humor. His sense of humor came in packaged bullets and firearms.

  He growled out from the corner of his mouth, “I’d be doing the world a favor.”

  Abandoning sarcasm, I considered a change of tactics. “I’ve done nothing wrong, Lorre.” I paused before I finally admitted, “Okay, I’ve done a lot of…supposedly legally unacceptable things, but I like to think that I…allegedly…broke those laws for good reasons.”

  “Like killing my partner,” snapped Lorre.

  “Your partner was dirty.”

  “And that justifies what you did?”

  “He tried to kill innocents! I had to stop him. You must believe me that it was in self-defense. I regret things happened the way they did. I don’t enjoy killing. I’m not a monster. I’m telling you the truth, Lorre.”

  “I don’t care. You still murdered an officer of the law and committed several other felonies. You’ll answer for all of them. You won’t succeed in running from your crimes.”

  I sighed in frustration. “We are on the same side, Lorre!”

  “That’s where you’re wrong. I don’t work with murderers and thieves. I catch them and bring them to justice,” Lorre spat back.

  “You’re not a cop anymore, Lorre. You have no power to arrest me.”

  “Then maybe I really should start embracing the Justicar code and put a bullet in your brain. Either start walking or get on your knees.” He waved his gun toward the alley. I looked that way and then back at him.

  I hoped to one day get on his good side—if there was one. “Open your eyes for once, Lorre. I am not your enemy! I’m trying to help you.”

  “Enough! Now walk!”

  I turned around to begin walking, grateful to at least be moving away from the open street, even if I was headed to a bullet in my back. Lorre might very well shoot me, and I had to do something without exposing my identity. If Lorre really knew who I was…I’d have no escape from his wrath.

  Good luck with this one, Griffon.

  Five

  We walked into a dark alley lit by small rays of moonlight between two old moldy buildings desperate for repair. Before me lay a large green dumpster caked in rust and grime, and behind me Lorre’s gun aimed at my spine. Cold Chicago wind whipped down the alley and slapped me across the face. That same wind shifted the evening clouds and our visibility from the moonlight wavered. A plan to escape quickly formed in my mind.

  Gradually, I slowed my pace and shortened my stride by a few inches. Lorre, unaware of my slight change in pace, drew closer and closer to my back. We came alongside the dumpster. My heart pounded in my ears. Nerves rushed through my stomach.<
br />
  Come on clouds; give me something to work with here!

  Suddenly, in answer to my prayer, the wind picked up and the moonlight disappeared behind a cloud. Our small sliver of light was snuffed out and we stood in complete darkness. I made my move then. Lorre was no fool. He expected it.

  I spun to face him, sliding to my right to dodge his shot. He never fired but instead flogged his pistol around like a club. He struck me across the chest and I backpedaled into the side of the trashcan.

  He twisted his pistol around, aimed it at me and barked, “Keep resisting! I dare you.”

  I smiled behind my mask and swept his leg with a kick, causing him to stumble into my oncoming fist. Pain shot up my arm as my fist connected with his jaw. Lorre, quick on his feet, countered by whipping his gun back toward me either to club me or shoot me. With my left hand, I grabbed the top of the gun and forced it away. Continuing with the motion of my deflection; I crashed forward into Lorre. With my right elbow, I went for his throat.

  Lorre wasn’t weak. Before my blow made contact, he threw up his left arm and took the blow there. He jerked his right hand back, forcing me to either let go of his gun or helplessly fall forward. I chose the latter and paid for it when he swiftly thrust his knee into my groin. I keeled over in actual pain, swallowing back down my lunch, and forced the pain down enough to continue fighting.

  I sprung back up with all my strength behind a fierce uppercut to his chin. Lorre’s head shot back and again I went for his jugular with my left hand. I forgot about the pistol as I grabbed his throat. Lorre brought the pistol around again in an attempt to fill me with lead, but I was faster.

  With my right hand I grabbed his wrist, twisted my body, and flipped Lorre over my shoulder. He crashed onto the dumpster. The echoes of body against dumpster almost hid his groan. I wasn’t finished. Still holding on to his wrist, I grabbed his leg with my other hand, twisted, and thrust, pushing off the dumpster with my foot. I slung Lorre off the dumpster lid and into the opposite wall of the narrow alley.

  The crash wasn’t as loud that time but the thud proved more painful. Groaning and rubbing the back of his head, Lorre slumped to the alley floor. He looked up as I stood over him holding his own pistol in my hands now.

  “Now what should we do now?” I said.

  Six

  Lorre snarled at me like a dog. “Go ahead! Prove you’re a killer.”

  “I’m not going to kill you, Lorre. But this crusade you have against me has to end. Otherwise, I’ll stop considering you an ally and start thinking of you as a Sabol.”

  “I'm not your ally,” Lorre growled.

  “Should I shoot you, then?”

  Lorre gritted his teeth.

  “In the knee then? You would live but you might never walk again. What’s it going to be? Allies? Or rivals?”

  I tried not to let the irony of my words affect me. Six months before, similar words were expressed to me by enemies claiming to be friends and friends showing to be enemies.

  Lorre shook his head. “We are not friends. And I don’t trust you. All criminals are a poison to this city.”

  “So are the Justicars.”

  “And cowards in masks playing hero.”

  I won’t deny the hurt I felt hearing his words. I am not a hero. I wasn’t even sure if I could even claim to be someone trying to do what was right, given my selfish motives. Maybe all I am is a thief, or I ought to say I was a thief. My last job of robbing a bank sparked a war between the authorities and the mob. Countless people were wounded and killed because of that, and the ensuing chaos helped Ziavir get away. That guilt kept my itchy fingers in line.

  But if I’m not a hero or a thief…what am I now?

  I didn’t want to get into this argument with Lorre. He had every reason to hate Shaman, and that may never change. My mask would always be a trigger for his rage—rage which he believed he could assuage by fixing a broken world.

  “Where’s the back up Lorre? I thought you Justicars hunted in packs?” I asked, trying to change the subject.”

  “I refuse to work with anyone.”

  “I guess that’s fair. But how did you know I would be out here? This is Sabol territory. It’s too dangerous to be caught out here. Anyone in this area at night is up to no good.”

  “Some might ask you the same question.”

  “Careful, Lorre, continue saying things like and I might start thinking you actually care what happens to me.”

  He snarled. “I was on a foot patrol. I guess I just got lucky finding you,”

  “Telling only half of the truth is still a lie, Lorre. You can’t expect me to believe that you would just take your evening stroll here without cause. You are either investigating something, or you have a death wish.”

  Lorre gritted his teeth and said, “Does that make you my therapist then?”

  “No…no I’m the last one to speak to you about death wishes.”

  I drew the magazine from his, disassembled the rest of the gun and tossed the pieces into the dumpster. I then stepped back to allow Lorre to stand. He would never have accepted my help.

  “What are you investigating, Lorre? If you’re taking the risk of coming here alone at night, then it must be something big—big enough that you don’t trust anyone else with the information until you’ve figured things out for yourself.”

  Lorre took several deep breaths and pushed himself up onto his feet. He cast his eyes downward and appeared to be searching for words or courage or both.

  Is this fear or pride he’s fighting?

  “I…I think I need your help,” Lorre whispered.

  Yup. Definitely pride.

  “Jeremiah Lorre is asking me for help? Never would have expected that. I thought you were one of Chicago’s best detectives. What caused such desperation to come to me?” I asked. Lorre swallowed. He looked terrified. That scared me more than anything else.

  “The Justicars uncovered that three Nobles were checked into the hospital two days ago.”

  He licked his lips, appearing to struggle with his next few words.

  Impatient, I asked, “What did they have? A few broken bones? Stab wounds? Sorry Lorre, but the hospitals are filled with victims with similar injuries—especially these days.”

  “They were sick!”

  What?

  Genetic perfection separated Nobles and Outcasts. Going beyond simply looks and physical stature, a Noble has a perfect immune system that makes illnesses impossible. Only Outcasts get sick. Hospitals only exist to treat physical injuries and the few Outcasts who had enough money to buy medical help. A Noble had never gotten sick before.

  Ever!

  “You can’t be serious,” I whispered.

  “It’s true. One patient has already died. It’s something that nobody’s ever seen before—some sort of new plague that only affects Nobles. There’s no cure.”

  “And you came here tonight looking for clues? To see if this rumor was true? You think the Sabols are doing this or…I am?”

  Lorre nodded. “I have my suspicions.”

  “Because I’m an Outcast?”

  “Every Outcast is a suspect!”

  I gritted my teeth. “This is the first I am hearing of this. Why isn’t this news being told throughout the city?”

  “Because the Mayor is keeping it secret. She doesn’t want people to panic. Just think about it, not a single Noble has ever gotten sick, and now one is dead and two others will be, all because of some strange virus.”

  “Not wanting people to panic is a joke. Your people built your empire on your genetic superiority. That’s the real issue here, keeping your entitled power,” I growled.

  “The city is still recovering. This could be the final blow for all of us.

  “You aren’t on the force anymore, Lorre. How do you know about the virus and the cover-up?”

  “I’ve got contacts in the hospitals.”

  “And the Justicars?”

  “Tried to bury it too.”
<
br />   “Because nobody can know that Nobles are human like Outcasts?” I asked.

  He grimaced and glared at me. But he didn’t say anything, so I nodded and asked, “How bad is it? Is it evolution or do they suspect foul play? Maybe all three simply got into something dangerous—like a strange chemical or something—at the same location.”

  I dreaded the thought of a fatal virus, but I knew in my gut this was something else, something foul. If the Nobles’ illness were the result of purposeful attempt, I knew exactly who to look for.

  Nebula.

  “Nobody knows for sure. The three victims were all roommates so this could just have been something isolated, but one of the victims—the one already dead—has injection markings on his neck. The other two don’t. It appears they got sick from being in the first victim’s proximity. So whatever this is…it’s both man-made and highly contagious to Nobles,” said Lorre.

  There was the punch line, the real reason why Lorre needed my help and investigating in Sabol territory. He looked for those responsible and feared this was the beginning of something much worse. If true, we both knew he needed every helping hand he could get…even if that helping hand was mine.

  “Your thoughts?” I asked.

  “I’m not sure. This is beyond the Sabols’ potential. They don’t have the technology to create something like this. Many of their members are Nobles themselves, so this would be suicide. An Outcast created this.”

  I swallowed and thought deeply into the matter. If this had happened over six months before, I would never agree to help out. Back then I saw all Nobles as evil and would have been happy to see them eliminated from the face of the earth. I had long since learned that good and evil rest in all people. One of my closest friends was a Noble and had selflessly put his life at risk to help me stop Nebula.

  However, if this virus really existed and was contagious only to Nobles, why should I help out? Outcasts weren’t at risk, were they? This was a Noble problem; let them solve it, and if they can’t, then they can only blame themselves, not me!