Kingdom: The Complete Series

by Steven William Hannah

  “Of course,” says Mark. “First, we take down the King.”

  “What's the plan?” asks Chloe.

  “Well,” Mark walks over to the King and kneels down over him. The King's pain-crazed eyes swirl with impotent rage, and Chloe leans back as though the heat of the King's anger were burning her. “I was going to throw him to his own wolves but since that will no longer work... We need somewhere that we can hide, until this poor little King tells us where to find his superior.”

  “Do you know somewhere we can hide?”

  “Actually, I do,” Mark says. “Getting there might be difficult. There's a lot of men with guns outside and my strength is failing. I could break us out if I can get a drink.”

  “I told you, he has bottles in his office,” Chloe says. “Ideally, we won't have to get shot at; surely the King has some kind of escape route?”

  “That does sound like the King,” says Jamie.

  The King snarls something under his breath, and Mark leans in to hear better.

  “What was that?”

  “I said...” the King whispers through gasped breaths, “that you'll never get out of here alive.”

  Mark gives him a condescending smile. “I could say the same for you, mate.”

  “You're not going to kill me.”

  The King tries to laugh but his clenched, blood-lined teeth turn it into the snarl.

  “No, I'm not,” Mark's smile turns from warm to cold in a second – something changes in his eyes, “but there are worse things than death for you, I bet.”

  The King gives him a venom-filled stare as Mark stands and rubs his temples, letting a tense breath out.

  “You ok?” asks Chloe.

  “Yeah, just... hungover, I think. I really need a drink.”

  “Your nose,” Jamie points, and Mark sniffs the blood away, wiping it clean with his forearm.

  “Ok, let's get to the King's office and work it out from there. I think we're relatively safe for now, nobody is going to be coming in.”

  The King thrashes in protest as Mark picks him up, straining more than before, and hefts him over his shoulder. Breathing hard with effort, Mark is the first to walk up the stairs, back into the King's castle.

  Trespasser One, clad in black armour, watches the burning street below, standing on the edge of the roof. The helicopter has laid ruin to the side of a building, its tail rotor sticking out of the wall like a broken limb.

  Scurrying through the smoke and the fire are soldiers. No rescue workers, no emergency services to combat the flames: only soldiers. They form firing lines, stacking up and surrounding the huge wooden doors that lead into a building that nobody seems to want to talk about.

  The Trespasser checks his kit, and then takes a breath and focuses himself like he does before every confrontation. He counts at least forty armed men, clad in black like himself. They surround a building that has an open wound half way up it, a hole where something crashed through it.

  Something roughly man-sized.

  Smiling under his mask, he lifts a device from his belt and unfolds it until it resembles a rifle-frame. A single metal tipped arrow head juts from the front of the weapon, and he lifts a small gas canister from his belt and screws it into the gun. He checks it and, satisfied, loops a thin steel wire through part of the gun and secures it to his belt. He aims upwards, and it fires with a pop and a hiss, and then the rope is trailing off of his belt as it trails behind the arrow. It smashes into the concrete at the top of the building and a hundred tiny mechanical components secure it against the wall. He tugs the wire to test it, judges where he's going to hit, and then pulls it taut and drops off the roof.

  He swings over the street in silence, and then vanishes through the hole in the side of the building. Tumbling into the hallway, he leaps to his feet and clears the corridor, scanning both ways with his pistol in one hand and the empty rope gun hanging in his other.

  With the corridor empty and silent, he hits a button on the side of his belt and the rope whips back in like a tape measure. He folds the rope gun back down and clips it onto his belt, lowering his pistol.

  He listens.

  There are voices and heavy footsteps echoing throughout the building. Unable to tell which voices are coming from the clamour outside and which are coming from inside, he begins to move forwards towards the staircase, assuming that his target – the janitor that he is chasing – has gone higher up.

  Find the janitor, he thinks, and I find out who – or what – the King is.

  He stops.

  Two dead bodies lie on the floor, the walls splattered with blood and bullet holes. He pauses to check the men, confirming that they're dead.

  He flicks the safety off on his pistol, and ascends the staircase.

  Episode 7

  Safehouse

  The Trespasser hears them before he sees them:

  A man announces his presence with a booming, amicable voice that sounds as though he is always on the verge of a joke. He recognises it: the same thundering voice from the helicopter.

  The janitor; the target.

  Training kicks in, and the Trespasser searches for a place to hide.

  The corridor runs the length of the floor he is on, broken by unvarnished wooden doors that look much younger than the flaking plaster of the walls, lit by head-ache inducing fluorescent lights.

  With nowhere else to go, he tries the first door that he comes to: it clicks, locked. The voices are louder now, echoing off the crumbling walls.

  He picks out another two voices, one low and conspirational – a keeper of secrets – and the other a warm, feminine voice: the kind of voice you'd like to welcome you home at night. Cursing, he grabs a device from his belt that resembles a short, black plunger with a metallic cup.

  Placing it around the cheap, balmy handle, he depresses a green button on the handle. A pneumatic hiss rattles the door and a metallic cough announces his entry. As he lifts the plunger away he catches the loose handle as it falls like a dead bird, and enters the room like a breeze with his pistol raised.

  An empty room filled with dust-covered filing cabinets and coffee-stained desks greets him, cold and musty. He closes the door behind him, holding his breath as he waits for the voices to pass. Though he tries, he can't make out any words clearly, apart from one:

  “- King -”

  That one word cuts through the muffled warbling and he jerks his head up.

  “That's my cue,” he whispers to himself, and checks the safety on his pistol. Satisfied, he throws the door open and comes out with the gun raised. “Don't move.”

  Three people stop, halfway down the corridor, and turn around.

  One of them is a pale, dark featured man wearing a bloodstained white shirt, and he is holding the hand of a petite blonde girl with short curled hair and a hooded top. Beside them stands a man who is naked save for his underwear, his mottled skin bruised and damaged beyond human endurance. Across his shoulder rests an unconscious man who was once well dressed; now he looks like a roughed-up kidnap victim.

  “He's not with the King,” the dark featured one says first, and the Trespasser notes the lack of firearms present in the group. The mostly naked one, who he recognises as the janitor, certainly isn't concealing anything.

  “Wait,” the janitor savage begins, and then the realisation sets in. They recognition hits. “You,” the janitor grins, “you actually followed me.”

  “Target Four,” says the Trespasser.

  To his surprise, his target grins as though meeting an old friend at an airport.

  “Trespasser One, right?” he drops the suited man from his shoulder to the ground, wincing in pain. “I haven't seen you since I leapt out of your helicopter. You'd be easier to recognise without the big face mask.”

  The Trespasser takes a step backwards, cocking the hammer on the pistol. The smile fades from the target's face, whilst the couple behind him move closer in together.

  “What are you doing?” the janitor as
ks him.

  “I,” the Trespasser feels himself shaking. He hasn't felt this sense of helplessness since his survival and evasion training. “I have to bring you in.”

  “I thought you followed me to learn about the King?”

  “I did,” the Trespasser blinks the sweat out of his eyes, “but my superiors have put a kill order on you.”

  “What?” asks the blonde girl.

  “If you keep running, they'll find you and kill you. If you let me bring you in, I can ensure your safety.”

  “I've seen these men elsewhere, Mark,” says the dark featured one. “They're bad news.”

  “No, no,” Mark turns, silencing them. “Not this one. He's not so bad.” Mark turns to the Trespasser again. “You already know I can't come in with you. I have things to do – I need to take down the King.”

  “The Agency will do everything in its power to stop you,” the Trespasser says. “They're already getting ready to breach this building, even though it was declared a no-go area before the mission began. If you tell me what you know, I can take you in and then go after this King person myself.”

  “It's not that simple,” says Mark.

  “Look, I committed an act punishable by termination just to follow you. I disobeyed a direct order. Men and women just as well trained as me are coming for you. I need to bring you in, for your own safety if nothing else.”

  “It's not about my safety,” says Mark. “It's about my mother's.”

  The Trespasser says nothing for a while, and then lowers the pistol.

  “That's what you were screaming about on the rooftop when I first saw you, wasn't it? The King has your mother?”

  “I don't know, but she's definitely on his list. I can't come in until she's safe, and that means neutralising him.”

  “What is he? Head of a family, dealer, what -”

  “He's the King,” says Jamie. “That's all. Anything happens in Glasgow, you can be assured that he's pulling the strings behind it. It's been that way for almost a decade.”

  “Why hasn't anybody tried to stop it? Why does nobody know about this?”

  “Fear,” says Jamie, and shrugs. “Dependency. Believe it or not, everybody has a job in Glasgow now. Nobody goes hungry or gets hurt unless the King decides that they should. Too many people are comfortable, and afraid enough to let him carry on.”

  “Do you have any leads on who he is? Anything to go on?”

  “Yeah,” says Mark, and kicks the King on the ground between them. “This guy – he's a body double for the King.”

  “Then maybe I can help – I can at least try to keep the Agency off of your back -”

  A booming thunderclap rocks the building from its base, and the occupants of the corridor stumble and reach to the walls for support.

  “What was -” the girl begins, but the Trespasser already knows.

  “They breached the doors. They're coming for you. Surrender, and I can get you out of here in one piece.”

  “I can get myself out of here in one piece just fine, thanks,” Mark smiles. “Come with us. We can take this guy down together.”

  The Trespasser rubs his eyes through his mask, and shakes his head.

  “You'll never make it. Look, I can stall these guys for a minute or two,” he says, “that might be enough for you three to escape if you're quick. Maybe I can work out a deal with my superior.”

  Mark understands: he nods and turns, picking up the false King as he goes, and runs off down the corridor with the other two running hand in hand behind him.

  The Trespasser turns at the sound of hobbled boots crashing up the stairs, and raises his hands in surrender.

  Mark kicks down the door to the King's office, his bloodshot eyes searching the room before his foot hits the ground. Jamie and Chloe push in behind him as he drops the King to the floor, kneels over him, and slaps his face.

  He doesn't respond.

  “Start looking for a door, or a hatch of some kind. The King wouldn't have an office without an escape route.”

  “You think we can trust that soldier guy?” asks Chloe, searching through drawers and cabinets.

  “Trust, I don't know about,” says Mark, “but he wants the King taken down, and that makes him an ally.”

  “Hopefully,” says Jamie, “he can strike a deal with his superior and we won't be getting chased by soldiers any more.”

  “Any luck finding an escape passage or anything?”

  “I think I found you something equally as useful,” Chloe breaks into nervous laughter and throws Mark a heap of fabric. Recoiling away, Mark holds it up; the pile unfurls into a pair of soft grey business trousers. He shrugs, nods his thanks, and pulls them on. They fit surprisingly well for someone as slim as he is.

  “He must have kept spares.”

  “I bet the guy practically lived here,” says Jamie, pulling the drawers out of the desk and finding nothing but papers and – he pauses, lifting one piece of paper out. It's yellowed, crumpled with age and dust. It has his signature at the bottom.

  Chloe sees what he has and looks up from her search.

  “Found something, Jamie?”

  “I'd forgotten about your contract,” he says. He puts it in his pocket, and Chloe gives him a knowing look devoid of any anger or disappointment.

  “Look, I was all you had,” she says. “You just wanted to get us off the streets. I understand.”

  “I'm sorry,” he stares at the ground, unable to meet her eyes. “I should have told you.”

  “Don't worry,” she tells him, crossing the room to plant a delicate kiss on his lips as Mark turns away, giving them a minute.

  He scans the shelves and finds a dusty old bottle of brown liquid. To his sober, thirsty eyes it's a litre of ambrosia, the waters of the fountain of youth. He tears the cap off and pours most of the bottle down his throat before the sheer strength of the spirits burns his nostrils like bleach and he splutters and coughs, dropping the bottle.

  It smashes on the floor.

  The false King's eyes open, darting like a rabbit's around the room. Standing above him, flexing his skinny frame and stretching his limbs out as though he had just been resurrected, is the janitor, his stubbled jaw glistening with sticky, alcoholic residue.

  “Are those...” the false King points at the trousers, slurring as the pain in his knees comes back.

  “Yeah, thanks,” Mark quips, kneeling down and lifting the King with one hand. “Ah,strong again.”

  The King slides down into the collar of his shirt, his chin buried behind his tie as the fear returns to his eyes. The only sound is the rattle of drawers and cupboards as the young couple search the room.

  “They're coming for us,” says Mark, “which means you'll probably get hit in the crossfire. I can get you out of here, but you need to tell me where the exit is.”

  The false King says nothing.

  “Any luck, Jamie?” asks Mark.

  “Nothing, man,” Jamie says through gritted teeth. The King's eyes flicker towards a bookshelf filled with leather tomes of varying dull colours. Mark grins,

  “Try that bookshelf.”

  Jamie and Chloe leap for the shelving and start grasping at books and corners, trying to find something to press or pull.

  “Where are we going to go anyway?” she asks as thick books tumble off the shelf and cascade over the floor.

  “I'll tell you when we get moving,” says Mark.

  “I don't think there is a secret exit, Mark,” says Jamie.

  They all flinch as a single gunshot rings out downstairs.

  “We'd better decide quickly,” whispers Chloe.

  “I have a better idea,” Mark announces, and looks up at the ceiling, thinking.

  “What's your idea?” asks Jamie as he turns from the book case.

  “I'm still thinking in too few dimensions,” Mark says, waggling a lecturing finger at Jamie as the alcohol settles in. “World's got more than one direction I can go in.”

  Jamie's
face clouds with doubt as he realises that the drink is hitting Mark hard.

  “Mark? What direction?”

  Standing like a cheerful scarecrow with his arms outstretched like a clock, Mark drops the King, laughs, and says:

  “Up.”

  Mark bends his knees and leaps upwards, crashing through the ceilings and floors above them. They hear a rapid-fire burst of crashing, crumbing masonry and wood. Jamie and Chloe flinch away as debris rains down on them, filling the room with dust and the smell of DIY. The King lies on the floor, confused and dazed.

  “How do we follow him?” Chloe asks, her frightened eyes locked on the heavy oak door that stands between them and whoever is coming after them.

  “I have no idea -” Jamie begins, and then the rustling scrape above them gets louder and Mark drops, tumbling and rolling, back through the holes that he has punched in the building. He hits the floor with a crash that shakes bottles and books off shelves, stumbling onto his hands and knees as he tries to right himself.

  “It's clear up there. We go one at a time, grab hold of me.”

  Mark looks up, his naked torso now covered in the white chalk of concrete debris, his hair grey with dust. Through the ash mask on his face, his eyes sparkle with intoxicated energy.

  “I'm not sure if it's a good idea, Mark,” says Jamie, “we're not as durable as you.”

  “It's that or get shot. Just tuck your limbs in, there's plenty room.”

  Jamie can't decide whether to offer himself first, in case the leap hurts Chloe, or to go first because the soldiers might burst in soon. Before he can decide Chloe has already shuffled over to the janitor. Mark hesitates to wrap one arm around her, as though she might give him a shock, and she laughs and holds onto his waist.

  “I don't bite, big guy,” she pats his naked back and screws her eyes shut, and Mark gives Jamie a confident nod. Jamie does not return it, his face is clouded with worry.

  Mark leaps, and Jamie listens for the crash of their impact against a roof or a wall.

  Instead, he hears nothing until Mark drops through the burrowed hole with another thud and, grinning with enthusiasm, motions for Jamie to hold onto him.