“Are they doing anything?” asks Donald.
“Nothing we can do,” says Jamie. “Glasgow is his city. He'll have disappeared by now.”
“We nearly died bringing that bastard down,” says Mark, “just so he could walk right out of prison. This is exactly what I was afraid would happen.”
“He doesn't have the resources he once did,” the Trespasser reassures them. “We can find him. The Agency won't just let him slip away, trust me.”
The Trespasser looks at Mark for a few seconds, holding his stare.
“What are you looking at me like that for?” asks Mark after a moment.
“You've already done enough good today. Don't go vanishing on me. Leave it to the professionals this time.”
Mark considers this, then takes a swig from the flask on his belt. “I'll let the Agency handle it,” he concedes, and raises his hands in surrender. “Until they can't.”
“Thank you. Now let's get you lot to medical. The doctors want to check you all; we've got a widespread case of nosebleeds.”
“It's better now,” Gary protests. “I don't need another blood test.”
Stacy snorts. “You're just scared of needles.”
The Trespasser points them to the doors leading down into the base.
“All of you. Medical. Now.”
“You not coming, Tony?” asks Jamie on his way past.
“My name's not -” he begins to scold him, and then gives in. “I've got to go and see my superior.”
Jamie and Mark both give him a nod as they leave.
“Squad,” the Trespasser shouts after them and they all turn, with their masks off and their tired eyes drooping. “For the record; whatever spin the media puts on today's events, I want you to know that you all did bloody well. You averted a disaster. Saved a lot of lives. We worked as a team, and you should be proud of yourselves. I suspect my superiors feel the same way. After the medical, go and get some rest. We're back to training tomorrow.”
They turn to leave, all feeling a little taller.
The King stands back from the damp concrete wall, admiring his work. Three paintings line the walls, classical pieces from his old office.
“That's a bit better.” He is interrupted by a knock at the door. He shouts for them to enter and his lieutenant appears through the door, his suit dustier and darker than the previous visit. “Yes, Gregor?”
“Ah, I see you've hung the paintings sir.”
“I have. The thieves that we bought them from: did you do as I asked?”
“Necks and hands bound to cinder-blocks and dropped in the Clyde, sir. Of course.”
“Good. It's a sad day when my throne room is looted; they didn't even know how much these paintings were worth. They're originals. I can't believe I had to buy my own paintings back.”
“We did recover the money after we dealt with them, to be fair sir.”
“It's the principle of the thing, Gregor.”
“At least they won't make the mistake again, sir.”
The King finally turns around, hands clasped behind his back, his chest puffed out as the lieutenant closes the door shut behind him. The King turns, letting out a deep breath.
“So how did our announcement in George's Square go?”
The lieutenant puts his hands in his pockets, his shoulders shrinking inwards.
“Badly, sir. I'm sorry.” He waits, and the King says nothing. The patient expression on his master's face prompts the suited man to continue. “The bomb went off as planned, but we didn't account for the survivors of Operation Firefall intervening.”
“I feared as much.” The King sighs. “No matter. The objective was completed, regardless.”
“The objective, sir? The attack only claimed one life -”
“It's not about a death toll, son,” the King lowers his voice, disappointed. “The point was to show the Agency's new pups that they aren't safe. Glasgow is a no-man's-land for them now. They'll think twice before coming back to interfere. We hit their morale. In that regard: the objective was completed. We've dented their confidence: they aren't soldiers.”
“Yes, sir. So what now?”
The King sits down in his plastic red chair, cringing as it squeaks under his weight. “How many days until the arrival?”
“Three, now.”
“Then we have three days to prepare. We still have our man in the observatory?”
“Yes, sir.”
“What about our man in the Agency?”
“He's gone, sir.”
“I see.” The King strokes his chin, beginning to show a bit of stubble. “I'm going to need some time to think on this. In the meantime, keep the pressure on the Agency; mentally. Guerilla warfare. Terrorism. Become an enemy the military can't fight.”
The King spreads his hands on his desk like a general, visualising the rumours spreading through the city like a virus, carrying word of his return.
“I want the people to know that I'm back, and I want them afraid. Either the Agency tries to intervene, in which case we neutralise them before the arrival to strengthen our position – or the Agency doesn't intervene, and I know that watching me terrorise this city will drive at least one of them insane. Force them into action. Divide and conquer.”
“I'll set up a team, sir. Any preferences on targets?”
“People that have disobeyed me. Make sure the city sees the bodies. We want word to spread – oh, and maybe get some people out with spray cans. Graffiti is the language of the city. I want the people to know that their King is back. I want them afraid for every small part they had in my fall.”
“I'll see to it, sir.”
The lieutenant leaves by the only door.
The King stretches in his chair, pulls some paper over from his desk, and begins to write with the pen from his breast pocket. He writes 'assets' at the top of the page, and then stares at the blank page for a while. He writes the words:
Prisoners. Prison Break. Makeshift Manpower.
He stares for a while again, but nothing comes to the front of his mind. The viciously sharp fountain pen hovers over the pristine paper like a dagger, but nothing is written.
He grits his teeth, scrunches up the paper, and tosses it into a waste basket beneath his desk.
Taking another piece of paper, he begins to scrawl a map of his thoughts, smiling as his old calculating mind is finally put to use again.
He writes Mark's name, and Jamie's next to it. He draws a line between them, to the Agency, linking them to Glasgow. Beneath Mark's name he writes 'The Gardens Project', and underscores it: vulnerability. He draws a chemical-waste symbol beside Mark; poison, another weakness.
Next to Jamie he writes a question mark, and a raindrop. The King remembers all too well the vanishing figure in the rain, taking him and his men to pieces. He writes Chloe's name beside his, and draws a gun. He draws another line: arrival. New people, new powers, new opportunities to take advantage of. He sketches some prison bars and writes 'distraction' beside it.
He continues writing, his hunched form lit by the washed out halogen. Soon, a pile of papers begins to form beside him, each one a potential plot to take advantage of the assets he has. Each one has the same conclusion, the same single word written at the bottom, like the solution to a three-page long equation.
The word is Kingdom.
Morning comes – not that there are any windows to let the light in – and Jamie unwraps himself from Chloe's sleeping form and nestles the covers back over her.
The room is barely lit by strings of fairy lights contained in glass jars that Chloe insists they keep on all night. Unconscious, her hand moves across the pillow to where he'd normally lie, a small frown flashing across her sleeping face. Squeezing her arm and leaving her to her dreams, he stands and heads for the shower.
Half an hour later, wearing his gym shorts and a black t-shirt, Jamie walks into the dining hall with the intent of eating before training starts. It's there that he finds Mark, sitting by him
self at one table in an otherwise empty hall, staring at the front page of a newspaper.
“That today's paper?” asks Jamie, and Mark looks up, startled. His eyes are red and heavy, as though he hasn't slept.
“Uh, yeah,” he slurs, and twirls it around for Jamie to see.
The front page is a snapshot of first-aid crews rushing over the George's Square camp – their stretchers are all empty. The word 'miracle' is printed in giant black letters.
“That's not so bad,” says Jamie, sitting down. “I expected worse, to be honest.”
“There's more,” says Mark, pulling over the rest of the papers.
One of them has ran with a picture of the Trespasser and the squad, the Trespasser drawing his pistol.
“It's a good action shot of Tony, at least,” sighs Mark.
“Tony? I thought you insisted on calling him Trespasser One.”
“It's too early in the morning for all those syllables.”
Nodding, Jamie reads another headline:
“Moments From Disaster. Not so bad either.”
He reaches for another and stops.
The front page of this one is a blonde girl that he'd know anywhere. The last time he saw her, she was lifeless on the ground in front of him, a broken camera still around her neck.
There is no headline: the front page is a memorial.
“She worked for that paper,” says Mark, as though it weren't obvious.
“I know.” Jamie pushes it away. “When my power kicked in, she had already been hit by the pressure wave.”
“Donald couldn't save her?”
“He tried and then just shook his head.” He reads the writing below the headline. “She was the same age as Chloe.”
“Damn shame.”
“That's the world man. We're not superheroes.”
“We saved a lot of people yesterday.”
“That was a mixture of luck and coincidence. I don't think the attack would even have happened if we hadn't been there.”
“We can't blame ourselves for that.”
Leaning back in his chair, Jamie pushes the papers aside.
“Yeah, you're right.”
“We can blame the King, though.”
Jamie looks up to see Mark, arms folded, staring right through him. Jamie keeps his voice low.
“I thought Tony spoke to you about this.”
“I know. I'm not going to go rogue, don't worry. I'm just saying. If I get the chance, I'm bringing him in.”
“The King won't give us that chance again – and we'd both better be careful. He knows us – he knows what makes us tick. Don't be surprised if he tries to use that against us.”
Mark nods in agreement, and then rubs his stomach, changing the subject.
“Food? We've at least an hour before training starts.””
“Food.” Jamie nods, standing up and heading for the canteen's kitchen.
When they make it to the training hall an hour later, they find the other four squad members sitting on a bench in their gym kit. The Trespasser stands in front of them, his usual overalls on, his half-burnt face weary with tiredness.
In the middle of the hall stands a new, strange assault course. Gone are the walls and rope-bridges, replaced with structures like tiny hangers, as though they have submerged a series of giant tin cans in the floor.
“Boys, you're late.”
“I'm well fed though,” says Mark, and follows Jamie to the bench. “Waiting for us before you start?”
“We have news,” the Trespasser tells them. “Now that the whole squad is here, I can tell you.”
“Hey, where's the assault course?”
“We don't need it any more,” says the Trespasser, and takes a breath. “In light of your performance at George's Square, and the uh, reassuring nature with which you conducted your actions, Command has given us the green light to begin using your powers during training.”
Mark almost raises his silver flask in a cheer, but stops when he sees the expression on the Trespasser's face.
“Why aren't we cheering?”
“Medical has given us the all clear,” says the Trespasser, “but I want to make myself very clear. I am not leading you into combat. You are not soldiers. Your powers have the capacity to save lives and that is what we are training for. You don't use them unless I give the order, or human life is at stake. If you feel yourself getting light headed, or feel the pressure building, you stop. You all know what happens when someone with powers goes too far.”
“What kind of training are we talking about here?” asks Donald, looking behind him at the new, stainless steel assault course.
“The research teams have found that your capacity for sustaining your powers grows as you use them. In other words: you can train them like a muscle.”
Jamie laughs. “Is that what all those hours spent catching tennis balls were for?”
“Think yourself lucky, they launched them out a cannon for me.” says Gary, leaning forward to laugh with Jamie.
“They put me in a maze,” Cathy throws her hands up. “Why didn't I just get tennis balls thrown at me?”
Mark points at Cathy, nodding. “Yeah, I just lifted weights. Why didn't I get tennis balls?”
Trespasser One holds a hand up and they all fall silent.
“We have a new assault course, as you can see. This one is harder – a lot harder – but you can use your powers. Medical staff will be on constant stand by.”
Jamie raises a hand. “I thought we were just going to be negotiators when the fire hit.”
“Agency negotiators still wear bulletproof vests, Jamie.”
“You mean, in case the negotiations don't work out.”
“Yes. Which is why Command has made the decision to train you in the usage of your powers. If it all goes south, at least now we know that you can perhaps prevent any loss of life – including your own.”
Mark rubs the tiredness out of his eyes. “So we aren't doing any more humanitarian stuff?”
“Not until after the arrival situation is resolved, Mark, no. I'm sorry, but we can't take risks like that with you guys.”
Mark's shoulders sag, but he gives a resigned nod.
“When do we start?” asks Stacy.
“Today. Now, actually. If you'll follow me, I'll show you the new course.”
The Trespasser motions for them to follow him as he heads for the structures across the hall.
In a flat overlooking the deserted motorway, a scrawny man with patchy facial hair and a yellow-stained shirt peers through the gaps in his wooden-boarded window. Below him, the streets are almost empty in the bright mid-day chill, frost coating the pavements. The only movement is the occasional duffel-coated roamer, pushing a shopping trolley filled with bin bags. He watches for the routine patrol coming past, a dark green land rover covered in armour plating.
It trundles past and he breathes a sigh of relief, turning back to the grimy flat. He wanders over to a cupboard and opens it, revealing stacks of ration packs and bottles of liquor: the spoils of a man with connections in the black market.
There's a polite knock at his door.
He looks up from a half opened ration pack – this one claims to be steak and mashed potato. As the smell of dry-powdered food chokes his runny nostrils, he stares at his own doorway.
Lifting a crowbar from the gap between his fridge and his washing machine, he creeps towards the door. His eyes wander over the four locks, checking that they are all intact before he raises his eye to the fish-lens to check outside.
As soon as his eye reaches the lens, the bottom of the wooden door explodes, a sudden burst of splinters and lead. A slug passes through his kneecap and he screams and falls backwards.
Lying on the ground clutching his shattered knee, he can only watch in horror as the demon behind the doorway smashes the door apart with thunderous strikes.
Once breaks the first lock.
Twice rips a hole through the door, and he sees the shining
head of a sledgehammer.
He tries to scurry away on his elbows, gritting his teeth and whimpering.
The third blow shatters the locks and the door swings open, letting the King's lieutenant waltz in, stowing the silenced pistol in his coat pocket and swinging his sledgehammer like a Broadway dancer swings a cane.
He grins as he skips over the prone man's form. Four men follow him in. The last closes the door behind them, though the shattered lock doesn't click shut.
“Gregor?” Tam grunts through the pain, twisting to body to keep the suited man in view. “I thought you were dead.”
Gregor smiles at his own name, his forehead creasing as wrinkles overtake his receding hairline.
“Silly Tam,” he mews, swinging the sledgehammer over Tam's face like a pendulum.
Tam winces and looks around for the crowbar, only to watch a smug man in a long black coat kick it away. They circle him like hawks, producing a mixture of machetes, claw hammers, lead pipes and -
Tam swallows, shaking now.
A nail gun.
Gregor leans over him like a curious owl. “You ever play chess, Tam?”
“Look man, I wouldn't have sold the shit if I knew you guys were still active. You didn't contact us, nobody knew you were still out there.”
“You see, Tam, in chess the game isn't over until the King is taken off the board.”
Gregor produces a black chess-piece – a King, naturally – from his suit pocket and holds it up in the light.
“I can give you the names of who I sold it to,” whimpers Tam, “you can get your stuff back. The guns, the chemicals, everything man.”
Gregor continues, paying no attention to Tam's pleas.
“Your mistake, Tam, was that you thought the game was over. You know the difference between 'check' and 'checkmate' right?”
“Look Gregor, please man. Please.” Tam looks up into the cold eyes of the suited man as his bowels void themselves over the floor.
“Jesus...” One of the men screws his face up as he steps aside to escape the expanding puddle of fear.
Kingdom: The Complete Series Page 21