She hesitated, recalling how Lance’s uncanny wisdom had helped her make peace with Salma, had helped her connect with Esteban on a deeper level than she’d ever connected with any boy, had helped her not become her parents. “That boy is special, Arthur, more special than anybody I’ve ever known, and I love him. We’ll get him back, I promise.”
Now Arthur nodded in gratitude, overflowing with a deep sense of love. How great a gift he’d been given in these amazing children, he thought for the umpteenth time. “Thank you, Reyna, for loving my Lance as I do, and for your fealty.”
She nodded and then took on a look of mock seriousness. “Ahem. The mayor?”
Arthur bowed. “Yes, ma’am,” he said, causing Reyna to grin. He pulled out her phone and punched in the mayor’s number.
ACROSS from City Hall, the eleven-story sheet still covered the Mural Project. A system had been set up utilizing a long pull cord attached to the top of the sheet and connecting to both upper corners. At the appointed hour, the mayor would pull the ripcord, the sheet would flutter down, and the mural would reveal its face to the world.
Bleachers had been erected on the grounds of City Hall to accommodate crowds and dignitaries for the grand unveiling scheduled for tomorrow night. Among the setup paraphernalia along the Temple Street side were several wooden ramps that had been used to roll the heavy bleacher sections into place and now awaited removal. The ramps were relatively steep and sloped, attracting any skaters who happened to live in the downtown area. A security guard had been stationed in front to make sure no kids got hurt before the ramps could be dismantled and removed.
Even Villagrana had not yet seen the finished mural, but then he didn’t care to. The mural was just an expensive, tedious attempt on his part to show, publicly at least, solidarity with Arthur’s crusade. Sadly, all his efforts to discredit the man had backfired, including the school issue. The mayor intended to pursue that angle vigorously by riding that obnoxious woman teacher on every homeschool standard the state insisted upon. If nothing else, he hoped to burn her out quickly and leave Arthur stranded.
Sitting in his office, Villagrana was hosting President Bernie Sanders and Chief of Police Murphy. The topic for discussion was the mural unveiling, crowd control, and how to spin the event to their advantage.
The mayor’s secretary beeped on the intercom. Annoyed, Villagrana flipped the talk switched abruptly.
“Diane, what part of ‘no calls’ didn’t you understand?” His tone was snippier than usual.
Diane’s slightly nasal voice filtered in through the intercom. “Sorry, Mr. Mayor, but it’s King Arthur on the line.”
That got the attention of all three men, and Villagrana exchanged a look with Sanders.
“See what he wants,” the council president said with a shrug.
“Okay, put him through.”
Villagrana picked up his phone and went instantly into his PR voice. “King Arthur, what a pleasant surprise,” he schmoozed. “To what do I owe this honor?”
Murphy shook his head in disgust.
Then the mayor’s smile dropped. “I don’t understand. The mural unveiling is tomorrow, so what’s happening tonight?” He listened a moment, frowned, and then looked disgusted. “I’ll see what I can do. It’s rather short notice.” He listened again and sighed heavily. “Very well. I’ll contact the council. Good-bye.”
He hung up and sneered at the phone in contempt.
“What was that all about?” Sanders asked, twiddling his tie as he spoke, a nervous habit he needed to break.
The mayor looked like he felt nauseous and that amused Chief Murphy. “He said for all of us, including the whole city council, to gather here tonight at dusk.”
“For what?” Sanders asked with a frown. “It’s enough of a bitch to get ’em all here tomorrow night.”
The mayor glared fiercely. “I don’t know. The damnable man wouldn’t say. He just said for us to be here and we would witness ‘the true power of Arthur’s Round Table’.”
“What the hell’s that supposed to mean?” Chief Murphy exclaimed.
“As though I know?” Villagrana snapped in return. “You better have your men on high alert.”
Murphy shrugged. “You got it.”
Villagrana stood and gazed out the window, his eyes falling on the massive sheet just across the street. “I don’t like this. Whatever he does, I’m sure it’ll make me look bad.”
Sanders smirked. “You do that well enough on your own, Mr. Mayor.”
The mayor turned and flashed an icy scowl. “Feel free to leave any time.”
Sanders rose and slipped his tie beneath his dark gray jacket and buttoned the top button. “My pleasure.”
He exited the office without another word.
Villagrana glowered at Murphy. “You got any smart-ass comments to make?”
The chief just shrugged again. “This whole thing gets crazier by the minute. I gotta go get my men set up. See ya tonight.”
The mayor grunted in reply, his mind already turned toward tonight’s uncertainty. What could this king be up to now? What did he mean by power? He heard his door open and close as the chief left, but his gaze remained riveted to the enormous, billowing sheet across the way. He was losing control of his city. That was how it felt.
R. had promised to take care of it, but did the man know about this latest development? Villagrana turned and unlocked a drawer of his massive oaken desk, slipping out a prepaid, cheap and disposable cell phone. It only had one number in its phone book, a number without a name attached. He dialed that number.
LANCE dreamed.
The X Games were in full swing, and he was in the lead. One more event to clinch—the Big Air Final—and the gold would be his to claim. Arthur stood below, and Jack and Chris and Mark. Mark? Yes, his first best friend stood grinning with the others, his big blue eyes brimming with excitement, offering him that shy little smile and a big thumbs-up sign.
And Reyna was there too. Reyna? Yep, there she was, cheering him on louder than the rest. Arthur’s face reflected nothing but love and pride, and he raised Excalibur in salute. Jack grinned and flexed, causing him to laugh. Chris waved a small flag with his face emblazoned across it. The small boy cheered and pumped his fist, calling out, “Lance! Lance! Lance!” Amazingly, many in the crowd echoed the chant.
He waved down at them from ninety-plus feet in the air as he stood poised at the top of the steepest ramp in the games. Not only did he need to descend clean and fast, he had to jump a sixty-five foot gap, land it, then scale the twenty-seven foot quarter pipe, gain substantial air, grab his board, and land clean. Piece of cake.
He waited.
He breathed.
And then he dropped.
Whhooooosssshhh!
Down he flew, faster than his earlier run, faster and faster and faster, and then he was up, up, up and out over the abyss. He gently and smoothly turned 180 degrees, sailed high and true and landed on the other side with a light clunk of wheels, and then soared up again, up and up and cleared the ramp, did a forward-to-fakie grab 720 off the twenty-seven footer, spun three times in midair, and then landed on all four wheels as smoothly as if he’d ollied over a speed bump.
The crowd went wild, and Lance pumped both arms into the air in unabashed triumph. He stood atop the smaller ramp, board in hand and gazed down at his fans. They cheered and fist pumped with abandon. But his gaze sought out only one face—that of Arthur. The man who’d given him a new life, who meant more to him than anyone in the world, was shedding tears of joy as he gazed upward, waving Excalibur excitedly.
Lance’s score was announced, a 96.3, and the crowd let out another deafening roar. Lance beamed with pride.
He’d done it!
He’d won the gold.
He barely felt the elevator ride to the ground, but immediately saw Arthur approaching, a huge grin on his face. Warmth enveloped Lance as he welcomed the crushing hug to come, but instead shook with astonishment to feel a
hand slap his face. Hard. And then again.
And then he woke up.
His face burned. From humiliation? No, it hurt! He really had been slapped. Groggily, his vision began to clear.
“That’s enough,” he heard a cold, vaguely familiar voice intone as though from far away. “We don’t want to damage that pretty face, now do we?”
His vision cleared. A young Asian guy with close-cropped hair, wearing black pants and a black turtleneck shirt stood before him, hand poised as though to strike again. Lance flinched back, but the hand lowered, and the young man stepped away out of his field of vision, somewhere behind him.
And then Lance felt the pressure on his arms and hands, and a new wave of panic assailed him. He was tied to a chair! A stiff, wooden, straight-backed chair. What the…? Wait a minute…. He and Jack had been wrestling… then there was something over his mouth and nose, and a weird, sickly kind of smell….
He looked around frantically, struggling against the bonds that held him. He was in some kind of office, and Jack was similarly tied to a chair in front of him, barely regaining consciousness himself. The bigger boy’s eyes opened wide when he saw Lance tied up, and he, too, struggled to escape, but even his well-muscled arms were no match for the restraints.
“It took you two long enough to wake up” came that cold, steely voice to Lance’s right.
He whipped his head around, as did Jack, groaning in fear and comprehension as he saw Mr. R. seated at a very large, very expensive-looking desk, with a small Asian guy beside him.
“What the fuck is this?” he shouted, his breath raspy from the chloroform.
Ramirez shook his head in mock offense. “Such language from a knight of the Round Table. We can’t have that, can we?”
He nodded to the young Asian standing behind Jack, dressed exactly the same as the one who’d slapped Lance. The Asian stepped around Jack and without warning hauled off to plant a pile-driving fist hard into the boy’s gut. Jack grunted in pain as the air whhoosshhed out of his lungs, and he doubled over in the chair, gagging and spluttering.
Lance blanched with fury. “Leave him alone, you asshole!”
Ramirez shook his head again. “You don’t learn very fast, do you, Pretty Boy?” He nodded again.
The young Asian slugged Jack hard to the jaw, snapping his head back and causing it to strike the back of his chair with a loud thunk.
Jack groaned in agony, pain slicing through his every nerve like fire and ice combined, but he wouldn’t allow himself to cry out, wouldn’t give in to the pain, wouldn’t give these assholes the satisfaction.
“No!” screamed Lance. “Don’t hurt him! I’m sorry, okay, I won’t cuss no more.”
Ramirez exchanged a look with Lee. “I knew he’d get it eventually.” He smiled, reminding Lance of a rattlesnake coiling to strike.
Lance gazed at Jack, who looked dazed and muddled, blood trickling from a cut on his lip, purple bruise already blooming on his cheek, and his heart ached for his friend. He knew R.—Jack didn’t—and he knew they were in real danger.
“What do you want, R.?” Lance asked warily.
The smile dropped. “That’s Mr. R. to you, Pretty Boy.” If a voice could replicate ice, this one was it.
Lance eyed the young Asian and quickly added, “Sorry, Mr. R.”
“That’s much better, Pretty Boy,” Ramirez continued, his voice cold and smooth and deadly. “You’ve been getting far too uppity since joining that crazy man. A child should respect his elders, don’t you agree, Mr. L.?”
Lee nodded silently, his cold, dead brown eyes fixed on Lance, making the boy squirm like a bug pinned to a table.
“Arthur’s not crazy,” Lance said, but kept his tone neutral, conversational. He didn’t want Jack getting hurt because of him.
Ramirez chuckled. It still sounded stony and dangerous. “No? What else would you call a man who thinks children should have the rights of adults, hmm?”
Lance remained silent. He didn’t know what to say and feared arousing the man’s anger even more.
Ramirez eyed the panicky boy with amusement. “Do I frighten you, Pretty Boy?”
“No,” Lance lied, lowering his eyes and glancing over at Jack, who silently fumed at the exchange. He flicked his gaze at the older boy—a warning: don’t do anything stupid!
“No?” Ramirez repeated in mock shock. “Then you’re dumber than I thought you were, because you should be. You know comic books?”
The question caught Lance off guard. “Yeah.”
“Do you know Lex Luthor?”
The boy nodded.
“Not the pantywaist from those movies,” Ramirez went on, obviously enjoying himself, “No, the portrayal in the comics. He ruled his city with an iron fist, just as I rule Los Angeles. Only I’m much more deadly. Let’s just say I make Lex Luthor look like Mother Teresa.”
Lance nodded, pretending to understand the comparison, even though he hadn’t the slightest idea who Mother Teresa was.
Ramirez stood now and stepped toward the two boys, standing in between them. He gazed a moment in contempt at Jack and then turned to Lance.
“This is my city, Pretty Boy,” Ramirez said with emphasis. “Do you really think I’m going to allow some nutjob with a sword to take it from me? Especially with an army of children?”
He laughed, then, and Lance’s blood ran cold. It was the most frightening sound he’d ever heard. “Your Arthur is a bigger fool than all the other bleeding hearts who think they can give this country back to the people. This country belongs to the rich and powerful, to men like me who will do anything to get what we want. You really think right can overcome might? Only a child would think that. Might, when one has no scruples about its use, will always crush right, my pretty little friend, because right is weak, and it’s weak because it has scruples. You getting the picture here?”
Lance nodded fearfully. The man was crazy; that was the picture he was getting, crazy and deadly. But could he also be correct about might and right? That question drifted briefly through his troubled brain. Arthur and his knights would never resort to hurting people to achieve their goals, but this man and others like him wouldn’t even hesitate. Did that mean Arthur’s crusade was doomed to fail? He didn’t even want to go there.
Ramirez looked from Lance to Jack and shook his head in disgust. Then he spat in Jack’s upturned face, the spittle dribbling from the boy’s left eye down his bruised cheek. Jack reared his head back in fury. “What the fuck?”
Ramirez nodded to the young Asian, who expertly delivered another crushing blow to Jack’s already aching midsection. Had it not been for all his ab workouts, Jack knew he’d likely have a broken rib. He doubled over again as the air spewed from his lungs, and he coughed and gagged, fighting to regain his breath.
“Please!” Lance begged, tears leaping unbidden to his eyes. “Leave him alone! Please. Hit me instead. I’m the one you always wanted anyway.”
Ramirez chuckled emotionlessly. “Once upon I time I believed you could be of use to me, Pretty Boy. Not now. Not since you’ve acquired your boyfriend over here.”
The blood drained from Lance’s face, and he nearly cussed the man out. Control, Lance, he whispered to himself, control. He exhaled the breath he’d been holding. “He’s not my boyfriend. He’s my best friend.”
Ramirez smiled wickedly. “My sources tell me you’ve been quite chummy with this disgusting faggot, and that makes you no better.”
“He’s not a faggot,” Lance said evenly, struggling to maintain control. “A faggot is a stick of wood. He’s a boy, and he’s my friend.”
Ramirez shook his head. “That’s where you’re wrong, Pretty Boy. A stick of wood is worth more than all the faggots in the world. If I had my way I’d line them all up and shoot ’em! So don’t push your luck if you want your boyfriend to live.”
The chilling, matter-of-fact tone of voice terrified Lance, and Jack too. The man really meant what he said. For the first time since Mark di
sappeared both of them felt genuine fear, only this time it was fear for their own lives.
Ramirez adjusted the lapels on his tailored Italian suit and ran one hand through his slicked back hair, composing himself and regaining control.
“Now then, Pretty Boy, here’s the deal. I’m going to crush your King Arthur and his infantile movement, and you’re going to help me.”
Lance shook his head vehemently. “Never.”
Ramirez leaned in and planted his face right in front of Lance’s, causing the boy to squirm. “You really believe that man cares about you?”
Lance nodded. “Arthur loves me.” Does he?
Ramirez stood and laughed mockingly. “Like all adults, he loves what you children can do for him. You’re nothing more than a tool, a means to an end for him.”
Lance glared defiantly. “That’s not true. He loves me. Check my phone. I bet you’ll find a grip of messages he sent.” I hope!
Ramirez nodded. “Mr. Lee?”
Lee reached onto the desk and plucked up Lance’s cell phone, deftly tossing it to Ramirez.
“This your phone?” He held it out to Lance.
Lance nodded, praying Arthur hadn’t given up on him, praying that Jack and Lady Jenny were right.
You should’ve responded to his other texts, fool!
Ramirez opened the text messages and eyed them without expression. There were ten messages from Arthur, all begging Lance to call him. The last one read: “My dear Lance, I truly think of thee as my son, and I love you more than anything. Return to me, please. I need you.”
Deftly masking his movements so neither Lance nor Jack could see, Ramirez subtly tapped the “Select All” key and then slipped his thumb over the word “Delete.” Arthur’s messages vanished without a trace into the nothingness of cyberspace. Ramirez shook his head, affecting a look of mock sadness. He held the phone out in front of Lance.
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