Kingdom: The Complete Series (14 page)

“
How
are we going to get a helicopter?” asks Jamie.

“
Use
ourselves as bait,” he says. “Then I can handle it when it gets in close.”

Jamie laughs and shakes
his head,

“
I'd
rather not get shot at again, if we can avoid it.”

“
I'll
do what I can,” says the Trespasser. “You might be better off staying here if
you're concerned -”

“
No,
don't misunderstand me,” says Jamie. “We're coming with you. If you're going to
bring the Agency's attack dogs down on yourself, fine, but before you do it:
drop us somewhere far away. We're leaving.”

Although he is
addressing the room, Jamie looks Mark in the eye as he says it. The janitor is
silent for a moment, and the room holds its breath. Then he nods, and says,

“
I
understand.”

“
Jamie?”
asks Chloe. “I thought we were going to help take down the King?”

“
They've
got a solid plan,” he says. “If it works, great: we're safe. If it doesn't, I
want us to be as far out of this city as we can be. I'm not putting you in
harm's way again.”

“
If
we can fix this,” the Trespasser says, “then you should hand yourselves in.
Corrupt or not, the Agency are helping the people who were hit by the fire.
Your powers might be killing you.”

“
Not
interested,” Jamie raises a hand to stop him. “I know what I can do. As long as
I don't push it too hard I'm fine.” He turns to Chloe, who is giving him a look
that he can't quite understand. “I can use this power to stay away from anybody
who might catch us. We'll be fine.”

“
There's
a chance,” the Trespasser says, “that even if this plan works, the Agency might
still come after you.”

“
Then
I'll outrun them,” says Jamie.

“
You're
sure about this?”

Jamie nods, though
Chloe hasn't said a thing.

“
I'll
help you get this helicopter – and then you drop us somewhere else before you
make that broadcast.”

“
Ok,”
says the Trespasser. “If you're sure.”

Mark stands up.

“
In
that case,” he announces, stretching his arms and coming to terms with what
he's about to do. “I'd best go and sit downstairs.”

They all stand up.

“
We're
heading for the roof,” the Trespasser tells Jamie and Chloe.

“
There's
a hatch,” Jamie nods. “Can you
fly
a helicopter?”

“
I
can.”

They walk past Mark and
out into the Garden's central chamber, halfway up. The Trespasser nods to Chloe
and Jamie, heading away up the curved staircase. The three civilians exchange
expectant glances amidst a heavy silence.

Chloe breaks it.

“
Listen,
if I don't see you again,” she turns to Mark, shrugs, and wraps her arms around
his shoulders. He returns the embrace with a confused smile. “Good luck,” she
pats his back as they separate.

“
Yeah,
and thanks for everything,” says Jamie, and extends an awkward hand. Mark takes
it and they exchange a firm shake devoid of words but filled with meaning.

“
Don't
mention it.”

“
It's
a shame this place didn't work out. I know we could have used a place like
this,” he motions to himself and Chloe, “back when the streets were home.
You're not a bad man, Mark.”

“
Neither
are you,” Mark says, and the two lock eyes. Those words echo in Jamie's head,
all the louder for the firm, but endearing and honest look in Mark's eyes.

Jamie lets go of his
hand and turns, following Chloe and the Trespasser. The Trespasser turns as he
ascends the stairs, shouting back,

“
I'll
see you soon, Mark. Remember, wherever you are – once you can hear the
helicopter, I'm nearly there. Get a drink when you next can, too.”

“
I'll
need it, I'm sure,” Mark replies, and then the trio are gone, nothing but a
clattering set of footsteps. 

Mark sighs and wraps
his own arms around himself as he walks in the opposite direction, all on his
own. He wades through halls full of grey memories, the stench of his own body
filling his nostrils, a foul taste on his tongue. With every blink his mother
stares back at him.

Eventually he reaches
the bottom steps, and sits on them like a lost and upset child. He folds his
arms around his naked torso, wishing now that he weren't so exposed, and waits
for the King's men to appear.

Before long, he hears
the thick revving of an engine outside. It dies down, and he hears doors slam
shut.

The oak doors to the
Gardens click open and swing free to let the wolves in. Mark's hair stands up
on his neck, his stomach aching with acidic bile, as the men walk in.

They should be
swaggering, he thinks. They should be swinging clubs and crowbars and taunting
him, playing some sick theatre act – but instead he gets the cold, professional
stares of men prepared to kill on the orders of a faceless man.

His body goes slack,
and he stands, his head bowed.

“
Mark,”
the black-jacketed bald man at the front says, clasping his hands behind his
back.

Mark does not look up.
“Yes?”

“
The
King would like to speak to you.”

Mark nods, and steps
forward. They almost step back, flinching. The bald one calms them with a hand
as though they were attack dogs, and turns back to Mark.

“
We're
going to put a bag over your head and take you into the van.”

“
Ok,”
he says, and stares at the floor until a man steps forward and the material
snags under his chin, turning his world dark.

Without a word, he is
led like a condemned man out of the fortress that he built with his own hands,
into the cold rain, and then into the fume-choked back of a waiting van. He
stumbles and falls to the floor, and hears the clatter of four sets of business
shoes joining him. There is the distinct sound of a loud, metallic click-clack
of a weapon. Then another three.

He sits up, feeling the
comfort of the small cylinder pressed against his flesh in the back lining of
his trousers, digging into his leg.

“
We
shouldn't be long, sir,” the leader tells him. There's the faintest hint of
sympathy in his voice.

The van trundles off,
rain pattering on the metal roof like dirt tossed atop a coffin.

Episode
11

Leverage

Rain
tickles Jamie's forehead, washing his face for the first time since the fire
bathed him. He breathes, and the rain finds his open mouth. It stings his eyes
and tastes of sour metal – it soaks through his blood drenched shirt and chills
his skin.

It feels like a
baptism.

“
You
ok, Jamie?” Trespasser One asks him as they stroll across the gravel rooftop.
Jamie looks at Chloe, and then shrugs.

“
Yeah,
I'm fine.”

“
How
do we get a helicopter close enough to steal?” Chloe asks him, shouting over
the constant pattering drum-roll of the rain. Her blonde curls are flat and
plastered to her forehead. What little make up had survived her ordeal until
now is streaking from her eyes.

“
Easy,”
says the Trespasser, and stops in the middle of the roof with his mask in one
hand. He looks up, letting the rain wash the sweat out of his jet black hair.
The scarred half of his face catches the rain like a sieve and it falls off his
chin like a waterfall.

“
Easy
how?” Jamie shouts.

“
There
are more satellites pointing at this city today than there are pointing at
North Korea.”

“
What?
How many have we got pointing at North Korea?” Jamie asks.

“
Lots.”
The Trespasser gives him a look that questions his naivety. “And these
satellites are
good,
so trust me when I say that there'll be a
helicopter here within a few minutes.”

“
Really?”
Chloe asks him.

“
I
just pointed my face to the sky. They know I'm here.”

Jamie paces towards him
over the roof, arms out in confusion.

“
But
how do we
get
the helicopter?”

“
We
wait until the helicopter appears. They still want to capture you – the
termination order was only for Mark and me. Capturing you means troops on the
ground: they'll land soldiers on this rooftop. We let them come down, and then
I neutralise them and we go up the rope. Ok?”

“
I
was with you until you casually said we neutralise some soldiers,” says Jamie.

“
I
can do that,” he says. “You can – what is you do? Turn invisible? Just do that
and wait for the shooting to stop.”

“
I
don't turn invisible,” he squeezes the bridge of his nose. “I stop time.”

“
Oh,”
says the Trespasser. “Just for yourself? Or can you do it for others?”

“
I
can do it for you, yeah.”

“
Well
in that case: let them get down, and then stop time and we'll scramble up into
a chopper together.”

“
I
have to be touching you,” Jamie shakes his head.

The Trespasser barks
out a hollow laugh. “Well, that complicates things.”

“
How?”

“
I
can't climb a rope and take control of a helicopter whilst dragging you with
me. We'll need to do it differently.” He thinks for a moment, folding his arms.
“Ok, we let them get on the ground first. All of them. Then we stop time,
neutralise them, and then I climb the rope.”

“
Fight
them?” asks Chloe.

“
No
way,” Jamie says. “We're not getting into a gunfight, not whilst she's here.”

“
I
never said we'd get into a gunfight,” the Trespasser cuts in. “If you can stop
time, I'll neutralise them myself.”

“
Kill
them?” asks Chloe, her voice lost in the pitter-patter of the rain.

“
They're
only men following orders, just like I was. They don't need to die. Look, I'm a
professional. You just stop the clocks, and I'll handle the rest.”

Trespasser One and
Jamie lock eyes like bulls lock horns. Chloe squeezes his hand and Jamie
eventually looks away.

“
I
don't like this either, Jamie,” she tells him under her breath. “Every bloody
second you spend using your power, you come a little closer to pushing it too
far.”

“
If
we can do this, then we get a ride out the city. To safety.”

“
Are
you sure that's where you want to go? Out of the city?”

“
This
place has nothing left to offer us, Chloe. I promised you a life together:
that's still what I want to give you.”

“
Jamie
I don't give a damn where we go, or what we do. As long as we do it together.
We're a team.” She gives him a brave smile despite the rain drowning her face
and screwing her eyes up. “But if we run – well, we'll always be running.”

“
Is
that a problem?”

“
I
don't mind so much if I'm running with you.”

“
I
know, but I didn't promise you a life as a fugitive. I promised you a life that
you could be proud of – that we could both be proud of.”

He hangs his head, and
she kisses him softly on the mouth and pats his cheek.

“
I've
got your back,” she says, “no matter where we go. If you want us to run, I'll
run with you. If you want us to stay: I'll stay with you.”

The Trespasser
interrupts them, shouting and pointing.

“
Here
they come.”

They follow his
pointing finger and see the helicopter's cutting through the low mist.

Mark feels the van stop
in the pit of his stomach, bile and acid rushing against his belly's walls as
he is flung forward. The rain taps its long, grey fingers on the van's roof as
if taunting him to come outside. Everything is dark under the damp hood; it
smells like grease and motor oil.

“
On
your feet, sir,” somebody commands him.

Mark complies, standing
with his hands out for balance, trying to feel his way around. Then the van's
doors are opened and a gush of wet wind rushes in to meet him with a swooping
howl. He stumbles towards the faint light penetrating the hood.

Mark jumps when hands
grab at him, leading him out. He hears them chatting as though he were a
troublesome animal being led to a butcher.

“
Will
I remove the hood sir?”

“
Do
it.”

The darkness is torn
away, and even the faint light blinds him. He savours the fresh rain on his
skull, reminding him that he's alive. The men let go of his arms, and step back
as though he were about to go off like a firework.

Mark is standing in a
wide open parking lot that he has never seen before. Old industrial buildings
box them in like watchtowers, all girders and corrugated iron, each playing a
different drumbeat under the torrents of rain.

He almost asks where
they are, but he knows better than to expect an answer. Mark can see the tall
buildings of the city centre in the distance – he's perhaps four or five miles
north of the city.

As he works it out he
realises that he isn't as drunk, and therefore perhaps isn't as strong as he'd
have liked to be. An unwelcome fear tugs at his bowels and settles in for a
long stay.

Holding their compact,
angular assault rifles, the suited men lead him forward, through the rainy mist
that seems to steam off his bare torso, towards a fire door installed in the
side of a vast warehouse.

The door has no visible
handle, but it opens as they approach. Another man who may as well be a clone
of Mark's captors motions for them to come in. Mark is led into the gloom, two
men in front and two behind him, and the rain becomes a distant memory as he
takes in the chilled, hollow feel of the building's interior.

The room itself is the
shell of the warehouse – a wide open dusty room that extends from the unkempt
floor to the thin roof overhead. Waterfalls dot the industrial desert, falling
from holes in the roof and bursting on the floor, an endless round of applause
for the captured hero as he is led through them. He sees no other men, no other
signs of life, and wonders if they intend to try and kill him.

Despite his bulletproof
skin, he feels fear creeping up his spine. The relief, when they kneel in the
middle of the floor and lift an unseen trapdoor, is little more than a cold
breath down his back. He can feel the cold, he realises, the damp air, and if
he can feel that then chances are he'll feel the stinging of their bullets
enough for it to matter, should it come to it.

The stairs down into
the earth are clean and well lit. The ageing concrete – from a time when
Glasgow still had some industry in its veins – turns to exquisite wood like the
cabin of a ship as they descend. Muffled by the layers of concrete above them,
the world is left on the surface to rot as they walk deeper and deeper into the
skin of the city.

Then they hit the
bottom, and Mark can feel the weight of the world above them, ever conscious of
the distance between him and that safe, open sky. The roof is the barrier,
concrete and steel, that is going to trap him down here where the King can talk
to him, face to face.

"The King is
waiting for you just ahead, sir."

Hearing the name sends
a jolt of sickness through his stomach. Mark is surprised at the tone they
speak to him with: respect, almost. A kind of sympathy, like nurses admitting
him to a hospice.

As Mark is led down the
corridor, filled with warm lights and the scent of hot printer ink, he hears
the bustle of work. It takes him a minute to place the sound, and when he does
it's an instant realisation: offices.

The entire place sounds
like a busy office. If he listens, he can hear printers and computers, the low
hum of electronics, servers and information flying through cables in the walls.
This entire place is like the administration sector of a busy company.

"What is
this?" Mark asks as they walk. "Is this an office, or
something?"

"The King will
answer any questions you have, sir," says the man behind him.

Finally, the long
corridor ends in a wooden door with a large steel lock hiding the handle. The
man at the front waves his hand over the lock and it clicks open, hissing as it
beckons them in with a mechanical creak.

“
Pneumatic
door?” Mark asks, frowning.

“
Airtight,
sir, yes.”

Mark says nothing, but
his mind is racing.

Airtight?

The procession stops
within a large, cosy room lit by a series of lamps hanging on the varnished
walls, adorned with colourful murals in an exact pattern than screams of
obsessive compulsion.

A patterned rug sits at
an exact right angle to two leather armchairs facing one another, a small table
in between them; Mark suspects that a protractor and a laser pointer were used
in their placement. The ceiling is low enough to raise the hackles on Mark's
neck – he isn't short, and he can feel the roof pressing down on his personal
space, as though the ceiling is trying to crush him.

“
Take
a seat, sir,” says one of the men – Mark doesn't bother to see who; they're all
the same anyway. “The King will be with you shortly.”

“
Uh...”

The four men then step
back and align themselves against the wall like palace guards, becoming just
another part of the scenery. Mark takes a reluctant step towards the leather
chairs, and points at them, looking back at the guards.

“
Any
particular one...?”

“
The
one closest us, please sir.”

Mark takes a seat,
feeling the fine leather stick to his bruised torso. The rain on his silver
trousers squeaks against the material and he cringes. Sitting forward to give
his back a chance to escape the leather's grip, he leans on his knees and cups
his hands around his mouth.

“
Is
she here?” he asks after a long silence filled only by muffled office chatter.

“
Sir?”

“
My
mother; is she here?”

“
The
King will answer any questions -”

“
Well
he isn't here,” says Mark, his eyes dark. “So I'm asking you.”

One of the guards has
raised a hand to his ear and is muttering something under his breath.

Mark looks them up and
down, appraising them like animals at a market, judging whether or not he could
take them. The men must see it in his face: he hears the click of their safety
catches switching to off.

“
Sir,
the King will be with you shortly,” says one, and Mark hears the nerves in his
voice.

The man is scared and
he's trying not to show it, but the reality is that he's in an enclosed space
with a man who, earlier today, punched a helicopter out of the sky.