Kill the King (20 page)

“I don’t know.
. .I think it’s kind of nice. It covers up all the ugliness. You
can’t see the trash and blood when it’s covered in snow. The
streets get quieter, too.”

Tyler paused to
demonstrate his point. Were it not for the streetlights, it would
have been impossible to tell where the cemetery ended and the
streets began.

“Nice car, by
the way. When did Marko give it to you?”

Khaled patted
the hood of his new car. “I bought it myself. I’ve been saving up
my money! I’m hoping this time my car won’t get totaled like my
last one. . .you know what I mean?”

Khaled laughed
at his own joke. Tyler nodded silently.

“Well, we’re
not here to talk about my new car anyways. I got your text
message—something about ‘big plans’. It must be some serious shit
if you need to meet me this early. What’s going on, my friend?”

“Before we get
into that, I need to ask you something.”

Tyler flicked
his cigarette butt in the snow. Khaled’s smile faded and looked
increasingly apprehensive.

“Yeah, okay. .
.sure.”

“Where is she
buried?”

Khaled pointed
to a group of giant weeping willow trees in the far corner. That
patch of land was reserved for unclaimed bodies with no next of kin
to shoulder the costs. Behind the trees there were no headstones to
be found. . .only the smallest, flattest slabs of granite. It was
the answer that Tyler was expecting, but against all reason hoped
for otherwise. It was not to be. He hung his head in sorrow and
tucked his hands into his jacket pockets. Neither said anything for
a long period of time, choosing instead to embrace the silence
together and watched the snow as it fell.

Peace or
vengeance.

“One more
thing, Khaled—did I ever tell you why they let me out?”

“No. . .you
never told me, my friend.”

“I was offered
my freedom on the condition that I kill someone—
Marko.
I had
a week to do the job, or else they’d come find me and take me back.
Today’s my last day to do it. Today’s my last chance to
kill the
king.”

Khaled’s face
grew pale. “I don’t understand.”

Peace or
vengeance.

“Yes you do,
Khaled. That’s why you’re here. It was you all along. All this
time. . it was
you.”

Tyler pulled
out his gun and fired off two shots in Khaled’s right kneecap. The
giant tumbled to the ground and howled in agony. Tyler watched him
squirm in the wet grass, clutching his knee with his massive
hands.

Vengeance.

“You fucking
snake! You piece of shit! It was you all along. . .all this time it
was you!
You!”

This time the
left kneecap got tagged with a bullet at close range. Khaled’s
screams echoed in the cold night air.

“You knew about
my return. You knew about my visit to Gloria’s in the middle of the
night. Your apartment was stacked to the fucking ceiling with
pricey shit that you could
never
afford on your own.”

The howling
never stopped.

“You killed
Finch when I discovered the blood bags. You had your car bugged so
they could chase after me when I met up with that undercover cop.
All of this was of your doing. You’ve been tracking my every move
and reporting to them from the moment I stepped out of the van.
There’s no other possible fucking explanation.”

Tyler
pistol-whipped Khaled at the knees. The interrogation was far from
over.

Vengeance.

“I want the
truth! How long have you been working for Dr. Nieuwendyk? For
Rickards? Huh? How long have you been working for them?”

Khaled was too
busy cursing in Arabic to answer. Tyler was high on anger and low
on patience. He held down Khaled’s forearm with his foot and shot
his hand. More screams ensued.

Vengeance.

“Answer me,
goddamn you! Answer me!”

Khaled cowered
into a ball and placed his good hand up in the air to protect his
head.

“A year! A
fucking
year,
okay? A fucking year!”

Only the child
tells what goes on in the house.

“
Why,
Khaled? Why’d you do it?”

Khaled was
panting from the pain and blood loss.

“They had a
case on me and it was enough to put me away for life. They told me
I wouldn’t have to go if I spied on Marko for them. They’re running
out of prisoners to harvest and people are starting to ask
questions. She’s afraid! She’s in too deep and now she wants him
dead. You were just supposed to kill him and bury their secret. I
was going to run the Family when it was all done. It’s the truth, I
swear! I fucking swear!”

Tyler unleashed
a barrage of kicks and stomps on Khaled’s face, his blood boiling
with rage.

Vengeance.

“No! I don’t
give a
fuck
about all of that. That’s not what I’m asking
you. Why’d you do it, Khaled—why’d you kill her? You killed
Gloria.
You
beat
her, you
murdered
her, and
you
necklaced
her right on her own fucking street for the
whole world to see.
Gloria!
She trusted you! You promised to
protect her! You
loved
her. . .
we
loved her!”

Khaled sobbed
loudly. It was the first time Tyler had ever witnessed him in this
state.

“Oh no. . .it’s
too late for tears, asshole. You and me, we’re doomed. We’re two
monsters living in a world of men. We don’t belong here. Gloria was
different. She was a
good
woman. Her heart had nothing but
love in it. She even found enough in her heart to love the likes of
us. She deserved a chance to get away from all of this. She had a
chance to be happy—
to live
—and you took that from her. You
threw it all away, and tossed it right in the fucking fire!”

Another barrage
of stomps, kicks, and insults.

Vengeance.

“Why’d you do
it, Khaled? Why, goddamn it. . .
why?
Why?
Answer
me!”

Khaled lay face
down in the snow. His breathing weakened to nothing more than a
feeble, pathetic moan. Tyler bent down and turned over the beaten
carcass of the man he once thought of as a brother. Long ago they
were Dead Boys, alone in the world with no one to protect them but
each other. That now felt like a lifetime ago, long gone and never
to return. All that remained was a weakened beast; his face a mess
of blood, snow, grass, and tears. His lips were split open and he
could barely speak through his bloodied mouth.

“I’m. . .I’m. .
.so. . .sor—”

Khaled’s
reddened eyes glazed over and stopped blinking. His breath slowed
down gently and then stopped altogether. Tyler’s eyes welled up and
his lips quivered. He shook Khaled’s head and yelled at his
lifeless face, futilely hoping he’d wake up.

“No. . .no. .
.not yet! No, goddamn it. . .not yet!
Khaled!”

It was too late
for a confession. Too late to hear the whole story. Too late for
forgiveness. Too late for one last goodbye. It was all too late.
St. Jude’s had found itself a new resident, and Tyler had brought
him right to its doorstep. Tyler will never know the motive behind
Gloria’s murder. He’ll never know why she had to die the way she
did. Gloria was long gone, and now so was Khaled. The truth was
gone forever. The dead always kept their secrets.

Tyler sprung
back to his feet and unleashed another barrage of kicks to Khaled’s
corpse. He shouted at the ground beneath his feet, wet and cold. He
shouted at the sky above his head, black and pitiless. He shouted
at the whole world, cruel and unfair. There was no answer. . .only
silence and snow.

Tyler was alone
again. Vengeance had its price.

****

God’s
Junkyard.

That’s what the
locals called this side of St. Jude’s. It was a wretched, forlorn
mess of slabs sticking only an inch out of the cold ground with not
a single flower to be found anywhere. This was the final resting
place for the penniless, the forgotten, and the unloved.

Tyler gasped
when he finally found her grave under a thick layer of snow. There
was her name, engraved for all to see but with no one to visit. .
.no one but a wicked, lowlife gangster who was unworthy of her
love. Life, unfair as it was, had decided to give Gloria a burial
that was just as cruel and degrading as her own death had been.
Gloria didn’t deserve this. The world owed her so much more than
what it had given her. Deep in his sorrow, Tyler’s thoughts turned
to the old woman’s words; she was right all along. . .there was no
justice to be had in this world.

Peace or
vengeance. It was never my choice to make. There was only
vengeance. May she find her peace now. I will never find it. Not
here. . .not anywhere.

Tyler reached
into his pocket and picked out the smooth white rock he had kept on
him ever since it was given to him. It was so small yet it felt so
heavy in his hand. With great care, he kneeled to place it ever so
gently on her grave. He remained kneeling in silent grief, watching
the snow envelop it in a cold embrace. With time it disappeared,
and Tyler was ready to say what needed to be said. His voice was
soft and croaky and full of woe. He had at last accepted the
truth.

“
Goodbye.”

The small tears
that fell on that snow-covered tomb were the last that he would
ever shed for the remainder of his life. Tears were for love and
for sorrow. Tears were for men. Tyler was something else—something
much worse. Tears had no place in Tyler’s world. . .only blood and
money.

It was Day
Seven. If Dr. Nieuwendyk chose to make good on her threat, he was
going to be a hunted man from this day onwards. To make matters
worse, the uneasy truce with the Fourteens had been shattered. It
died on the flagpole that held Frank Metzger by his neck. Open war
was just beyond the horizon. There were more schemes to hatch.
There was more money to be made. There were more people to kill.
There was more work to be done. . .there was always more work to be
done.

On the seventh
day God may have rested, but no such luck will come to Tyler Kwan.
There is no rest for the wicked. Tyler understood that now. He was
just like Marko Boreta—
cursed
. Death, destruction, and
suffering were as vital to his existence as the air that he
breathed. He couldn’t stop it from happening no matter how hard he
tried. What the man creates, the monster destroys.

Tyler no longer
had to fear going back to the Block. The iron bars were never going
to entrap him ever again. He was back in the underworld. . .and
deeper in its bowels than ever before. It was only a matter of time
before he would inspire as much fear as his mentor—his
father
—did. The prodigal son had returned at last to take
his rightful place as the heir of a criminal empire. It took him
years of torment and a week of sorrow before he could accept the
truth. He was finally back where he belonged. . .where he
always
belonged.

There was no
reason to keep fighting what couldn’t be changed. Destiny is the
greatest prison of them all, and no one can escape from it. .
.least of all a violent lowlife gangster like Tyler Kwan.

Love. Hope.
Peace. These were things that Tyler could never have. There was
only crime.

###

Though
Kill
the King
is the product of my own bleak and warped imagination,
what you read before you today would have been a very different—and
in my own self-effacing opinion,
inferior
—work were it not
for the contributions of certain individuals.

I would like to
extend my gratitude to the following people for their invaluable
help:

Fang Xia, my
darling wife, for her support and encouragement. . .and most of
all, her
patience.
Many potential romantic date nights were
sacrificed to allow me the necessary time to pore over my notes and
type away on my laptop, with most sessions stretching well into the
most ungodly hours of the night. I do hereby pledge to make up for
lost time with as many romantic activities that I can cram into our
Saturday nights from this moment onwards. . .that is, until I write
my
next
book.

Kris
Chung,
for all the detailed notes he provided me when I was
struggling to complete my rough (and I mean
rough
) draft.
Every chapter was deeply scrutinized with great care, and nine
times out of ten I completely agreed with his criticisms and
observations. I cannot thank him enough for his insight and sage
advice.

Melissa
Musson,
for creating this book’s glorious cover image. I needed
something gritty and powerful to reflect the story’s subject
matter, and she knocked it right out of the park. I highly
recommend her services to any author looking for an excellent cover
design. If you happen to be looking for a professional cover
designer, you can’t go wrong with Melissa! Follow her at:

http://www.facebook.com/M.doodle.design.create

Gilbert Le
Gras,
for reviewing and improving the Spanish used in the
crucial chapters involving the dearly departed Gloria. The last
thing I wanted was to make Gloria’s speech feel awkward and phoney,
and thanks to my friend’s assistance I hope that the end result is
something more heartfelt and authentic. On a side note, Mr. Le Gras
is a highly talented author himself and you can find his works on
a certain website that takes its name after a famous South
American river
that I can’t name for reasons that I cannot
disclose. His works are well worth the online search!

And last but
certainly not least. . .
you,
the reader. If you’ve made it
all the way here after all the violence, betrayals, tragedies and
existentialist musings that Tyler Kwan and everyone else had to
endure. . .you have my utmost thanks! An author without readers is
like an actor without an audience. It can still be pulled off, but
it’s just not as fulfilling.