Kill the King (5 page)

A few minutes
passed by before the lanky blond returned, his posture erect and
dignified as he walked over to approach them.

“He will see
you now, Tyler. Follow me, please.”

Dutifully, both
Tyler and Khaled stepped forward to follow the lanky blond man. The
giant man put his hand on Khaled’s chest and obstructed him from
following Tyler.

“Mr. Boreta
said he will see
Tyler
now, not you.”

Khaled was
annoyed but complied and made his way toward the nearest barstool
behind him. Tyler decided to give him a parting shot before going
any further.

“Hey Khaled, if
any spic bitches with big tits and fat asses walk in here while I’m
gone, make sure they’re not taken already before you try to pick
them up. I don’t want to see you get stabbed by some wetback
because you couldn’t keep your hands to yourself.”

Khaled muttered
something in Arabic before knocking back his first beer of the
morning, not bothering to look at Tyler when he heard that comment.
This was something he’d have to get used to for a while.

Tyler followed
the lanky blonde man from two steps behind as he marched towards
the booth. Neither said a word. Aside from the faint clacking of
cue balls overheard from the front end and the muffled sounds
emanating from the nearby kitchen, this part of the bar was deathly
quiet. This was the place for private meetings for only a select
few Family members.

Marko Boreta’s
presence could already be felt from here. It was a feeling of
danger that lingered in the air, as if it whispered a warning to
those who dared to move onwards. Marko Boreta was a man whose mere
reputation preceded him so strongly that it was a deterrent in and
of itself. Even Tyler could not escape the feeling of dread that
made every further step feel slightly heavier than the last. For
years Tyler had been his star protégé, but the fear had never left
him. When your mentor keeps his enemies as close as he does his
friends and confidants, you can never be too sure of which side he
sees you standing on. Many fools had thought wrongly over the years
and paid dearly for it.

Once they
arrived at the booth, the gangly blond escort walked away without
uttering a word. In front of Tyler sat the dragon himself; a stout
man in his fifties, solidly built for his age and strong enough to
do his own dirty work. His well-tailored suit was no doubt a costly
one, but rather than make him look sophisticated it only enhanced
his ominous persona. His slightly greying hair was laid out in a
neat and trim crew cut and his broad face sported a week’s worth of
stubble. He looked tired and overworked in the way one would expect
of a man obsessed with power and wealth.

Boreta was
methodically packing tobacco into his pipe while Tyler stood just
slightly out of arms’ reach. If he had a weapon on him, this would
have been a good time to kill him on the spot and call it a day.
This was not his chance.

“Sit down.”

His eyes were
still concentrated on the proper packing of the coarsely-cut
tobacco into his elegant meerschaum pipe. Once the tobacco was
packed to his satisfaction, he struck a match and let it burn for a
few seconds before lighting up. The flame reflected in his eyes,
giving them a fierce red glow. Not a word was spoken between both
men while Boreta took a few unhurried puffs, carefully studying his
prey’s face. Tyler remained motionless and did not avert his
eyes.

I’ve come back
to kill you, Marko. You’re a dead man and you don’t even know
it.

Boreta
continued to draw long puffs from his pipe. The smoke creeping out
of his mouth only made him look even more ferocious, as if he could
breathe fire at any moment. His frightening stare pierced through
the cloud of blue smoke. This was a stare that Tyler had witnessed
him inflict on so many other unfortunate souls back in the day. It
was the stare that broke men. It was the stare that could discover
even the darkest of secrets—
the eyes of the dragon.

Fifty years in
the Block. That’s what waits for me if I don’t kill you. I’m not
going back. Not for you. Not for anyone.

Each second
brought an increasing feeling of horror that slowly crept into
Tyler’s soul. His heart began to beat wildly as he agonized to keep
his face looking stoic. He was stuck between a rock and a hard
place, and it tormented his psyche. Marko and the Block fought over
Tyler’s fate…over his very soul. When forced to choose between the
horror of murdering someone dear to you and the horror of a
lifetime of imprisonment, does the choice itself not become a
special horror of its own?

I’m not going
back. I’m not going back.

More smoke and
silence. More silence and smoke. Tyler could feel a small bead of
sweat beginning to form on his brow. The strong Balkan tobacco
smoke stung his eyes and burned his nostrils. His throat dried up.
He felt so weak and so small.

Only the child
tells what goes on in the house.

Boreta used a
small metal tamper to crush the ash buildup in his pipe before
relighting. Right before striking another match he decided to tuck
it back into the matchbook instead.

“You’ve been
back in town since last night, at the very least. You did not even
bother to come see me first, or even tell anyone. That’s very
suspicious behaviour, is it not? The problem is, I can’t tell
whether you’re guilty of something or not. Your face has always
been hard to read.”

Tyler only
nodded in response but he did not mistake the remark for a
compliment. Boreta disliked stalemates as much as he disliked
anyone else having the upper hand. Both were the same to him. His
temper flared. He stood up and pounded his fist on the table, his
face burning with ire. He leaned in closer to Tyler’s face, their
noses almost touching. His breath was hot like fire.

“You were sent
away for a long time. A
very
long time. Long enough that
you’d be my age
if
they’d ever let you out. And yet, here
you are. . .sitting in front of me today.”

Boreta paused
to breathe a few shallow breaths, angrily baring his
tobacco-stained teeth.

“If they’ve let
you out so soon, you must have agreed to do something in return.
Something. . .”

He took another
pause mid-sentence, as if he struggled to summon the strength to
utter a word so foul.

“. .
.
shameful.”

I’m in a
nightmare.

“Now, exactly
what
did you agree to do? Tell me. What have you done,
Tyler?
Who
did you betray? Was it me, Tyler? Was it?
Me?
Could you have turned so vile and decided to betray
me
, the one who molded you into becoming all that you
are?”

His voice shook
as he spoke, sounding both furious and hurt at the same time. He
struck his forehead with his palm and then struck the table again
with his fist.

“Answer me!
What have you done, Tyler?
What have you done?”

Both remained
silent for a few more moments. Boreta did not like stalemates.
Tyler took his time to choose his words wisely. Calmly, Tyler stood
up and lit a cigarette and puffed a few drags of his own, his eyes
remaining locked with Boreta’s. He was ready to say his last words
before his execution. He promised himself his last words would be
nothing but the truth.

“They said
they’d let me out if I promised to kill you.”

Boreta
squinted. . .then roared with laughter. He clasped his hands around
Tyler’s throat in a joking manner before giving him a tight hug
around the shoulders. Tyler eked out a weak smile in return. Boreta
then motioned Tyler to sit down and passed him his half-filled
ashtray.

“Artan, coffee!
My
boy
has come back home!”

The lanky blond
returned with a hot brass
cezve
and two large porcelain
cups, decorated with elaborate Byzantine mosaics. Ever loyal to his
Balkan roots, Boreta enjoyed his coffee in the Turkish fashion. He
dismissed Artan with a wave of his hand and poured the two cups
himself.

“It does not
matter to me what you’ve done to get out. I do not doubt it was
something
regretful
, but I do not believe you’ve betrayed
me. Not you, my greatest achievement—my
son.”

A son indeed he
was to Marko. This was the Family after all and it was expected to
hear endearing nicknames such as these between one another, but his
relationship with Tyler was something unique. Tyler was still in
his teens when Marko took him under his wing and became his mentor
in the ways of the underworld. That was ages ago, yet Marko would
always see him as the son he never had.

Tyler remained
guarded as he drank his coffee in front of him. He wasn’t sure
whether Boreta was still prodding him for information. No one could
ever truly guess his next move or crack his coded language. Only
the most cunning can spread their paranoia onto others like a
virus. It’s a powerful tool to keep others in line. Boreta learned
this lesson well after spending most of his life dodging death and
running from authorities across two continents.

“It is good to
have you home again, where you belong. . .here, with your
Family.”

Tyler nervously
sipped from his cup. Boreta fished out a set of keys from his shirt
pocket and placed it next to the ashtray.

“I’ve already
made arrangements for an apartment you can use until you find a new
one of your own. Khaled knows the place and he’ll drive you there.
You’ll find some clothes, a few guns, and enough cash to last you a
week. I want you to clean yourself up and be presentable again. I
already have a job for you.”

Boreta poured
himself another cup, then relit his pipe.

“In the
apartment you’ll find a briefcase. Inside of it is something of
great importance. When Khaled returns to your apartment to pick you
up, the both of you are going to pay the Fourteens a visit.”

Tyler furrowed
his brow. This was a mundane delivery job, and with a
strongly-disliked rival gang as the recipient no less.

“So that’s how
it’s going to be. . .I’m your delivery boy now. Back at the bottom,
huh?”

Boreta smiled
between unhurried puffs. His expression was more composed and his
voice softened as he spoke.

“A boy once
tried to carjack me long ago, not knowing who I was. He was a poor,
misfit boy with no family of his own. He didn’t even know that his
false brothers had set him up to carjack a gangster’s car so they
could get rid of him. They thought this was the best way to see him
disappear. I felt so sorry for that child. . .he just wanted to fit
in. I forgave him and let him work for me. For a long time he was
my delivery boy, and he never once complained of the work he was
given. He was just so grateful to have a home. . .and a
father.”

His words were
not meant to embarrass Tyler. They were meant to remind him of the
humility and loyalty that was expected of him.

“I was grateful
and I still am. I’m not ashamed of what I’ve done to make my bones.
I just don’t see why the white boys can’t just send one of their
bitches over here to pick it up.”

“Under more
ordinary circumstances I would be fine with that, but this
briefcase is for Frank Metzger. I want you to hand it to him
personally. No one else gets his hands on it. Is that
understood?”

Tyler nodded.
He understood the instructions but not the motive behind it. The
Fourteens were bad news.

“Good. I’m
having enough troubles with them and I do not need anyone fucking
this up. I trust you and Khaled. You won’t disappoint me, will
you?”

Tyler butt out
his cigarette. “Have I ever, Marko?”

****

Two hours had
passed and Tyler was still waiting. This was an everyday part of
the job. More than anything, Tyler spent much of his working days
waiting; waiting for further instructions. Waiting for a ride.
Waiting for a cash drop. Waiting for a shipment to arrive. Waiting
for a beaten down rat to confess. Waiting for the right moment to
squeeze the trigger. Always
waiting
. Prison was not much
different, even more so when doing time in the Block. The only real
difference was the clothing he wore and the liberty to drink and
smoke. . .small mundane things that don’t really mean much to you
until you’ve had them taken away.

Tyler gathered
the apartment was most likely intended to be a safe house. It was
small but it had all the essentials, and more importantly it was
discreetly tucked away in an inconspicuous low-rise building.
People came and went all the time and no one could tell apart the
residents from the visitors.

True to his
word, Marko had made good on the amenities he assured would be
waiting for Tyler upon his arrival. The small safe had a few
thousand dollars stacked in neat bricks of clean bills, the clothes
were clean and fit him fine, and the liquor cabinet was generously
stocked with several fine bottles and a couple of cartons of
Indonesian
kreteks
, Tyler’s favourite cigarettes.

After getting
cleaned up and dressed for work, Tyler passed the time sitting on a
leather couch and cleaning his guns between swigs and puffs. He had
already gone through half a bottle of bourbon and was working on
his second pack of clove cigarettes by the time he had taken apart,
cleaned, and reassembled his handguns.

The guns were
already in fine enough condition as they were, but Tyler had plenty
of time on his hands and this was a way to keep him occupied while
waiting for Khaled to arrive. It also helped him keep his mind off
the briefcase that sat at the edge of his coffee table. It was
nothing special from the outside, but then again it’s only what
lies hidden inside that ever matters. Tyler’s curiosity crept up on
him.