Kill the King (8 page)

The skinhead’s
eyes went wide in mute terror.

“Yeah, I know
you’re a cop. You don’t fool me. The Fourteens don’t let their
low-level toadies like you carry guns. . .and definitely not the
kind you’ve got in your hands. I should know, because
we
sell the guns to your gang. We don’t sell any goddamn Glock 22s.
Only
cops
pack that kind of shit.”

The skinhead
wiped his bloodied mouth with his sleeve, cursing under his breath.
“Okay then, so why don’t I just shoot you down, or haul your ass to
the station for assaulting an officer?”

“You won’t,
because I’ll give you the combination. I’ll be taking those gloves
of yours too while we’re at it. What do you say?”

The undercover
cop holstered his gun, took off the gloves and threw them in
Tyler’s direction. “Fine. This shit never happened. No one has to
know. Now. . .the combination, please!”

“
Three-ten.”

The cop sighed
in relief and pulled out a bandana to dab at his bloodied nose.
“How sure are you? Did you see Metzger use that number to open the
briefcase? Did you see what was inside?”

“No. The
combination’s right, though.”

“Okay, I better
get my ass back to the lair. I’ll keep my end of the bargain. With
some luck, I’ll be able to take down the Fourteens before you
do—and then we’ll be coming for
you
and your Family.”

“Yeah, well. .
.good luck with that.”

Tyler then
turned his back and walked on home. Along the way he drained what
was left of the vodka and tossed the dented flask into a nearby
alley. It was no longer of any use. He put on the gloves and
realized that they were heavy because they were reinforced with
powdered steel.

Fucking
cops.
I should have let Khaled give me a ride home.

****

It was well
into the darkest hours of the night but Tyler couldn’t find sleep.
Every toss was followed with a turn. Every bead of sweat was
followed by a cold shiver.

The Block won’t
leave me alone.

Tyler had never
learned to sleep while immured in the Block. It was one of the many
gifts of solitary confinement; the closet size. The whiff of piss
and shit that never dissipates. The cockroaches. The hot, stale air
in summer. The damp cold in winter. The lights that never shut off.
The months without seeing a ray of sunlight or a blade of grass.
The miserable, soul-crushing boredom.

Yesterday,
today, and tomorrow were one and the same:
nothing
. That was
the Block’s cruelest gift of all. Outside your cell, the world
continued with its business and life went on with its ups and
downs. You simply no longer became a part of it. Time did not exist
when you lived in the void. All you had was the
nothingness
of the Block. It was the cruelest of masters.

Tyler had
enough of losing the battle over sleep. The four walls of his small
bedroom felt too much like his old cell. He leapt to his feet and
angrily flipped the mattress over and unleashed a barrage of
punches to the closest wall his fists could reach. The pain
shooting through his knuckles only enraged him further. Gnashing
his teeth as hard as his jaw could keep shut, Tyler slammed his
head onto the wall for what must have been at least a dozen
times.

“I’m not going
back. I’m
not
going back. I’m not going back!”

Tyler rushed
out of his bedroom and made his way to the living room’s liquor
cabinet, naked and soaked with sweat. He emptied half the contents
of the tequila bottle down his throat while the other half splashed
onto his face and down his chest, mixing with the sweat before
dripping onto the hardwood floor.

“I’m not going
back!”

He said the
words out loud, as if he were speaking to the lingering spectre of
the Block itself.

“I’m not going
back, you hear me? Huh? You hear me? I’m not going back.
I’m not
going back!”

Tyler closed
his eyes and vainly tried to regain his composure. His chest surged
and his temples throbbed. He hesitated to reopen his eyes, afraid
that he’d find himself in his cell again. He sat on the floor and
sobbed.

“I don’t wanna
go back. I can’t go back.”

Tyler lay on
his side, curled into a ball, and wept. He could feel his thighs
getting warm and wet.

“Please. Please
don’t send me back. Please. . .”

“What the fuck,
man? You scared the shit out of me!”

Khaled had
nearly dropped the barbell on his throat when Tyler’s face had
seemingly appeared out of nowhere. He grunted as he struggled to
bring the colossal load of iron back to its rack. The massive
weight secured away at last, Khaled lay on his bench to catch his
breath, his chest bulging and face drenched with sweat. He looked
up to find his friend’s dour face still staring at him from upside
down.

“How did you
find my place? I only moved in six months ago.”

“Marko told me.
You need to lock your doors, Khaled. All these years and you still
don’t lock your doors.”

Khaled got up
and wiped himself off with a towel before spraying an extravagant
amount of cologne all over his massive neck and torso. He posed in
front of his giant brass mirror and flexed his swollen muscles.

“Like anyone
would be stupid enough to open my door and fuck with
me.”

“I just
did,
Khaled. I could have killed you right then and
there.”

“Yeah,
whatever. How long you been here?”

Tyler sipped
from a large green mug adorned with elegant Arabic script. “Enough
to make this in your kitchen while you were doing those last reps.
Good coffee by the way. . .tastes expensive.”

The coffee
wasn’t the only thing in this place that was expensive. The duplex
itself looked unassuming enough from the outside, but from the
inside it was stacked to the ceiling with luxury items: several
large and immaculate
sijjad
rugs lined the floors and walls,
plushy leather furniture in the living room, and a cutting edge
sound system with speakers appearing in every room.

Khaled put on
his shirt and some gold chains. “Yeah, it is. I’m glad you like it,
my friend. Now, are you going to tell me why you’re here?”

“Glad you
asked. How well do you know someone named Finch?”

“What, that
ginger kid with the droopy eye? I don’t know. . .not that well, I
guess. He’s been with us for maybe a year. I’ve never worked with
him. Why do you ask?”

“He seems to
have disappeared a week ago.”

Khaled
understood what that implied. Boreta always saw sudden
disappearances as a sign of suspicious activities, and his
misgivings were seldom proven wrong. This was not just a matter of
protecting himself and his subordinates but also a matter of
personal conviction. Disloyalty was the most grievous offence, and
never could it go unpunished.

“Okay, so what
do you have in mind? When do we start?”

“Right now. His
landlord told me he saw him leave his apartment shortly after dawn.
Finch might still be in town. . .at least for now. I paid off the
landlord so he’ll call me if he spots him coming back, but we can’t
rely on that as our only lead. Finch might be getting ready to skip
town at any moment. We have to set up a trap.”

Khaled zipped
up his jacket and grabbed his car keys. “Okay. Let’s see if we can
still work our magic.”

****

Tyler was the
first to become Family, but it wasn’t long before he managed to
convince his new boss to bring Khaled into the fold as well. Marko
Boreta quickly saw the value of allowing them to work alongside one
another whenever possible. Although all were expected to be
uncompromising in their loyalty him, it wasn’t always easy to
convince the rest of the Family to trust one another. In the case
of Tyler and Khaled, this kind of bond was already present. They
could be trusted to cooperate successfully rather than compete with
one another to climb to the top—and fracture Family unity in the
pursuit of power. As far as Marko Boreta was concerned, loyalty and
trustworthiness were far more precious than talent and ambition. .
.and far less dangerous.

Of all the jobs
that Tyler and Khaled did that pleased Marko Boreta the most, it
was
tracing
that made them stand out above the rest. Finding
someone who does not want to be found was a very hard job; it
required quick thinking, thoroughness, patience, and brutality.
Very few could do this kind of work—let alone be trusted with
it—but this was where Tyler and Khaled worked their best. If money
was overdue and a debtor went into hiding, or if an exposed
informant tried to escape to save himself, Tyler and Khaled were
dispatched to trace the
skip.
No one got away from Marko
Boreta. No one.

It took nearly
three hours of driving all over town before they could collect
enough leads to form a solid trace. Hookers, pimps, and winos were
usually the most reliable sources of information; they spent much
of their time outside looking out for people, and they never turned
down easy money in exchange for conversation. Junkies were far less
reliable, but given the very short time left before the trail could
run cold they had to be consulted with as well.

Much of what
Tyler and Khaled were told was of little significance. The city
always buzzed with rumours, and at least half of them were false
and purposely spread by one gang to boost their reputation or
discredit another’s. Even so, one rumour ended up reappearing on
numerous occasions. It was odd enough to raise a big red flag: a
young man had been spotted selling very high quality products at
bargain prices in a very bad neighbourhood, and in broad daylight
no less.

Tyler and
Khaled suspected that only an amateur could be so careless. It was
time to set the trap.

****

Kibera
Boulevard was not a good place to be found wandering around
aimlessly. It was an ugly four-lane street lined with decrepit
housing units, heavily-gated liquor stores, rusted cars, and fast
food joints that never had customers walking in or out yet somehow
managed to stay open for years on end. With the Perps wiped out by
the Fourteens in a bitter turf war not long ago, the whole area had
become a battleground for petty gangs scrambling for the last
breadcrumbs of territory they could snatch before the skinheads
inevitably come back to finish what they’ve started. Until that
day, the in-fighting would continue and Kibera Boulevard would
remain its main battleground.

It was already
mid-afternoon and it would only be a couple more hours before
sundown; winter was just around the corner and every day was
getting slightly colder and darker. They had already been staking
out the scene for over an hour and still no sight of their target.
If they couldn’t catch him by nightfall, Finch could be as good as
gone.

Tyler loitered
around in an empty parking lot while Khaled sat in the car parked
on the corner of an adjacent street. It was a good enough distance
to keep both within sight of each other but far enough to not
arouse suspicion that they were working together. Time was running
against them and they were forced to hatch the simplest of traps.
Finch had never met Tyler before so he wouldn’t suspect a setup,
and Khaled was hiding in a good enough spot to avoid being noticed.
They had to rely on the element of surprise.

Tyler
chain-smoked an entire pack while surveying his surroundings,
waiting for his prey to arrive. He remained on alert not only for
Finch, but also for anyone else who may resent his presence. There
were far worse kinds of people to be wary of in this district.

If the whores
and junkies were telling us the truth, this kid must have a death
wish. Kibera’s the worst kind of slum—black and old. The people
here are born poor and dangerous, just like their parents and
grandparents before them. Their kids will be the same when their
turn comes. The roots of poverty go deep in the ground here. They
have nothing to lose in this shithole.

As Tyler lit
his last cigarette, he eyed a large black luxury sedan approaching
the parking lot. Tyler took a quick glance at Khaled’s direction
and spit some phlegm on the nearby curb. Khaled gave his headlights
a quick blink to show that he recognized the signal. The trap was
set.

The car slowly
crept into the lot and parked at Tyler’s feet. The driver’s side
window rolled down as Tyler slowly crept closer.

“Nice car. You
Finch?”

“No. He’s in
the back seat. Hop in.”

Tyler was not
expecting a second man in the car. The situation had already gotten
more complicated. He opened the passenger door and sat in the
backseat, where his intended victim sat waiting for him.

“You
Finch?”

The young man
had a droopy left eye that gave him a slightly mean look, but it
was plain to see that he was barely out of his teens. His auburn
hair was neatly slicked back and he wore an ill-fitting designer
suit. He reeked of almost as much cologne as Khaled did. Tyler
almost felt bad for him.

“Yeah, that’s
me. Shane’s my ride. I pay him well. . .be nice to me and maybe
I’ll find some work for you too. What’s your name?”

You poor,
stupid kid. You have no idea what you’ve gotten yourself into.

“Doesn’t matter
right now. What are you selling?”

The youth
squinted in apprehension. A straightforward question like that made
him suspect he was in the presence of someone who didn’t usually
buy drugs.

“You sound like
a fucking cop, man.”

Tyler’s tone of
voice became less cordial. “
No.
I’m much worse than that.
Now, answer my question:
what are you selling, kid?”

The faint
screech of tires could be heard from nearby, and within seconds a
bright beam of light shone on them from behind. The driver flinched
from the sudden beam of light shining from the rear-view mirror,
and that was all the distraction Tyler needed to pull out a
switchblade and stick it in the poor bastard’s neck. The driver let
out a gurgled scream, his blood spurting violently between his
fingers as he tried to cover the wound with his hands. Khaled used
his car to rear-end theirs and pushed it into the corner of the
parking lot. All three men were violently shaken from their seats.
The driver’s head slammed into the steering wheel, spraying blood
on the dashboard and windshield in the process. He was one less
problem for Tyler and Khaled to deal with.