For Pixie - When Justice Comes Calling (First Published 2015)
WHEN JUSTICE
COMES CALLING
WILLIAM POWELL
Copyright © 2015 William Powell
All rights reserved.
ISBN: 1514118734
ISBN-13: 978-1514118733
DEDICATION
To June, John and Phyllis, three Grandparents who taught me to always chase my dream, no matter the obstacles. This book is proof that all your kind words, support and love helped inspire me to make my dream become a reality. Thank you.
"I bounce around and laugh and sing and dance and joke and cheer everyone up because what else am I for? And I know I really am good at stuff, lots of stuff, and I know I have a family that loves me, and I really am happy most of the time, I AM, and I want other people to be happy too... but not always. And the rest of the time... I don't let people see."
FOREWORD
When William first told that me that he was actually going to write the story that he had wanted to tell for many years now, I was thrilled. Then he told me that he would like me to write the foreword and I was speechless… that doesn’t happen to me often!
Deep down inside, there is a kid in us all who loves comic books… and this is good, ol’ fashioned comic book fiction at its best. The characters are larger than life, the action is immense and the narrative is unrelenting. Revenge has never felt so good.
Like any good rollercoaster, we creep toward the apex of the first climb… wondering why we were dumb enough to jump onboard in the first place. Without warning, we’re hurtled at breakneck speed, twisting, turning, spinning and diving toward the end. We scream, shut our eyes and hold on tight, not daring to let go. The truth is… we’ve never felt so alive.
As a singer/song-writer and recording artist, I’ve worked on numerous albums in the UK Hip Hop industry. The work has been so much about presenting the facets of everyday life in an entertaining and engaging way. Escapism is everything; an environment where even the most painful parts of our existence can be enjoyed from a safe distance.
What I began to realise from the years of writing is that these are the common ties that bind us together as human beings. Everyone can relate, as everyone has felt these emotions. It’s ordinary! And, comic books serve to remind us of just how ordinary we truly are. For a moment, we are able to become one of the champions of Olympus, a God amongst men… something extraordinary.
William crafts a world to escape into, a place where extraordinary people pit their wits, and their brawn, against one another. This is all against the backdrop of an urban cityscape, its inhabitants just trying to survive against the hardships of life… like us.
This is William’s third entry in the series which began with 45 Days, a vision of a dystopian England ran by a Totalitarian Government. It’s the finale, the conclusion and the climax. In true, time honoured condition, the best was saved for last.
His narrative style and ability to get into the heads of his characters is brought to the fore. We see the world through the eyes of an inexperienced law enforcement officer. We share with him his awakening to the harsh world he inhabits, getting under his skin and ours.
This is a different vantage point into the universe that William has created. Something he hasn’t offered before. Whether you are a returning fan, or a Justice ‘noob’, you’re going on a ride to remember! If you’re anything like me, and your inner kid sometimes gets the better of you, this book is for you.
Damien Gayle
Founding member of Stone Circle
UK Hip Hop Award Nominees, Infrastructure
London, UK
“You cannot achieve success without the risk of failure. And I learned a long time ago you cannot achieve success if you fear failure. If you're not afraid to fail, man you have a chance to succeed. But you're never gonna get there unless you risk it, all the way.”
Paul Heyman
CONTENTS
CHAPTER I
As David Sheffield stepped out of his car, he started asking himself if being a detective for the Regime was really the best career he could’ve chosen. He’d lived a privileged, somewhat sheltered life, but the news had reported on some pretty gruesome events over the years; this however, may have been the worst of the lot.
“Jesus Christ...” he mouthed, trying to slow his breathing and not get overwhelmed. There was already numerous officers on site, not to mention a parade of ambulances and medical staff, but something told the rookie that it was too late. David shuffled forward towards the yellow tape that surrounded the crime scene. He reminded himself that he belonged here, and had to act like it.
“You the new kid?” one officer asked, and David nodded, not able to tear his eyes away from the bloodstained alleyway.
“That’s me, sir.” he replied, ducking under the tape and greeting the officer with a firm handshake before being led down the alleyway.
It was dimly lit, save for a flickering light near the back. It was narrow, with no stairwells or exits of any kind, leading to a dead-end. If you wanted to make sure someone didn’t have an escape, this was place was as good as any.
David tried refocusing, but all of his energy was focused on not gagging with the smell of blood in the air. It only got worse the closer they got to the back of the alley, where another member of the Regime was waiting.
This one looked different from the rest though, not in the typical riot-gear style uniform saved for most. It was hard to get a good look with his back turned, but David reckoned he was in his late 40’s/early 50’s judging by his posture and a few grey hairs glistening off the streetlight. The striking thing about his appearance was how well-dressed he was – a pristine black suit, red tie, very formal. He almost looked more like an inner-city businessman than a detective, and certainly out of place in this environment. Detective’s were normally fitted with a brown overcoat to mark that they’re in the Regime – but not this guy.
He turned around, took one glance at David, and continued inspecting the dead body that lay in front of them.
David took the initiative and made his introductions. “I’m Detective Sheffield, sir - the new recruit. Pleasure to-”
“I know who you are.” the officer responded; his gruff voice took David off guard, it certainly didn’t match his appearance. The detective may have looked right at home in the privileged areas, but his voice made him sound like he belonged on the outskirts of the city.
He got to his feet and shone his torch on the dead body, not batting an eye-lid. David looked at the body head on, ready to get to work.
The victim was laid out on their back, eyes still wide open. His blood stained the ground around him, and when looking closer, David could see blood on the wall to the side also.
“Victim is Jack Norton. Recognise the name?”
David didn’t, and shook his head accordingly. His superior stepped forward, shining the torch on the blood on the wall.
“Attacker made quite a mess.”
David took it all in, trying to maintain his composure. His first case, a murderer enquiry. It was interesting, exciting even, but it hardly eased him in gently. Still, he had worked damn hard to get into the Regime, and perhaps more importantly, stay in the Regime – this was just the beginning.
“Are there any witnesses?” he piped up, the suit-clad officer let out a deep breath.
“All in good time.”
David got the feeling he may be grating on this guy’s nerves, so decided to clam up for the time being, even if he wanted to call out the older-timer on his crap attitude. Last thing he wanted to do less than 24 hours into service was get a warning, or worse, a broken jaw. This guy seemed no-nonsense and straight-laced… not somebody you’d want to be on the wrong side of.
Eager to impress, he began looking for any potential clues. The bins and rubbish bags didn’t hide the murder weapon, and there wasn’t any shell casings in sight; old-timer had been right. He even built up the courage to search the victim, all the while trying to not look him in the eyes – those cold, dead eyes.
Pockets were empty, save a parking ticket and some spare change. No wallet, no ID. Could’ve been a robbery gone wrong?
The other guy shook his head, almost pre-empting the question. David added ‘know-it-all’ to his imaginary list of complaints about his new partner – a match made in hell if there ever was one.
“Look closer, Detective Sheffield.”
David turned back to the dead body, shining the torch on his face. Despite those lifeless eyes, nothing out of the ordinary. The weapon had been stuck in this guy a ton of times, and from the looks of things, in a wild frenzy. There may have been a struggle, but there wasn’t any bruising on this guy’s arms, hands or neck – David reasoned he’d been attacked from behind, and before he knew what was happening, it was already too late. It was only when he looked down at the chest that he realised this sure as hell wasn’t some street mugger’s work. It couldn’t have been.
Across the chest was a large inscription made, presumably with the same knife that had ended Jack Norton’s life. Despite the amount of blood, the word etched onto his chest was just about readable.
“Justice?” the rookie blurted out, looking to his new partner who nodded.
Seemingly a pre-meditated attack, and a message to boot. What the hell did this all mean?
“I didn’t catch your name?” David asked, as the forensics team swept in. He purposefully didn’t address this relic as sir, deciding to get a jab in there before they were forced to share a car on the journey back to the station.
The guy’s face had been mostly expressionless this entire time.
“It’s Vincent,” he responded, “Vincent Williams.”
David shook his new partner’s hand, and Vincent shot him a weary half-smile. The kind of smile that only a man who’s seen this kind of thing dozens of times before would have.
A smile that says “Welcome to the Regime, kid… the worst is yet to come.”
CHAPTER II
The police station was as noisy and manic as Vincent could remember it ever being when he and Detective Sheffield returned. His new partner hadn’t said a word on the ride back from the bloody alleyway, and that suited Vincent just fine.
Now that it was obvious that this Jack Norton guy had been murdered in cold blood, everybody was scrambling to find out more. Paper and coffee was flying everywhere, and usually calm officers were rushed off their feet.
“Williams, Sheffield, my office!”
Despite the chaos and loud atmosphere, the Commissioners’ voice rang out across the floor loud and clear. Vincent lead the way with David following just behind.
Commissioner George Wilson was sat as his desk as the two detective’s entered his office. He motioned for the two to take a seat also, and managed a half-smile at David, the same that Vincent had given him half an hour earlier. Wilson was the one who had ensured David got the position when one opened up; he owed David’s old man a favor.
George was a good man, and well respected. Vincent’s interactions with him had been few and far between, beside the occasional meeting. As far as the commissioner was concerned, Vincent was okay.
“Forensics are busy on site,” Wilson started, directing his attention solely to Vincent, “but it’ll be some time before they results. Any leads?”
“Last seen at ‘Kingdom’.”
Wilson raised an eyebrow. “Nick Rose’s club?”
Vincent nodded. “One and the same.”
David sat in silence, at first feeling like a third wheel, and then more like he may as well have been invisible. His first case was causing a station-wide panic and surely would be on the news tomorrow morning. He knew the smartest thing to do would be to just sit there and listen, but David interjected; after all, this was his investigation too.
“If I could say something…” David began, and soon found their attention on him, if only for a fleeting moment. He needed to make this count.
“Who is… was Jack Norton?”
Wilson leaned back in his chair, giving Vincent the floor.
“A high-ranking official in the Regime. His position was classified… apparently, not anymore.”
Norton’s death had obviously shaken both Vincent and Commissioner Wilson. David didn’t want to be thrown off the case, but at the same time, he was so new to this – in their eyes, he was just a kid. He had to open their eyes.
“What’s our next move?” David asked, and could tell from Vincent’s perplexed expression that it probably wasn’t the best question to ask. Slowly but surely, David was getting sick of the old guy’s attitude.
Instead of answering, Vincent addressed George.
“Reassign the kid.”
George let out a light chuckle, while David could hardly believe what he’d just heard. “Excuse me?”
Vincent refused to look at David, instead standing up from his chair. The weary smile gone.
George Wilson took a sip of his drink, mulling everything over. Personally, he didn’t have any intention of taking David off the case; the rookie had worked long and hard to get this position.
“I don’t want to work with him; plain and simple.” Vincent deadpanned, and David responded with an exaggerated, slightly overbearing laugh, just to hammer home his displeasure. Inside, he must have been seething.
“If anybody needs to be reassigned Vincent, it’s you.” David looked at George for some back-up.
“I was hoping that pairing you two together would help both of you in different ways.”
Vincent shook his head, his calm demeanor slowly beginning to disappear, second by second. He went to leave the officer before David got in another jab.
“Don’t let the door hit you on the way out.” David retorted, trying his damndest to convince Commissioner Wilson that he didn’t need a partner, that he could take the case on alone – or at the very least, without Vincent lagging behind, slowing him down.
Vincent turned to face David, his face expressionless once more. David stood up, not letting the man tower over him and assert his authority, or whatever little or authority the fossil thought he had.
George held his hands up, and both men waited in bated breath for his decision. David could see his career coming to an end as soon as it had began, or at the very least, he’d be a desk clerk and nothing more. Vincent meanwhile could see the kid meeting a grisly end, one way or another, and he didn’t need that on his conscience – he already had enough blood on his hands.
The Commissioner had made his decision. He glanced at David first.
“I’m not reassigning you David.”
David tried not to appear smug, but it was hard. Glancing up at Vincent, he noticed that his expression hadn’t changed at all.
“But,” George continued, “I put you with Vincent for a reason, because he’s one of the most experienced people we have in this place considering his background. You’ll learn from him,” George’s eyes trailed over to Vincent, “and whether you agree or not Vincent, you’ll learn from this kid.”
Vincent just stared, his reaction impossible to gauge.
“Take a few officers, find out what you can from Nick Rose down at ‘Kingdom’. Soon as you have, report back here.”
Soon as George had finished, Vincent left the office in a flash, making a beeline for the main entrance of the building. David thanked George for the opportunity, shouting that he wouldn’t let him down as he tried to catch up to his reluctant partner.
“Hey, Vincent!” he called out, and to David’s surprise, Vincent stopped outside the building. “We going to ‘Kingdom’ now?”
“We aren’t going anywhere.” Vincent deadpanned, before walking towards his car.
He originally didn’t take the snub personally, and just chalked it up to Vincent being a veteran stuck in his ways. David knew he had to respect authority and those in a higher position to him, but this guy was being difficult, and needlessly so. David called it like he saw it, and his standing with Vincent couldn’t get any worse at this point.
“Have it your way.”
David went to continue, but the look on Vincent’s face frightened him. It was unintentionally menacing, and David knew to leave it, at least for now. It was his first day, and he knew he didn’t Vincent dragging him down whilst waiting for the day he could collect his pension - he watched Vincent get in his car and drive away, still looking as mad as hell.
David instead shifted his focus, heading back into the station to grab a couple of officers to take him over to the ‘Kingdom’. He’d been thrown in the deep end – it was up to David to keep his head above water, with or without Vincent’s help.
CHAPTER III
The ‘Kingdom’ nightclub was everything David Sheffield despised - it was loud, it was overbearing, and worst of all, it was known to be a common hangout of some really shady characters. David had only visited the club once on the night he graduated, against his better judgement but he had caved to peer pressure. That night, he saw two fights between rival gangs and one shooting. Once his parents got wind of what had happened, he was grounded for a month. David had sworn to himself he’d never step foot in there again, but duty called.
The owner of the establishment, Nick Rose, was somewhat of a local celebrity in the area; formerly living on the outskirts of the city, Nick was a self-made man, at least if you believed the stories he told. Nick was cocky, and arrogant, but he backed up everything he said and did. The ‘Kingdom’ nightclub was his personal haven, a hangout for his crooks and others masquerading as upstanding citizens. David was sure that the place had seen all walks of life come through at one time or another. Only tonight, it was unlikely anybody was expecting a rookie detective from the Regime.
David found it odd that he was met with no resistance from the bouncers, in fact they practically ushered him into the building, along with the two officers escorting him. Once inside, the lights and music from the rock band playing live both blinded David and hurt his ears. The place was packed to full capacity, and David had no doubt that there were likely some pretty dodgy guys about who would jump at the chance to take out a cop given half the chance, earn a little bit of street cred. That being said, he was accompanied by two officers hand picked by Commissioner Wilson, so David felt like he was safe… somewhat.
“We’re gonna’ take a look around.” the first officer said, heading off into the sea of people, the second officer following just behind.
David was tempted to suggest they stick together, but the music would’ve drowned him out anyway. He just had to suck it up, and start looking around. He was sure that if the other two found anything, they’d come find him.
The young detective made his way to the bar, hoping the staff would be able to tell him where Nick Rose was. Looking like a fish out of water, and sticking out like a sore thumb amongst the rest of the ‘Kingdom’ mob, David tried hopelessly to get the barmaids attention to no avail.
The live band began with another song of theirs, this one a little lower in bass and tempo, handy for David to try and get somebody’s attention. With the place being busy as hell however, it was near on impossible.
Instead, the rookie took a seat in the corner of the bar area next to a young woman who was seemingly passed out. He should have been off trying to find a way to get to Nick Rose, but his instincts kicked in. David kept an eye on her, making sure nobody tried taking advantage of her considering the state she was in.
His mind began to wander, deciding whether his plan to come here without Vincent had been such a good idea. Sure, the commissioner had signed off on it, but was this all too much for him to handle?
“Twenty four hours in, and you’re doubting yourself… get a grip.” David mumbled to himself. Only, it seemed the woman who had passed out overheard him, lifting her head off the table and looking at him.
“Doubt fucks everything.” she croaked, her eyes glazed over. “Take a foundation – no matter how strong – sprinkle generously with doubt, and watch it crumble.”
David didn’t know if this girl was drunk or high on Synth, but either way, she looked miserable. He began hoping somebody, her friends perhaps, would come along sooner rather than later.
“Me? I’m unfuckwithable.” the woman said triumphantly, sitting up straight and trying to fix herself up.
David didn’t know whether to pity her or see if he could find if she’d come to the club with someone else. She couldn’t have been that much older than him, though the drink or drugs had obviously done a number on her. He’d never seen a person on Synth before, at least not face-to-face. The news reports had obviously been spot on.
The girl took one look at David, her eyes narrowing.
“You’re Regime, right?”
David had absolutely no idea to respond. Did he run the risk of this woman getting some of her friends, should they suddenly appear, to do a number on him? Did he take the chance that she may cause a scene because she’s so messed up? Too many questions, and not enough time. He decided on just answering truthfully.
“What gave it away?” he asked, accompanying the question with an endearing chuckle. The woman caught on, and let out a quiet laugh of her own.
“What brings you here?” she quizzed, and David leaned in close so he wouldn’t have to shout over the music.
“I’m looking for Nick Rose.” he replied, and girl laughed again, only this time it was at David.
“You and a hundred other people, babe. Everybody and their mother would love a meeting with Nick, see what they can offer him and what he can offer in return. You’ll have to wait in line.”
David looked at her sheepishly. “I’m against the clock unfortunately… plus I get the feeling that I’m not really welcome here.”
It wasn’t just a feeling but a fact; every so often a different group of guys would walk by, and clock Detective Sheffield by his uniform. Standard for all Regime detectives, suit and tie and the brown overcoat especially made for them. There was always one guy itching to get his hands dirty, and with the other two officers having gone walkabout, David was vulnerable – even if he hated to admit it.
His companion didn’t seem too worried for his safety however. “You’ll be fine, Detective. Nobody is looking to bring any heat down on them here. Plus, you’re part of the Regime, I’m sure you can handle a couple of thugs.”
How David wished that were true. He was stronger than he appeared, but he couldn’t take on a group of thugs on his own. Time was of the essence.
“What brings you here then? Here to call in a favor?”
A favor?
“I don’t follow…?”
The woman’s eyes went wide, almost as if she was beginning to come down from whatever illegal high she had just been on, and it had dawned on her perhaps that David was no mid-30’s detective, but a young kid, a rookie.
“I’ll take you to Nick.”
David was dumbfounded. “But I thought you said-”
The girl cut him off, snatching him by the hand and taking him behind the bar and into the restricted area of the club. She seemed panicked, nervous. “There are exceptions.”
The two of the them walked past security, David feel slightly embarrassed that this woman was leading the way instead of him – but she had all the cards here. He needed her, especially if she had a way in to see Nick.
“Name’s LJ.”
His heart was racing – was he being led into a trap? The girl seemed like she meant well, despite her obvious problems, but there was something rotten in the air.
“Why are you helping me?” he asked, not expecting an answer.
The one he got floored him.
“Because you’re not a crooked cop, plus you aren’t on Nick’s payroll and that’s pretty rare these days. Another minute out there and somebody would’ve realised.”
Crooked cop?
Nick’s payroll?
David Sheffield’s tenure in the Regime was just beginning, and already, his eyes were being opened. Not everything was what it seemed.
The worst really was yet to come.
CHAPTER IV
The girl had managed to get David into a private area, the music still thumping in his head. It was clear to him that LJ was coming down for her high – he wanted to inquire about what she’d said about crooked cops but decided to stay focused on Nick Rose for the time being.
The young woman held the door open for David, and the two entered a small room which just seemed like a miniature version of the club they’d just left. LJ asked David to wait there while she made sure it was okay for him to be there, and it gave the Detective time to make some observations and size up the situation.
There were guys in suits all around, beautiful women, and at the back was Nick Rose. Being the owner of the club, he was dressed to the nines in a suit of his own, his hair slicked back and generally being as obnoxious as possible – the music coming from the live band at the other side of the room was loud no doubt, but Nick somehow managed to be even louder.
Moments later, the woman returned. “Let’s go.”
LJ walked on ahead, waving the detective to follow her. He did so, ready to get to the bottom of this mess.
As soon as he got within a few feet, a huge mountain of a man blocked his way. He was tall, at least 6”10, and stocky. At first David tried to walk around him, but was pushed back.
“Going somewhere?” the guy asked in a thick Jamaican accent.
David tried to make eyes at LJ to get her attention, but she was too busy conversing with Nick, likely making introductions. After they were finished talking, Nick smirked, and called out to his bodyguard.
“Come on now Big E, I’m sure he only wants a quick talk. Step aside big man, I’ve got this one.” Rose shouted over the music, an arrogant tone in his voice.
Big E did as he was instructed by his boss, and as he did so, David got a better look at Nick Rose - sitting on his couch, with a woman either side of him. He wore a confident grin on his face, knowing full well that David was on enemy turf, and he had the upper hand. The detective had to be careful.
“How can I help, kid?” Rose asked, taking a sip of his drink and glaring at both David and then LJ. Neither seemed faze by his hardened look.
David instantly picked up on how Rose had addressed him as ‘kid’. A complete lack of respect, but that was obviously intentional.
“I just need to have a chat with you about Jack Norton – he was last seen here yesterday evening. You know anything about that?”
Rose rolled his eyes, looking as un-interested as possible while sipping his cocktail.
“A lot of people pass through here. He might’ve been here, I couldn’t say either way. I was busy-” he pulled in one of the girls closer, hugging her tightly as she giggled, “entertaining my guests.”
He took another swig of his cocktail, and looked David up and down.
“You must be new, haven’t seen you around before.”
Nick broke eye contact and looked over at the lead singer of the band on stage to the right, and made a twirling sign with his fingers. The band switched up to something slightly quieter, but still loud enough that nobody within five meters could hear the conversation. After a moment he glanced back over at David, and while he may have been a brash and arrogant guy, he wasn’t a good bluff.
“Why do I get the impression you’re lying, Nick?”
Rose’s jaw clenched, his shit-eating grin gone and an look of anger replacing it. The arrogance was still there, but he was getting hot, and fast.
“I don’t know, you tell me Detective.”
“Look Nick, we can do this the easy way, or the hard way, it’s up...”
Nick threw his cocktail glass on the ground, causing LJ to jump out of her boots. The music was thumping so loud that nobody else heard besides those within our circle, luckily for David – the last thing he needed was unwarranted attention from Nick’s ‘guests’.
“Oh man, I am just begging for you to do things the hard way!” Rose stood up from his seat and motioned for David to look around the room. “Take a look around you pig, you’re in MY club, with MY people. You wanna’ try and be a hero rookie, whatevs, go ahead. You’ll be dead within seconds, and that’s a promise.”
He glanced over at LJ. “Why’d you even bring this guy in here?”
She stammered, trying to catch her words. “I just thought-”
“LJ, shut up.” Nick cut her off, and she did as she was told.
She looked tired, haggard, defeated. He had a hold over her, that much was clear.
“Don’t make me come back with a warrant, Nick. I’ll leave and be back within the hour, and you know it. Can’t say that’d do your rep much good.”
Nick looked over at LJ, and began to laugh. At first, a quiet chuckle, but before long, he was full-on belly laughing, at David’s expense. The rookie just wished he’d let him in on what was so hilarious.
“You crack me up kid,” he started, pretending to wipe a tear from his eye in amusement, “I absolutely love the fact that you think you’re the one in charge here.”
Before he knew what was going on, David felt a sharp pain shoot through his side, and knew it had to have been Big E.
David fell to one knee, breathless – the guy packed one hell of a punch. The bodyguard scooped David to his feet, and held his arms behind him.
Trapped.
“I could kill you right now,” Nick laughed. “Nobody would miss you. Nobody. I could have someone put a bullet in your head, drag your body across the city and dump it on the outskirts, and nobody would do a damn thing. Not the Division, not the Regime, not even your Commissioner.”
David continued to try and catch his breath – it felt like he was getting hit in the stomach verbally as well as physically.
“Do you know what I call that?” Nick asked, looking amused. He lifted David’s head up forcefully so that they were eye-level.
“That’s power, kid. The kind of power you don’t have.”
Big E let David free, but not before clubbing him in the back of the head with his forearm, sending him to the floor again. This time, he didn’t pick David up.
The detective looked up, pained – his pride dented, and his body aching.
He expected to see Nick Rose getting the attention of his ‘guests’, making an example of this young rookie, who was only trying to solve his first case.
Instead, David Sheffield saw a gun barrel staring back at him, and he was convinced his time was up.
CHAPTER V
This is what it feels like to be Dean Moxley.
You are brought into this world with nothing. You carried the stigma of being an orphan around as a child, and naturally, the rest of the kids bullied you because of it.
And yet, you did nothing.
You migrated to the United States and found work at the local police station. First as a guy who files papers, did all the boring and mundane jobs that nobody else wanted to. You’re viewed as a pushover by everyone, except the person that matters most – the Commissioner, George Wilson.
Yes sir, George Wilson took care of you well and good, he was a fellow Brit after all. Heck, he even took you under his wing, said he sees something special in you. You became his personal assistant, doing all the jobs the rest of the force wish they could’ve done, and before you know it, they’d all stopped giving you shit. You’d become somebody.
Until one day, you got too big for your boots. You felt invincible, so you went out for a drink one evening – except one drink turned into a fair few more, and wouldn’t you believe it, you’re involved in a hit and run… under the influence, no less.
That Commissioner friend of yours, the man who helped build your self-confidence, well he was nowhere to be seen when the trial came. Word was that he was ashamed of you – and just like that, your confidence was crushed to dust.
The judge gave you two choices; face severe jail time or be deported back to the UK with a tag. Well, that’s a no brainer right? A one-way ticket back to merry-old England was organized swiftly, and before you even had the chance to bid farewell to George Wilson, you found yourself back in London.
Problem with that is, London is far different than you remember it being.
Blood stained the streets. A dictatorship was in full force, and it soon became apparent that without any allies, you’d just become another dead body littering the alleyways.
So, you did what any smart person would do – you hid.
For months, it’s a game of hide and seek between you and The Dictator’s special command teams. They’re good, really good in fact, but by some stroke of good fortune, you always managed to escape.
Heck, you even found yourself being taken in by an underground rebellion. The plan was to overthrow The Dictator. For a while, it sounded like a solid plan, it gave your life some purpose.
Days turned into weeks. Weeks turned into months. As time passed, your influence and power grew. People held you in high regard, you were important.
You were somebody.
Alas, all good things must come to an end.
One night, you’re taken whilst the rest of your allies sleep. There was no help, there was no rescue. As soon as you’re dragged from your slumber into the harsh reality of what awaited you, you knew the deal.
Vincent Williams had found you – and The Dictator claimed another victim.
Weeks and months blurred into each other as you were held captive. You lost hope and faith. Truth be told, you started to lose your sanity as well.
Vincent visited you one day and gave you a choice to either die or meet The Dictator, one-on-one.
Death seemed so sweet, but instead you opted to look into the eyes of the Devil.
Expecting your life to end, you found yourself being given a second chance – The Dictator offered to give you your life back.
With a price.
You lost a portion of your tongue – it wasn’t life threatening, and you managed to retain the ability to speak, heck most didn’t notice it.
But you noticed it - you noticed it every moment of every day, just how The Dictator envisioned you would. The scars around your mouth made sure of that.
You were sent back to the United States under strict orders to carry out your task without fault, the Dictator figuring you’re knowledge of the area would come in handy. Other former captives, Seth Black and Roman Fatu, were sent alongside you.
Separately, you were shells of men, but collectively?
Collectively, you were a team, a brotherhood.
Justice was swift, and brutal, just how you’d come to like it.
Brad Roberts was the first to lose his life, a snitch who had managed to collect important intel on The Dictator through numerous connections. His death was a necessity.
Next were Alberto Rodriguez and Andrew Martin, owners of the popular Funky Town nightclub. Both had dealings with The Dictator some time ago involving black market goods – drugs, prostitution, human trafficking - and whilst they had turned over a new leaf, they couldn’t be allowed to live. They simply knew too much.
Then… well, then there was Commissioner George Wilson.
You tried finding him, show him what madness can do to a man, but word has it he returned back to England.
You didn’t know whether to be happy or sad.
You felt as if George Wilson had done you wrong, that he was the beginning of your eventual downfall. If he had taken up for your all those years ago, put his faith in you, fought your corner, things could’ve been different.
Instead, he did nothing – and that ate away at your soul, burned an imprint in your mind that you couldn’t run away from.
It reminded you of how you did nothing as a child, when being bullied.
You truly believed that Commissioner George Wilson was the thorn in your side that wouldn’t go away.
Then it hit you, square in the face – the sudden realization that George Wilson extended that hand of friendship and you screwed it all up.
So, why is there still that thirst for revenge? Why the desire for vengeance?
If not George Wilson, who is it that should be on the end of your wrath?
Think, Dean. Remember.
CHAPTER VI
ONE YEAR AGO
ON THE OUTSKIRTS OF LONDON
Dean Moxley heard voices, and every instinct in his body told him to run. Waking up from a dead sleep, his eyes bolted towards the front door of the hideout. The voices were quiet, faint, but there was no mistaking them; the Division were at their door.
It wasn’t a social call – they were here to kill them. That much was clear.
He didn't hesitate, and though his mind was fractured, his reflexes were on point - making a beeline for the back door, he was stopped in his tracks by Roman.
Roman Fatu, his brother in arms, and loyal comrade.
"Quietly." the Samoan whispered.
His partner was scared, though he'd be too proud to admit it. They had to act fast.
The two members of the Justice Syndicate began to pack up their belongings, wasting no second, stuffing only essentials into their luggage bags; weapons took priority, food and water second. The rest could be left behind for the Divs to find.
Something felt off, and Moxley couldn't quite shake the feeling. His heart was racing, adrenaline pumping, knowing the Divs would likely come storming in any moment, and yet...
"Seth?" Dean blurted out, and Roman fired back with a simple "Gone."
He knew what that feeling was now; betrayal. Seth Black, the third member of their group, was nowhere in sight, and his equipment and belongings noticeably absent from the pile.
Dean resisted the urge to scream at the top of his lungs, but inside, he was seething, a mixture of disappointment and rage. After all the three had been through, this was how it ended?
There would be time to reflect later. Now they had to run.
----------
“Daddy, are you crying?”
Seth Black wiped his eyes, turning away from his daughter for just a second. “I just had something my eye sweetie.”
He turned back to see his daughter not looking all that convinced, but she embraced him with a hug anyway. Seth held her tight, and wished that he’d never have to let go. After all they’d been through, he made a promise to himself that he’d never let Gabriella out of his sight again.
“You go climb into bed – I’ll be along in a minute to tuck you in, okay?”
Gabriella darted off to the bedroom, and Seth turned back to the mirror in the bathroom. He saw two different people staring back at him.
The first was the devoted father, the man who had done unspeakable things for the ruler of this country in order to get his daughter back from his grasp. It was a means to an end, and he’d justified his actions to himself and that was all that mattered. He was reunited with her, they were well hidden and safe, and his former employer had cured her illness, at least for the time being. For that, Seth owed the Dictator – and the guy knew it too.
Then there was the second man staring back at him, the one he tried to ignore but just couldn’t – the guy who had sold out Dean Moxley and Roman Fatu to the Dictator and the Regime. Seth never, ever lost sight that it was just a job and the three had been thrust into together as a unit, but he’d be lying if he said he hadn’t bonded with them. Roman was fiercely loyal, almost to a fault, and Dean... well, Dean had his issues, but in the end, Dean had returned back to London for Seth’s benefit.
All they had gotten for their loyalty and sacrifice was a special unit heading their way on the Dictator’s order, ready to riddle them with bullets and sweep them under the carpet.
Sacrifices have to made, that’s what Seth told himself. He had told the Dictator he would do anything to get his daughter back, and he meant it.
A means to an end... so why was Seth feeling so guilty?
“Daddy, what’s taking so long?” Gabriella called out, and Seth returned to the land of the living.
“Coming!” he called out.
He and his daughter were reunited.
Dean Moxley and Roman Fatu were to be killed.
Life goes on.
----------
“Roman!” ROMAN!”
It was no use – screaming wouldn’t bring him back to life.
“Fuck!” Moxley screamed, enraged.
He and Roman had managed to get past a few members of the Division before spotting Vincent Williams heading straight for them. They’d managed to dip in and out of the alleyways, making good headway, and for several fleeting minutes, they were both convinced they’d given him the slip.
They underestimated Vincent, God knows why, they knew what he was capable of and to what lengths he would go to fulfil his duty. Vincent had taken aim and shot Roman right in the chest, and he collapsed to the ground. Dean had fired back, giving him time to grab Roman and make it into a nearby abandoned warehouse.
Dean Moxley was a lot of things, but a doctor wasn’t one of them. Soon as he’d gotten to safety, he’d wanted nothing more than to hunt down Vincent, kill him, but Roman in his last act had stopped him.
“Live.” had been his last word uttered before his chest rose for the last time.
Dean wasted little time in getting out of dodge, escaping through the back entrance and managing to use the shadows to his advantage. He still remembered some pathways near the river bank that he could use to avoid being spotted. No doubt Vincent would report back to the Dictator after finding Roman’s body.
His mind raced back to when he was posed with a decision to make after their job – either stay in America, or return back to London. He’d agreed to return to London; Dean wanted nothing more than to get his hands on Vincent, make him pay for the months of torture and pain, but his newfound respect for Seth had made him think twice.
He knew why Seth had done it – his daughter. That was obvious.
Blood is thicker than water, as they say.
Dean’s brothers-in-arms had both left him – Seth could be anywhere in the country by now, well protected. Roman had fought his last battle, but had urged Dean to survive.
And survive Dean would – after all, he now had a new mission, a renewed purpose for living. Dean didn’t care if Vincent was remorseful, or wasn’t given a choice in the matter – he told himself he didn’t have a choice either.
Vincent Williams had to die. Slowly, viciously, painfully.
That wasn’t all though, oh no. As much as Dean Moxley hated Vincent Williams with every fibre of his being, he hated the man who sold him out to the Dictator even more.
Seth had betrayed him, but he hadn’t been the first.
Dean had been allies with the sell-out once, friends even – through the darkest times, Dean trusted this guy. Up until recently, it was the only person he had trusted.
Dean had to bide his time and wait. Revenge would be his, but all in good time.
Two for the price of one.
The guy who had sold him out in the first place would be the first to die. Then he’d find Vincent Williams, and put an end to everything once and for all.
Justice was calling.
ACT TWO
OBLIVION
“I let go. Lost in oblivion. Dark and silent and complete.”
CHAPTER VII
Vincent Williams opened his eyes and whispered quietly to himself “340 days.”
It had been almost a year since the once feared hitman had taken a life, thanks in part to his new job role.
Whilst their actions questionable at times, the Regime did frown upon straight-up murder, no matter the reason. Vincent had mostly stayed out of trouble in recent times.
The reminder of how long it had been since blood was on his hands used to be a morning ritual, an attempt to keep himself grounded and keep a hold of whatever shred of compassion he still retained after years of service for his employer. Now however, Vincent would remind himself constantly, just to ensure the message stuck; those days were behind him.
His apartment wasn’t as immaculate as it had been once upon a time, the personal cleaners being one of the many privileges taken away from him after the incident. Not to mention the personalized uniform, though Vincent was happy to see the back of that – given half the chance he would’ve burned it before the Regime came to collect it.
Vincent leaned forward on his sofa and glanced over the reports spread out across his dining room table. Messy, disorganized and all over the place… times had indeed changed. He eyed the glass of whiskey on the side, picking it up in haste and finishing it in my defiant gulp.
The bitter taste of disappointment.
What had happened, Vincent thought to himself in a daze of confusion. How had he let things get this bleak? His life never was a bed of roses, working for the Dictator made sure of that… but how was this any better?
Stumbling into the bathroom, Vincent splashed some water on his face to try and regain his senses and zest for life. The mirror was shattered, broken glass littered the sink.
These days it was more about playing the waiting game than anything else for Vincent. His life had come crashing down and all he was left with was a firm handshake, a somewhat disingenuous thank you for his former employer and a desk job with the Regime. It had been the way out he’d desperately craved for so long, but now that he was out of the inner circle, Vincent wasn’t so sure he liked being on the outside.
Life was passing him by at an alarming rate. Punk kids like David Sheffield were becoming a dime a dozen, lambs to the slaughter, even if it wasn’t by his hand.
Vincent had said he didn’t need David’s help, and he meant it. The kid seemed stubborn as hell and was likely going to do whatever he wanted regardless, but that was up to the Commissioner to deal with.
He took a cursory glance over the reports one more time, trying to make ends meet. The photos told the story – Jack Norton found cut to ribbons in an alleyway, seemingly without provocation; last seen at Nick Rose’s.
Of course the Lieutenant of the Regime and right-hand man to the Dictator was always going to have their fair share of enemies based on those two facts alone, that wasn’t a surprise to anybody. The surprise was that somebody had the balls to take him on, and won. It felt more like a message than a vendetta.
Vincent sat back down, slouching, exasperated.
Justice…
Suddenly all of his senses were on fire, sharp as a razorblade. Photos and paperwork flew in the air as Vincent scrambled through the information on the table.
Justice.
“There!” he exclaimed to an empty room, studying the photo in front of him.
JUSTICE.
Inscribed on the victim’s chest. That was the message. In plain sight. Not a random word, something cool for the media to take away; this held meaning. Significant meaning.
Making a beeline for his room, Vincent dug through his bedside drawer before pulling out an A4 piece of paper, crumbled and had visibly been torn to shreds at one point. It looked to have been taped back together, and while a little disjointed, it was still readable.
It was the letter posted through his door that one morning. Vincent remembered it like it was yesterday. Without realizing it, he began to read aloud:
“Vincent,
I felt it was my duty to inform you that you will no longer be required to execute Mission 405 today. The plan to take previously long-held captives and offer them their freedom with the condition that they now work for me has proven successful. Seth Black, Roman Fatu and Dean Moxley have been dispatched to execute Mission 405 in your place. Should any problems arise, I will ensure you are informed and given instructions on how to proceed.
Also, you may like to know that your reports regarding those three individuals proved most useful. With me being such a big believer in second chances, I decided to trust these three with the plan without any supervision for the time being. They know the penalty for defiance and failure, but in case my message wasn’t clear enough, I sent a very clear example to all three.
Taking into account the three reports compiled by yourself, I took away the three things Seth, Roman and Dean care for most. With Seth being a musician in his former life, I chopped off the fingers on his right hand to ensure he can no longer play any instruments. Knowing Roman had prided himself in being able to see the best in everyone except me when reporting for the national newspapers, I decided to tear out his left eye. As for Dean, knowing his way a voice of the Rebellion for the longest time, I cut out a portion of his tongue. He still retains the ability to speak, but his mouth is now scarred up much like the rest of his body.
Thank you again for your continued co-operation, and with your services no longer being required for the upcoming mission, feel free to take the week off. You have earned it.”
The temptation to tear it up again was almost overwhelming, but Vincent contained himself, at least momentarily.
Now, this was evidence.
Before he can reflect, Vincent is speeding back to the station with his foot firmly down on the peddle, running every red light along the way.
The trio had once been known as the Justice Syndicate - at least that was what they were nicknamed by the media over in the States. Of the three, Roman Fatu had died and Seth Black was ‘retired’.
All that remained was Dean Moxley.
He and Vincent had a long and storied history. This had been a message for him, no, not just a message; it was a warning. Their lives were about to be intertwined once more.
Had it always been this way?
CHAPTER VIII
TWO YEARS AGO
THE CAPITAL BUILDING
LONDON
“Yes,” Vincent nodded, “I understand.”
The Dictator didn’t need to double check or throw around a threat of some kind; Vincent’s word was as good as his bond in his eyes, and Vincent knew it. He saw his employer take a sip of wine, basking in the ambience of having the country in the palm of his hand, seemingly not a care in the world. Classical music played as always. ‘Moonlight Sonata’ had always been one of the Dictator’s favourites.
Vincent couldn’t stand it.
“On your way.”
Vincent did as he was instructed, giving a subtle nod of acknowledgement before leaving the room, flanked by security either side.
No sooner had the doors closed behind them, the guards made themselves scarce. They knew better to raise the ire of Vincent, and besides, it wasn’t as if he needed protecting.
Vincent paid them no attention as he made his way down to the basement levels of the building, doors opened for him by the same faces he’d seen a dozen times - men and women with wide smiles, too wide to be genuine; nothing new there.
The Regime had caught another member of this underground group trying to get to the Dictator, though this was different – the guards said the man hadn’t put up any kind of fight whatsoever to begin with. He’d almost come willingly.
Of course, as soon the guards began roughing him up in the prison cell, as they did with all detainees, Vincent was sure he’d changed his mind.
Still, this was the first time Vincent could remember a member of this ‘rebellion’ surrendering. It threw up a lot of unanswered questions. This is where he came in, at the request of his employer.
Vincent was there to get the facts, and sieve through the truth and lies. That was his job, after all.
Maybe he wouldn’t kill somebody today. Maybe he wouldn’t kill somebody tomorrow.
But maybe he would.
----------
“Do you know who I am?” Vincent asked sternly whilst staring at the man in front of him – his arms and legs were bound to the chair just like many others before him, his face a crimson mask.
The person nodded, meek and wounded. He wouldn’t be as defiant as Daniel was once upon a time, oh no. This person had already been broken. This was now about bargaining.
Vincent continued. “Do you know why you are here?”
A redundant question perhaps, but the story always started the same way. A routine, if you will. How the rest played out was down to the interviewee.
“… Yeah,” he coughed, blood trickling down his chin, “I know why I’m here.”
He was pleading with his eyes, hopeless desperation. They screamed ‘Get me the fuck out of here.’
All in good time.
“You’re charged with crimes against the Regime. You know the punishment for that, don’t you?”
He didn’t answer. Vincent exhaled, pulling his chair closer to the shell of a man sat before him.
“Listen to me carefully. You and I both know that as soon as you leave this room-”
“You can’t kill me!” he interrupted, but Vincent carried on anyway. This is how it played out every time.
“-you are going to die. There is no way out of this facility that doesn’t result in you being taken away in a body bag.”
He started to cry, the tears mixing with the blood on his face.
“Despite what you may think, I’m trying to do you a favor. The more I can find out, the less my employer will need to extract out of you himself.”
He was openly sobbing now, his breathing erratic. Vincent glanced up at the security camera, and saw that it was turned off, as always.
No witnesses.
It was time to end this; Vincent got to his feet, kicking his chair back. It would all be over in a minute.
“Any last words?”
The victim’s eyes go wide in horror, his life no doubt flashed before his eyes.
“MOXLEY!”
The hitman stopped dead in his tracks, his face contorted. Did he hear correctly? He couldn’t have…
“I… I can… get you Moxley!” he stammered. “P-p-please don’t kill me!”
Vincent pondered for a moment, a hundred thoughts ran through his head. This could be the end of it all; isn’t that what he wanted?
“I don’t think I caught your name?” Vincent asked, and the man looked up at him, his eyes glazed over.
Salvation takes many forms. “Nick Rose.”
CHAPTER IX
The sunlight burned as David Sheffield made a feeble attempt to open his eyes. He managed to open his left completely, but the right was still swollen shut. Sitting up on the couch, he stretched as other officers passed him by, bemused looks on their faces. It wasn’t every day a new rookie decided to stay in the station overnight; that was usually reserved for old vets who would rather work on a case then return home to a nagging house-wife.
Nick Rose’s men had really done a number on the detective and it showed just by taking one look at his face. On top of the swollen right eye, David’s had a fat lip and a nasty cut underneath his chin with Big E had kicked him with all the force of a football player. That was the last thing David remembered before waking up outside the station, the two officers who had accompanied him there either side of him. All they could muster was a half-hearted ‘sorry’ or ‘my bad’, David could’ve swung for both of them but cooler heads prevailed. After his brief discussion with LJ, his eyes had been opened somewhat.
Regime officers on the take. The very thought disgusted David, but as he had thought about it before drifting off to sleep on the couch outside the Commissioner’s office, he cursed himself for being so naïve. It killed him to keep his mouth shut, but David knew that he had no power in the Regime, not really. His parents were well-respected, he came from a well-to-do background, but he hadn’t earned his stripes. He was a simple cog in the wheel, one who could be taken out and replaced at anytime.
David stumbled over to the coffee machine, needing something to wake him up. He’d opted not to go to the hospital to avoid drawing attention to what had happened, at least until he knew who to trust. Hell, for all he knew at this stage, LJ could’ve just been off her rocker on Synth and spouting gibberish – but his gut instincts told him otherwise. The way those two pricks had feigned concern last night, he could tell they were bent as fuck. He didn’t know what dirty deeds they were doing for Nick Rose, and at this point in time, he didn’t care. All David needed was a cup of coffee and a conversation with Commissioner Wilson about what the next move was.
“You look like shit.”
That condescending tone… even with a thunderous headache, David knew it was Vincent.
He turned around, and was taken aback by what he saw. It was his reluctant partner alright, though he looked so… disheveled. A far cry from how he’d looked only twenty-four hours before. David opted not to try and hide his surprise.
“Look who’s talking.”
Vincent paid him little attention, making a coffee of his own. David could feel him staring but decided to do the same and just ignore him, until curiosity got the better of him.
“What happened to you?” he asked, but Vincent just sipped on his coffee. David knew that Vincent wanted to ask the same.
The stubborn prick.
Truth be told, Vincent looked like he hadn’t had a wink of sleep – his shirt was hanging half out, his tie crooked and his hair out of place.
“I’m guessing you went over to Nick’s nightclub and got the customary welcome?” Vincent remarked flatly, taking a seat.
“I don’t want to talk about it,” the rookie responded, clamoring for a way to strike back. “Looks like your night wasn’t much better?”
Vincent leaned back on the couch, coldness in his eyes. His mind was obviously elsewhere. “Just tying up loose ends.”
David decided to keep pushing, try and establish some sort of rapport with the hard-ass. “Any luck?”
Vincent thumbed the top of his coffee, tracing the outline. “I don’t know yet.”
“What’s our next step?”
Vincent looked up at the kid, noting his eagerness. The two were never, ever going to get along, that much was clear. But at the moment, Vincent could use his help to cover old ground. Off the book work – he figured the rookie had a rebellious streak considering their confrontation the night before.
“I need to go pay your buddy Nick Rose a visit.”
His eyes widened like an excitable child, though he tried hiding it… poorly.
“Let me come-”
“Shut up,” Vincent growled, shooting him down instantly. He leaned forward, speaking quietly. “I need to pay your buddy Nick Rose a visit. I need you to do me a favor.”
David finished his coffee in one fast gulp, trying to act like he couldn’t give two shits. Vincent saw right through it of course; his previous line of work required knowing when someone was lying.
“Is that right?” David asked, eyebrows raised, a cockiness about him that Vincent reckoned was all just a front.
“That’s right.” he shot back without hesitation, that coldness in his eyes still there, and still worrying to David.
The rookie weighed it up in his head - he was already involved in some very serious shit that worried him to no end. He had been thrown in the deep end where nothing was it seemed; if LJ was right about what she said, he had to watch his back. David didn't care for Vincent's attitude or opinions, but the fact was, he was an island to himself and not likely in league with the bent officers. As much as he hated to admit it, he needed Vincent; the black eye he was currently sporting was proof of that.
Better the devil you kind of know, than the devil you don't.
David let out a loud sigh. He didn't really have much of a choice.
"What do you need me to do?"
----------
The kid had a death wish, Vincent was sure of it. After he’d told David of the next move, he’d left the letter from his previous employer with Commissioner Wilson for safe-keeping. It wasn’t damning evidence by any means, far from it, but Vincent knew he could dig up enough information to find Dean Moxley and put all of this to rest. Everything was starting to unravel – he had to act fast.
Meanwhile, David Sheffield prepared for the long journey to the outskirts of the city, the under-privileged areas. It was another new and exciting adventure, but one he now approach with trepidation; the experience with Nick Rose had knocked him off his high-horse. He knew he had to watch his back and watch it well, because anybody could be waiting to stick the knife in.
Both men were heading in separate directions, but with a singular goal in mind.
Justice.
As Vincent sped off in his car towards Nick Rose’s nightclub, a feeling came over that he couldn’t remember having for the longest time - doubt.
He wouldn’t fail again…
Not this time.
CHAPTER X
ELEVEN MONTHS AGO
THE CAPITAL BUILDING
LONDON
He wasn’t happy.
Vincent could hear Chopin's 'Fantasia Impromptu' playing through the doors of his employer's office down the hallway - the harsh, haunting melody would echo whenever he was admonishing somebody.
A stern-looking security guard motioned for Vincent to follow, and he did as he was instructed. Now was not the time to be defiant. He pondered on his current predicament, and came to the realisation that he hadn't ever been on bad terms with his boss until today.
Today was different.
The double doors opened, and Vincent stepped into the immaculate office of his employer, pristine as ever; a far cry from the hell-holes he'd seen in his time. Though the Dictator's back was turned to him, Vincent could just imagine the look on his face.
The doors behind him closed, cut off from everybody else. The Dictator's hand swayed in the air along with the music. He paid no attention to Vincent for a minute or two, though it felt like a lifetime.
Vincent went to take a seat, stepping forward whilst removing his jacket, only for his employer's hand to suddenly come to a screeching halt.
"Don't move." he commanded, and through gritted teeth, Vincent did as he was told.
The song reached its crescendo, and the most powerful man in London finally turned around to face Vincent. His face wore an expression of... disappointment.
"Drink?" he asked, motioning to the desk in front of him which was home to an empty glass and the finest wine money could buy.
"No, thank you." came Vincent's stilted reply. His employer knew all too well that Vincent didn't drink - this was merely a game of cat and mouse.
Treading on mighty thin ice.
The Dictator took a seat, pouring himself a drink and taking a sip, his eyes never deviating from his personal hitman that stood before him. Though he wore a calm expression, it unnerved Vincent; it was impossible to get a read on him.
"You know why you're here." Vincent caught himself before blurting out an answer, realising from the tone that it wasn't a question. The Dictator took another sip of his wine, deliberating.
Vincent just stood there, his hands trembling behind his back out of repressed anger. He looked at his employer sitting in his chair, the faintest hint of a smirk on his face, a small glimmer in his eyes... no doubt, the most powerful man in England was enjoying this. Vincent blamed himself having given the Dictator a reason to come down on him after all this time.
"How long have we known each other Vincent? Fifteen years, maybe longer?" he asks, raising an eyebrow.
Vincent didn't know exactly, but he knew it had been way too long.
One more swig of wine and the Dictator finished the glass. Not usually one for theatrics, he uncharacteristically let out a loud sigh.
"What am I going to do wi-"
"Kill me?"
Vincent's interruption seemed to catch the Dictator off-guard, and whilst all of his senses were on fire, the hitman stood firm. The Dictator petted away at his mouth with a handkerchief before tossing it on the desk, surveying the situation.
"No Vincent, I'm not." he replied coolly, shooting Vincent a glare. "You’re no good to me dead."
Safe, for now. Vincent didn't rest though, he knew how volatile his employer could be. He had to push forward.
"What happens now?"
The Dictator smiled, standing up, hand outstretched seemingly for a handshake. Vincent looked down and then up again at his boss.
All the missions he had done for him, the people he'd tortured, the people he'd captured - in all that time, the Dictator had never once shaken his hand in appreciation. Not once. Why now?
"For now Vincent," he began stepping out behind his desk, arm still out in front of him, "we say goodbye."
Goodbye?
"I...I don't understand?" Vincent could feel his heart-rate increase, the blood begin to rush to his face. He couldn't even hide the confusion on his face, and the Dictator let out a hearty laugh.
"You will Vincent... soon enough."
Tired of waiting for a response to his gesture, the Dictator snatched his employees hand and shook fiercely. He relished the fact that Vincent was none the wiser, and that he still held all the cards.
Absolute power corrupts absolutely.
This was what being discarded like a piece of meat felt like. After years of hard work and service, years of questionable actions, years of never breaking out of the cycle, this is how it ended.
Not with a bang, but with a disingenuous handshake.
How the mighty have fallen.
CHAPTER XI
The sun was beginning to set on London and with that came a whole host of new problems for Detective Sheffield. He had reached the outskirts of the city easily enough, one flash of his badge at the border had seen to that. Most people had left him be, a couple of glances at his car here and there, but he’d avoided any trouble for the time being. With it starting to get dark however, the rookie tried keeping his head down best he could, started to take the back roads to avoid bringing attention to himself.
It was the first he’d time he’d been outside the city limits, but that’s where he was instructed to head and he did as he was told. The experience with Nick Rose still lingered in his mind; have a gun aimed at your head on your first day on the job will do that to a man. He was lucky that his family were so well entrenched with the Commisioner otherwise it would’ve been maybe the shortest career of anybody in the Regime ever. David knew that it was a sharp, harsh wake-up that he needed to heed, which is one of the reasons why he decided to play ball with Vincent. His confidence and self-belief had been knocked back, yet he knew he had to change his way of thinking. A trip to the underprivileged areas of society would maybe open his eyes.
It wasn’t without its dangers though – people were desperate out here, David knew that at the very least. Synth was heavily used to keep others in line, and whilst everybody obviously answered to the Regime at the end of the day, there was still very much a pecking order out here. He was effectively in no man’s land… with no back-up of any kind. There might be patrolman who he could find should the worst come to the worst, but by that same token, David had already seen the underbelly of the Regime first-hand at Nick Rose’s nightclub. He couldn’t imagine the officers stationed out here were much better.
“Help! Somebody!”
David was quickly brought back to reality as his car turned the corner. His path was blocked by three men, two beating on one on the floor, kicking the holy hell out of him.
“Hey!” the rookie shouted of his window, stopping the car dead in its tracks and getting out, gun pointed in front of him.
The two thugs backed off slightly, looking startled but still mad as hell. They were decked out in balaclavas, their faces almost completely covered. At a first glance neither seemed to have a weapon, but David knew he had to be cautious.
“The hell is going on here?” David quizzed, the man on the floor trying to get to his feet while his two attackers stood their ground. They took a quick look at David, and it soon became apparent that they were aware he was part of the Regime by his uniform.
“None of your fuckin’ business.” replied the first attacker, fists clenched by his side.
David didn’t budge an inch, but he was sweating profusely. He tried to not let his nerves get the better of him. He could do this.
“You here to be a hero, pig?” second the second man, taking a step forward, intensity in his eyes.
David slowly shook his head. “Just doing my job.”
The first guy chuckled. “You’re a long way from home man.”
The second seemed to be thinking along the same lines as his partner. “All alone too from the looks of it.”
Trouble was brewing. These two clearly had unfinished business with the guy on the ground, and judging by their behavior, David reasoned that they were on Synth. Reasoning with desperate men was hard enough, but desperate men under the influence? That was pretty much impossible.
David took aim with his firearm.
“Go home gentleman.” he urged, not forcefully but he wasn’t going to plead with them either.
Neither man budged an inch. David didn’t have any intention of firing unless it was in self-defense, unfortunately an option that was looking more and more likely. He wouldn’t have second-guessed the situation beforehand, he would’ve been waded in like Superman and taken both guys down and back to the station, no matter how long the journey.
Now however, things had changed. The world was different, the rose-coloured glasses had come off, and in their place, was shades of grey. David had to adapt, change on the fly, adjust where he could, starting right now in this alleyway with two smack-heads and some poor bastard who would probably have been dead by now had he not shown up.
“Nobody had to die here.”
David wasn’t sure what had made him come out with that, and truthfully, he wished he hadn’t sounded so desperate… but he’d said it now. He just wanted to make sure the guy was alright and get going.
He noticed one of the men take half a step back. A moment later and the other did the same.
A few tense seconds passed before the two guys made a break for it round the corner, and like that, they disappeared into the night.
David breathed a sigh of relief, putting his gun away and taking a second to appreciate the fact he hadn’t had to fire. Nobody had to die, and nobody did. He considered that a minor victory.
The rookie helped the victim to his feet – it was too dark to make out what he looked like, but judging from his erratic breathing, it seemed like they had done quite a number on him.
“Thanks.”
“Don’t mention it,” David replied, “just glad that didn’t take a turn for the worse.”
The gentleman limped over to David’s car, using the hood to prop himself up and sort himself out before going on his way. Back in the city David would file a report and all sorts, but out here there wasn’t really much point. Besides, it’s not like he was here on official business anyway.
“Can I give you a ride?” the Regime detective offered, but the guy shook his head.
“I should be okay.”
David decided to leave the guy to it against his better judgement, getting back into his car. He turned the light on to put his gun back in its holder and to sort out his GPS. The signal in the outskirts was lousy to say the least, so he figured it couldn’t hurt to ask him for directions.
“Hey, you wouldn’t happen to know where Keswick Close is would you?”
The man had started to head off in the other direction but had stopped dead in his tracks upon hearing the question. His body became rigid, slowly turning around and making his way back to the car.
He peered in through the open window, causing David to look up from his GPS. The rookie was sure he looked like a deer in headlights, but only because he couldn’t believe his eyes.
He recognized the guy from the photo on the police record Vincent had shown him. Strange that a man who was meant to be living in isolation, away from the rest of the world with his daughter, had found his way so far from home. It had to be destiny, that the very man David Sheffield had just saved from a severe beat-down and possibly worse, was the same person he’d been sent to find by Vincent.
Seth Black looked shaken, nervous even, but just as defiant as David had imagined.
“Who wants to know?” asked the former Justice Syndicate member, opening the car door and taking a seat next to the detective.
David could hardly believe his luck.
“My name is Detective Sheffield… I need to talk to you about Dean Moxley.”
CHAPTER XII
The wind was bitter as Vincent Williams pulled up to ‘The Kingdom’, nary a person in sight. It had just turned late afternoon and the usual faces were either just finishing work or still nursing hangovers from the night before. Stepping out of his car, Vincent almost put himself in that same group of ordinary people, before remembering who he was and what he’d done in times gone by. He may have tried to blend in during the last year, but he was no everyday member of society, nor did he have any desire to be.
Vincent had always been an outsider. He preferred it that way really, he’d seen what happened to those who depended on others instead of watching their own backs. The world had changed around him in front of his very eyes, but he’d stood firmly in the same place for the longest of times up until recently. Too little, too late Vincent would remind himself on occasion. Sometimes he’d wonder what his life would be like had he not joined up to the Regime and taken orders from a power-hungry madman... pure fantasy, of course. Besides the alcohol in his flat, daydreaming was the only real escapism Vincent had.
Getting out of the car, he couldn’t help but notice that the lights to the neon sign outside were still on. Nick Rose wasn’t shy about throwing his wealth around, especially considering how the majority of it came from the Dictator’s pocket, but Vincent couldn’t help but feel that something was wrong. The uneasy feeling had stayed with him during his drive over, and it was only getting worse with each passing minute.
Entering the club, there was no welcome party; no bouncers, no stragglers from the night before, not even someone to greet him at the front desk. Vincent didn’t want to jump to conclusions, being the calculated individual that he was, but he un-holstered his gun all the same. A bead of sweat dripped down from his forehead, and though his icy stare gave nothing away, inside he was concerned.
“Hello?” he called out against his better judgement, clinging to the hope that he was letting his emotions get the better of him. He was met with a harsh silence that would have made most men turn around and walk straight out the door. Vincent wiped his brow, almost defiantly, and proceeded down the hallway towards the main hall.
The hall was usually full of drug addicts, piss-heads, the worst scumbags in town... or usually a combination of all three. Not today. Today was different; there was no loud-thumping music, no strobe lighting, no dregs of society trying to get their hands on Synth and forget about all their worries and fears. All that greeted Vincent Williams was a lone spotlight in the centre of the dance-floor.
He couldn’t quite make out what he was looking at first, his eyes adjusting to the bright light, but when he re-focused, there was no mistaking it – sitting down on a chair was Nick Rose, arms and legs bound. His body was propped up, but Vincent could tell from the blood all over the ground that he had to be dead. The white suit had been stained red from top to bottom, matching the puddle on the floor surrounding the body. As he got closer, he saw that the chest wasn’t rising. Nick’s eyes were wide open but nobody was home - not anymore.
“Shit...” Vincent muttered, his eyes scouting the area frantically for something, anything that might now help him find Dean Moxley. There was no doubt in his mind that the madman had been responsible for this, but considering his shady history, he’d need evidence of some kind to prove it wasn’t one of Nick Rose’s many enemies. Selling Synth and earning a tidy wage under the table from the Dictator may have taken Nick Rose to heights he could only have dreamed of, but that wasn’t to say he was popular by any means. Nick had no doubt fucked over a lot of people but it all started with Dean Moxley.
A slippery slope of lies and deceit. Vincent had never liked anybody he couldn’t trust, so naturally, he never held Nick Rose in high regard. Sure, he’d given the Regime the opportunity to capture Dean Moxley, ensuring that he was always going to be in the Dictator’s pocket from that point onwards, but Vincent hated how... proud Nick was of his actions.
“I’d like to say he didn’t suffer...” came a booming voice, and Vincent instinctively aimed his firearm in the air to his right, instantly recognising the voice as Moxley’s. All that was there was a speaker, usually used for the DJ to make announcements. “But I’d be lying.”
Vincent’s eyes darted around the hall, which was dimly lit besides the area he was standing with the recently deceased Nick Rose. He managed to spot the DJ booth and darted towards it. Vincent peeked inside, only to find it empty.
“You should have seen his face when he first saw me Vincent, it went as white as the suit he was wearing.” Moxley hissed with malice and a hint of delight.
The Dictator’s former hired hand began to look around, and found himself panicking. One bead of sweat began to form on his forehead, and then several more. Gun raised, he began to search the shadows, mindful to keep an eye out behind him.
“The girl ran,” the tortured soul continued, “probably at the station by now.”
Vincent could feel his temper getting the better of him that he couldn’t find the bane of existence. He made his way to the centre of the hall again, and had to stop himself from screaming out in frustration. He instead looked up, noticing what looked like a VIP room of some kind – the light was on.
Bingo.
There was no tact, only a sudden rush of adrenaline as Vincent sprinted up the stairs. He was confident of his own abilities, and knew that deep down Dean Moxley was terrified of him. The former rebellion leader may have come for justice, but Vincent was positive that he’d put an end to that fairy-tale soon enough.
“Nick may as well have died by your hand... don’t tell me you didn’t see the similarities?”
Vincent stopped for just a split second – the bastard was right. The bound arms and legs, the chair – sure, it was a far more bloody affair, but the method was strikingly similar. Shaking his head, he marched on, reaching the VIP booth.
It took one swift boot to kick the door in, though Vincent hadn’t bothered to check if it was locked. No matter. He stormed in, gun raised ready to put an end to this cat and mouse game...
Nothing.
Vincent’s mask began to slip completely, the cold stare gone, a look of pure bewilderment... and anger.
Rage, boiling to the surface.
He noticed too late... there was something of interest to note about the VIP booth. Vincent’s eyes went wide in shock as soon as he noticed; the microphone was missing.
No doubt it was wireless.
He’d been played like a fucking fiddle.
He suddenly felt an arm around his neck, and a nasty stinging sensation in his neck, and Vincent knew very quickly that he’d just been drugged. He collapsed to his knees, dropping his gun in the process as the drug began to quickly take effect. Before losing conscience completely he felt a vicious pain on the back of his head, no doubt it was his attacker punching or kicking him to make totally sure he was out for the count.
Instinctively rolling onto his back, Vincent looked up through blurry vision and saw Dean Moxley staring down at him. His hands still bloody from his attack on Nick Rose, he saw Moxley do something he’d never seen before.
He smiled.
As everything went black, Vincent wondered if that would be the last thing he’d ever see...
Of course it wouldn’t be... that would be too easy.
For Dean Moxley, this was the revenge he’d been waiting to exact for almost two years. He was going to make it last.
ACT THREE
REDEMPTION
“I found freedom. Losing all hope was freedom.”
CHAPTER XIII
Keswick Close was pretty far removed from the rest of the underprivileged zone, way out North. Seth remained silent for the journey, staring out the car window at the poverty stricken streets. David was tempted to ask what Seth was even doing in the back alley but thought better to pry for the time being.
Besides, the sooner they were indoors the happier David would be. Though he would never say it out loud, seeing how the other side lived up close was eye opening to say the least, and the Detective was conscience of the fact that it was a whole new world out here. Frankly, David was unsettled by it all.
"You have reached your destination." purred the voice from the GPS, and David took one quick look at his surroundings. The house was a nice one at Keswick Close, but not too nice so that it drew too much attention. To David's eyes that hadn't seen much of anything this side of the boarder however, he knew even at a glance that this place was obviously being funded by somebody. Though he hadn't seen a whole lot of how these people lived, he knew how he and his parents lived, as well as their friends - this house would be heralded as a hidden gem on the property ladder.
Getting out of the car, Seth led the way to the front door. He didn't question David following, and the rookie took this as invitation enough. His instincts were bang on the money, as Seth turned to look over his shoulder in the doorway.
"Shoes in the hallway, don't touch anything."
David tried flashing a quick smile of acknowledgement. "Understood."
The smile wasn't returned...
----------
The young girl in the photograph adored Seth and vice versa, both of their beaming smiles were heartwarming, though David immediately thought back to his own family photos back home - were the smiles too wide to be genuine, or is it that he always overrated his home life compared to others?
The living room door opened, Seth carrying a tray with two cans of White Ace, one already opened. He caught the look on David's face, frowning slightly, and jumped on it.
"I'm all out of Chateau Margaux I'm afraid."
The detective let out a quiet laugh, but noted Seth's tone; he was being sarcastic sure, but there was more to it than that. He went to comment on the photo of Seth and his daughter, and soon found himself under attack... though instead of a fist, it was through the venom of words.
"Do I make you uneasy detective?" Seth said flatly, putting the tray down on the dining room table and crossing his arms. "Does my home not meet your lofty standards, huh? Is my mangled hand too much of a harsh reality check for you?"
David just stood there, silent. He had no idea how to placate the situation that had spiraled very quickly out of control, but thought he'd at least try.
"It's not like that-"
"Like hell it isn't." Seth scoffed.
David looked around, trying to hide his nervousness. "Look, maybe we got off on the wrong foot..."
Seth laughed condescendingly, his eyes narrowed. "You're not wrong there."
"You got something against those from the capital?" David quizzed.
"Nah," Seth shook his head, "I got something against Regime though."
"Your hand?" The rookie could tell from the way Seth uncrossed his arms and held his hand in bitter reflection that he was right.
Still, Seth remained guarded. "You could say that." His mind wandered, ever so briefly, before addressing the young kid in front of him again. "You wanted to ask me about Dean Moxley?"
David decided to be blunt, see if the tough approach yielded any success. “Yes.”
“Then ask away, detective.”
He was going to cut to the chase, enough pussyfooting around. “Do you know where he is?”
“No – hopefully as far away from here as possible.”
“I was led to believe you guys were friends.”
Seth’s stare was terrifying. He didn’t bat an eye-lid. “I’d say your sources are outdated.”
This wasn’t getting David anywhere. “Perhaps we should start again-”
“No, I don’t think so.” Seth interrupted. “You come all the way from the capital, cross the border, come into my home wanting information – I don’t know you from Adam. For all I know, you’re here to put a bullet in my back.”
David would’ve laughed at that comment for being so ludicrous a week prior, but ever since he saw what went down at the nightclub, he’d learned to be more aware.
“I’m not here to do that.”
“That so?” Seth questioned, taking a sip of his drink, grimacing no doubt at its foul taste. “Last person in the Regime I listened to kidnapped my little girl, sent me on a suicide mission, and had me double-cross my fri-” Seth coughed, stopping himself, “colleagues. Trusting you guys is a little hard to do…”
David nodded – Seth just stood firm, his piercing eyes not wandering for a split second.
"You have any idea what it's like to not be accepted, kid? I'm not talking left alone on the playground as a child, none of that bullshit... I mean when your very own turn their back on you?"
Seth turned to face David eye-to-eye, man-to-man.
"You ever felt alone?"
David hadn't; not really. Sure, his Regime career had gotten off to a rocky start, but he knew worst case scenario that Commissioner Wilson had his back - yet another favor from his parents. This moment, right here right now, was probably the first time in his life that David had felt truly alone.
Looking down at the ground, unable to bring himself to answer truthfully, David felt Seth's eyes on him. Not so much in judgement, but more in understanding.
"I thought as much." Seth muttered, taking a seat and nodding towards to tattered sofa behind David for him to do the same.
Progress.
A few tense moments passed, neither man saying a word. Seth just surveyed the situation, David doing the same. Once again, the detective's eagerness got the better of him.
"I didn't mean to offend-"
"Cut that shit out." Seth snapped, shooting down the attempt of an apology almost instantly. "You're real wet behind the ears kid, that's obvious me and will be obvious to anyone out there."
He pointed outside, and David found himself glancing out the window, complete darkness engulfing the area. Bleak as hell.
“I had to do some pretty awful shit okay, stuff I’d rather leave buried… those people downtown, I used to be one of them. Fighting, clawing to survive. Times have changed.”
“For the better?” the rookie asked, interest peaked.
Seth shrugged his shoulders. “For my daughter, absolutely. She used…” he coughed again, catching his emotions this time around, that guard starting to be let down, “she used to be real sick. She isn’t anymore, she gets to live… but for me, selfishly… as much as I hate myself for saying it… looking in the mirror isn’t easy.”
It wasn’t – looking at the man he had changed into was the toughest part of Seth Black’s day, a complete contrast to the joy that filled his heart looking at the young woman his daughter was becoming. He didn’t know why he was opening up somewhat to this kid, Seth figured it was out of loneliness, a sad desperation… and in some ways, he could just tell that the kid hadn’t been clued in.
Seth Black may not be able to save himself from damnation, but he was at least going to try his hardest to make sure this young detective knew the real face of the Regime.
The ugly, disfigured, corrupted face of the Regime would be laid bare for David Sheffield to see in the light of day.
CHAPTER XIV
Spiral up, spiral down.
Love dies.
Hope dies.
Colours turn grey.
Spiralling down to the dark.
----------
Vincent Williams could feel him in the room, and instantly his skin began to crawl. At this stage he was starting to hope that maybe, just maybe, Moxley would just end it all. His will to live, that lease on life was diminishing, and yet, he knew there was no end in sight. Not yet anyway.
He lifted his head up as much as possibly could given his weakened state, and saw Dean Moxley standing beside him. It had been an awful long time since he’d seen Dean before being kidnapped, and it was apparent that so much had changed in that time. Moxley’s eyes screamed for blood, his behaviour erratic. Moxley had always been different, a rebel without cause, Vincent had heard as much from the others he’d captured over the years. He took no pleasure in his treatment of Moxley, he’d hoped that his employer would have killed him that day he released him from his cell. Little did Vincent know that in doing so, he’d opened up the floodgates for something far worse down the line.
Vincent didn’t utter a word, and instead waited for Dean to speak first. At first Dean merely lit up a cigarette and stared at him, his dark blood-shot eyes piercing through his soul. Vincent decided to quit struggling to keep his head up and began to allow his body to slump forward again. Bound to a chair, he was powerless to move his arms or legs.
Then Moxley spoke.. or rather, began to sing. Quietly, softly… but out of tune, without reason, and venom behind his words.
“We went down to the river to pray… studying about those good old days…”
Vincent could feel the dried blood on his face crack as he frowned, with Dean almost caught in a trance of sorts.
“Who shall wear a starry crown? Good Lord, show me the way…”
Moxley staggered forward, his face a multitude of emotions – one moment, violence and malice etched all over, but the next, twisted compassion and regret?
Vincent could hardly believe his eyes Moxley took a seat on the floor opposite him, crosslegged, and began to sway back and forth. Dean did not look at Vincent in the eye, instead his attention was drawn anywhere but, his eyes darting all over the place attempting to focus and calm his mind.
“What’s worse, Vincent?” Dean asked, a slight sense of bemusement in his voice. “Succumb to the madness and wither away, or accept and embrace it?”
Vincent didn’t answer him – he didn’t really know how to. Dean continued however, almost as if his question was merely a rhetorical one.
“What people may call insanity, I call clarity.” He turned his head sharply so that his eyes locked with Vincent’s. “Do you think I’m insane?”
Once again Vincent didn’t respond, but the way he looked at Dean in such a disgusted way told Dean Moxley all he needed to know.
Dean sat there for a while, studying, waiting. Vincent bided his time, waiting for any kind of opportunity, but he knew if he wanted to somehow survive this, he’d have to speak. Try and get through to Dean, perhaps buy himself some time.
“Why haven’t you finished me off?” he asked.
Dean let out a simple laugh, madness in his eyes and vengeance in his heart.
“Insanity loves company.”
Dean’s eyes gleamed, and Vincent felt compelled to say something else, heck anything that may give him some answers - anything that would stop him from staring at him the way he was, looking like he’d rip out his heart at a moment’s notice.
“Why am I here, Dean?”
“Because I want you here, Vincent.” Dean replied in a heartbeat, with far more than just bemusement in his voice – this time it was pure glee. “What I want, I get.”
Dean looked around the room, looking as if it was all unfamiliar territory. Madness will do that to a man, Vincent thought to himself. Madness turns everything on its head. Nothing is as it seems.
“What happened to you, Dean?” Vincent managed to croak, the blood in his mouth making it more and more difficult to speak.
Dean let out a hearty laugh in response, standing up. “More than you can ever imagine, Vincent.”
Vincent went to continue to conversation, almost out of desperation, a plea for help, but he knew it would be no use – Moxley was heading for the door, and his window of opportunity was gone for the time being.
“Down brothers, let’s go down… down to the river to pray.” Dean mumbled as he left the room, ensuring to lock it behind – and just like that, the madness had taken him once more.
Vincent closed his eyes, slipping back into the dark retreat of his mind, and found himself praying, much like he used way back when. Just as he did in times gone by, he prayed for a way out, but there was more to it this time around.
This time he prayed that the madness that had taken Dean Moxley would not come calling for him too.
CHAPTER XV
The police station was… quiet. Eerily so, at least that’s how it seemed to Detective Sheffield as he slowly wandered the hallways. He suddenly felt like Dorothy from Wizard of Oz, his whole world changing from black and white to colour.
Seth Black had told him plenty, and at first he had refused to believe – it all seemed too far-fetched to possibly be the truth. Corruption, murders, a Dictator pulling all the strings… but the more David look into Seth’s eyes, he knew it had to be true. Every single word.
Seth had told David to head back to the city and to not come back, and the young detective had promised to honor his wishes. Seth didn’t know where Dean Moxley was and didn’t care either, as long as he didn’t come near Gabriella. All that matter in that man’s life now was his daughter, and David could respect that. After everything he’d done and been through, looking in the mirror would be the least of his worries, Seth had said…
It was the nightmares that were going to be hard to overcome. The guilt on Seth’s face spoke volumes. It was that very look of guilt that had convinced David to take the man at face value, and at that moment, his eyes had been opened.
It was painful, frustrating, to know that everything David thought he stood for was a lie. The very people he worked alongside were corrupt, most of them anyway. The values that had been instilled in him as a child by his parents were built on a shaky foundation of death and repression.
As he headed down towards the lobby, he suddenly felt as if all eyes were on him. Most likely paranoia… or was it? Perhaps people had always been watching, spying, trying to figure him out. A green rookie, naïve and innocent…
What a fool he’d been.
Not anymore, David promised himself. He’d have to be careful, everything he thought was wrong; now it was up to him to decide which side he stood with, and how he would go about watching his own back. He didn’t have all the finer details, but really, David didn’t need to. What he’d heard from Seth was enough to make his blood run cold.
Strangely, with the lobby packed to the brim of colleagues, David had never felt more alone. He’d been tempted to ask Seth to return to the city with him, but he knew it was never going to happen. Now, he had nowhere to turn.
And then there was the curious case of Vincent Williams.
He couldn’t be sure if the ‘Vincent’ Seth had mentioned was the same he’d been paired with, but the person described fit his M.O… if only slightly older, and more jaded.
But the coldness Seth had described, the frightening reflective nature, the piercing stare… it all fit.
David was still in too much shock to be horrified. He didn’t take to Vincent, not for a moment, but he never dreamed he could have formerly been a hitman for hire, offing people left-right-and-center. He thought Vincent, though being a total hard-ass, stood for justice.
Perhaps he did – his own twisted version of it anyway.
“Sheffield...” came a voice, and David recognised it immediately as Comissioner Wilson’s. Snapping out of his day dream, he saw his boss standing in front of him.
“Yes sir?” he responded, feeling his muscles tighten, holding his breath in anticipation.
“There’s a girl at the front desk asking to see you lad... says her name is LJ.”
----------
She cried – at first a few low sobs but soon enough, it’s loud and uncontrollable.
The tears flowed, streaming down her face, ruining her makeup in the process. Her breathing starts to become erratic, heavy.
LJ took a deep breath, taking a moment to try and compose herself – she came to the police station not for the Regime’s help, but for David’s. Though their meeting had been brief, there was something genuine about David that had caught her attention. She felt she could trust him – and considering the state of the country in recent times, that was saying something.
She began recounting what had happened, quietly. Her voice was shot from all the screaming she had done at the time... it’s not every day you see your boyfriend murdered in such a violent manner in front of your very eyes.
Moxley was what Nick had said in bewilderment as he had come walking into the club, a haunting smile on his face. LJ said Nick went to try and escape, but Moxley had been too fast, had caught him at the bottom of the stairs leading to the main hall, and began beating on him pretty good. Nick was a rat, but never a fighter – he didn’t stand a chance.
She had tried to make an escape too, but Moxley had clipped her leg pretty good, kicking her ankle good and hard. LJ looked ashamed when she mumbled that she’d been on Synth at the time, so getting up was no easy feat; instead she lay there.
At first she thought Moxley may have been an undercover cop... until he tied Nick up to the chair. He beat on Nick a bit more until Nick’s face was swollen and disfigured as a result, no doubt his cheekbones broken as a result. At no point did LJ try and stop it... and she never looked away.
She began to cry again, looking guilty. The young woman remarked that she didn’t look away when Moxley began cutting Nick’s face to ribbons either...
Nick called out to her, LJ cried. She knew he was a horrible person, treated her like shit but in his dying moments, he needed her... ironic, no?
She told the detective that she had managed to crawl away to the shadows and Moxley had assumed she’d left. She was biding her time to make good on her escape, and as she was about to leave, another person wandered in.
“Vincent...” David mumbled, and LJ said Moxley had lured him into a trap. LJ had overheard Moxley gleefully telling an unconscious Vincent that he planned on taking him back to the place they had last met.
David knew he had to act fast, find out if there were any reports in the archives mentioning Moxley or Vincent... or considering what he now knew about the Regime, any reports that didn’t add up – ones that may have been tampered with.
He held LJ’s hand in some pitiful attempt at reassuring her. Was David that scared and alone himself that he secretly sought the comfort of some junkie?
“He said this was it...” LJ looked at David, her eyes red from all the tears she had shed. Traumatised.
“The beginning of the end.”
David couldn’t have agreed more.
CHAPTER XVI
Vincent Williams opened his eyes and whispered quietly to himself “One year.”
It had been an entire 365 days since he had killed somebody. That was some feat – perhaps he should’ve felt somewhat proud, but Vincent didn’t. He knew he was going to hell regardless.
He was in a world of agony and misery, with the cuts to his face, arms and legs beginning to become infected. His face was wet from perspiration, his gums bloody from gritting his teeth, trying to block out the pain. He refused to give Dean Moxley the satisfaction of hearing him scream, cry, beg or plead. Vincent knew he was a lot of terrible things, but he wasn’t a quitter.
He’d die before he’d give in, especially to Moxley. Vincent’s pride simply wouldn’t allow it.
“Welcome back.” Moxley whispered from behind, slowly stepping out in front of Vincent - looking him up and down, he obviously approved of his actions.
He stood there for a while... pondering. What else could Dean Moxley do at this point that he hadn’t already? How far could he push Vincent before he cracked? Their game of cat and mouse had long reached its conclusion; this was now the cat reveling in its victory, toying with the mouse before devouring it.
“This almost feels hollow in a way,” Moxley began. “I would lie awake at night, and all I’d see is you. I’d imagine all the ways I could hurt you, just as you’d hurt me... and now I have you here, at my fuckin’ mercy...”
He seemed frustrated... confused.
“You look so pitiful.” Moxley spat, and Vincent couldn’t help but grin. It hurt mind you, but seeing how it enraged Moxley, it was worth it.
A swift punch to the face wiped it off Vincent’s face fairly quickly.
“I’m not the monster here, you are!”
Vincent wasn’t sure if Moxley was trying to make a point or convince himself.
“How do you sleep at night Vincent, huh? Knowing all the inhumane things you’ve done, not just to me, but to other people? All for that sick fuck Dictator? How is your conscience clear?!”
Dean’s knuckles cracked off Vincent’s face once again, only this time Vincent didn’t let his head hang low. He lifted his head suddenly, looking his captor in the eyes.
“It isn’t.”
The answer seemed to take Moxley aback, almost as if he had convinced himself that Vincent would say otherwise.
“But,” Vincent added, failing to suppress a grin once more, “at least it isn’t as bad as yours.”
Dean didn’t lash out, surprisingly. He just stared at Vincent, took in the fact that he was almost smiling. Vincent had always been this cold, calculated, violent man; most would think he was incapable of human emotion. Yet here he was, smiling... taunting Dean Moxley, in what could be his final moments.
Such had been their lives since that first meeting. Their roles were clearly defined from the beginning – Vincent Williams a puppet for the Dictator, capturing the rebellion leader Dean Moxley. Sure, Vincent hurt Moxley in so many unimaginable ways, but it wasn’t as if Vincent took any pleasure in it, despite what Moxley had decided beyond a shadow of a doubt. In recent years, they had headed down separate paths, Moxley a fugitive and Vincent a detective nearing the end of his career... a fall from grace for both men, and with both blaming the other for how things had turned out.
Neither were role-models, neither were men wearing white hats... but neither were pretending to be either. Both Vincent and Dean knew who they were as people, knew the things they had done, knew the hate they harbored for one another...
They also knew the hate they harbored for themselves too – the self-loathing, the feeling of failure, the people they had let down, not least themselves.
Here they were however, still making excuses for their misdeeds, wanting to see the other fall further than they had, just to see who had the last laugh.
In a cruel twist of fate, Dean Moxley seemed poised to win the war... but what would he do afterwards? Was this the reason for his venom and hatred, his confusion? The horrible realisation that even if he took revenge, he may not find peace?
Dean Moxley knew deep down that inner-peace was a pipe-dream at this point. Revenge, sweet vengeance may not wash away his sins, but at least he’d sleep easier knowing Vincent Williams had died by his hand.
As he started to drift back into unconsciousness, Vincent reflected on everything that had brought him to this point... and he did not expect to ever see anything again, his lasting image to be of Dean Moxley - knife in hand - ready to bring his story to a bloody conclusion...
Clang… or maybe it sounded more like a clatter.
A noise – like something being knocked over.
Moxley and Vincent both collectively held their breath, neither knowing what to expect, if anything.
Then Vincent heard it...
“Vincent?”
The kid... Detective Sheffield.
You damn fool.
Moxley turned to look at the doorway, and then back at Vincent. The former hitman’s face was vacant, but somehow Dean could just tell...
“Friend of yours?”
Vincent said nothing.
Then again, he didn’t have to.
After all they had been through, Dean could read Vincent just as well as Vincent could read him.
More than one person was going to die today – and Vincent Williams would have failed yet another person before all was said and done.
Dean Moxley swore it.
CHAPTER XVII
David Sheffield had gone alone – call it paranoia, call it stupidity, but he was still shaken by what Seth Black had told him. The corruption ran deep, far deeper than he could fathom… anybody could put a bullet in his back.
At least with Moxley, he knew that bullet would come head on, right between the eyes. It was a risk he was willing to take.
The warehouse was broken down beyond belief, tucked away by the riverside. After going into the archives, he noticed a report from a year or so ago involving three vigilantes, all presumed dead after the shoot-out in this very building.
There was no record of who led the assault team section of The Regime, named The Division, to take care of the three vigilantes… it all added up with Seth Black’s story. He, Dean Moxley and a third member of their task-force Roman Fatu, had returned from America after doing this Dictator’s bidding, only for Seth to sell the other two out. Vincent had been dispatched along with The Division to clean up the mess.
Roman Fatu had fallen, Seth had heard. He quietly mourned his loss, but the love for his daughter eased his inner suffering. It wasn’t long after that Seth was told that Moxley had escaped – from what he understood, Vincent was relieved of his duties as a result, sent down to The Regime local offices, and for the past year, had kept his head down.
Then this whole mess with Jack Norton was uncovered – the replacement for Vincent found murdered in an alleyway. This Moxley guy was the likely culprit, knowing it would bring Vincent from behind his comfy desk job back into the firing line – Norton was bait, and Vincent was reigned in hook, line and sinker.
The area was dark, dingy, falling apart. There were still holes in the walls where The Division has obviously opened fire…
It almost seemed fitting that Dean Moxley would bring Vincent here – the beginning of the end as LJ put it.
Poetic in a way, but neither were going to die on David’s watch. Both needed to be apprehended, and charged for their crimes.
The people within the system may be corrupt as hell, but David still had his values, his own personal beliefs, what made him the man he was today – he couldn’t be the only good guy left.
There was a light on in the back of the warehouse, the view obscured by fallen floorboards from above.
Nevertheless, David Sheffield pushed on – not for Vincent, but for himself.
This was his story.
----------
Dean Moxley was panicked, though he was trying oh so hard not to show it. He was relishing the opportunity to cause Vincent just that little bit more suffering before bringing it all to a fitting end, but deep down, he was worried. He’d been so consumed by getting his hands on Vincent that he’d forgotten about the young punk that had been with him in the alleyway that evening.
Moxley had watched from afar as the kid had done all the leg-work, trying to put the puzzle together – all the while, Vincent had his suspicions, but time had not been kind to the Dictator’s former right hand man. Still, Moxley didn’t want to spell it out for him. After all, letting the bastard figure it out for himself was half the fun.
No doubt the voice calling out for Vincent was the rookie, trying to play hero.
Sad really; Vincent sure as hell didn’t deserve to be saved.
Still, the young man had sealed his own fate. Moxley placed the bloody knife in his pocket, picked up the 2x4 that had been lying on the table in the corner, and gagged Vincent for good measures. He didn’t really expect Vincent to cry out for help, but Moxley figured he’d cover all bases just in case. After slapping Vincent mockingly on the cheek, he went to hide in the shadows.
Dean felt like the director of a movie, watching his characters improvise on the spot.
He couldn’t have been more proud of what was about to happen.
----------
Detective Sheffield was as cautious as he possibly could have been, gun unholstered and ready for what awaited him. The odd rattle of pipework and floorboards still had him on the edge, but he reminded himself that he needed to focus.
“You got this…” David whispered, succumbing to the thought that he now had nobody else to rely on but himself.
If that was how it was meant to be, then so be it. In a world as shitty as this one had turned out to be, maybe it was for the best that he didn’t rely on others anymore. Learn to stand on his two feet. That’d be good.
First, he had to fulfil his duty. Aspirations for the future could wait.
He peeked his head round the corner, and David saw him.
All of his emotions came flooding out. Anger. Rage. Disgust. After hearing of the things Vincent Williams had done for this sick dictator, all the people he had hurt, maimed, murdered, all the while he was still alive… that was an injustice.
Yet, as he looked as him strapped to the chair, he felt sorry for Vincent. The lightbulb swung from side to side, and every so often the blood would reflect across the floorboards, illuminating the area in a dark, sickly shade of red.
His face was swollen, puffy, like he’d gone ten rounds with Mike Tyson, only he didn’t imagine even Mike Tyson could do this amount of damage in his prime. The cuts on Vincent’s face looked deep, refusing to close, they were no doubt infected. Same went for the cuts on his arms and legs…
He looked like a Picasso painting. Mangled, bloody, raw… a real mess of a human being.
He no longer had that icy stare, instead… regret? Perhaps remorse?
It was as David stepped forward to take the gag out of Vincent’s mouth that he heard footsteps behind him at a quickening pace.
The cloth that had been in Vincent’s mouth dropped to the floor, and David distinctly heard Vincent shout out his name before everything went dark.
----------
Dean Moxley.
Gun in hand.
Everything was blurry, hit in the back of the head by something blunt… hard.
Likely concussed.
David tried to regain his bearings, but his eyesight was distorted, off balance.
He was on the ground in a heap.
“Any last words?” Moxley had rasped, take off the safety of the automatic the rookie had held in his hand not more than a few moments prior…
David closed his eyes.
Moxley did not…
----------
“Wait…” came a mumble, and Dean stopped. His eyes darted behind him.
Vincent, still bound, still in pain, lifted his head.
His eyes, still full of regret for his past misdeeds.
“It’s me you want dead, Dean…”
Dean’s eyes went wide with hate.
“It’s always been me.”
Moxley turned around to face his long-time tormenter, their eyes meeting once more.
One final time.
“Finish it… if you can.” One final taunt. The last word.
Detective David Sheffield cleared the cobwebs just enough for him to see Vincent Williams, former hitman for the Dictator, to look over Dean Moxley’s shoulder at him.
And Vincent nodded to him – and he braced himself.
Understanding.
Acknowledging.
Accepting.
It only took one pull of the trigger, and the deed was done.
All of the air left Vincent’s body in one go, his head and body slumped forward sharply, dramatically.
Moxley let out a deep sigh… it was finally over.
Vincent Williams was dead.
…
And soon, David Sheffield would be too.
CHAPTER XVIII
Every instinct was screaming at David Sheffield to make a break for it – after all, he was about to go one-on-one against one of the most ruthless men in the world – there was little chance he would survive an onslaught from Dean Moxley, especially one with murderous intent. And yet, as Moxley slowly closed in on him, Detective Sheffield decided that he wasn’t going to run. He hadn’t backed down from a fight in his life, and despite the overwhelming odds, David convinced himself this was one battle he could actually win. Moxley was crazed, psychotic, obviously not in any clear state of mind – David had to make that work in his favor.
David acted quickly, springing up from the floor and catching Moxley with an elbow to the side of the head that would have floored a lesser man, but the madman merely stumbled backwards. Attempting to use his speed to his advantage, Moxley leapt off the wall, attempting a flying kick of some kind, a move perhaps taught to him back in his rebellion days. David however caught Moxley in mid-air, and drove him down to the floor, using all of his bodyweight to wind his attacker. No sooner had he got to one knee, Moxley was all over him, swarming with punches to the face and stomach, no doubt trying to keep him grounded.
Moxley’s attack was furious and un-relenting, keeping the young detective on one knee. The kid started unloading with a few stomach punches, winding his attacker. To his surprise, David could hear Dean talking smack as he tried to regain his bearings – “I’m gonna’ rip your head off!” was one such threat that David heard.
If it wasn’t bad enough, Moxley then pulled out a knife from his pocket. As David’s eyes quickly scanned the room, he spotted three backpacks lying on the floor, no doubt belonging to his attacker. The detective made a beeline for the backpacks, but Dean cut him off, kicking the bags away in a blind panic and kneeing David in the stomach. He doubled over in the pain, struggling to breathe – when he looked up, David saw Moxley smirking.
“The eye of justice sees everything, kid”, he laughed. “Nick’s goons roughed you up pretty good huh?”
“Nothing I can’t handle...” David coughed, trying to buy himself some time. Moxley didn’t seem convinced.
“Doesn’t look that way to me.”
Detective Sheffield had managed to keep the maniac talking long enough to regain his bearings. Knowing full well this was a fight for survival, David dug down deep, springing up and slamming Moxley’s head into the brick wall behind, knocking the hell out of him. He returned the favour and delivered a knee to the stomach of his own, and left Moxley to slide down the wall to the floor.
David turned to call in backup, but was soon met with Moxley shouting bloody murder as opposed to sneaking up behind him – the bastard wouldn’t stay down. The threat however gave the rookie plenty of time to sidestep a knife swipe and grab a front face lock. Moxley kicked, scratched and clawed, fish hooking David in barbaric fashion. David could have twisted Dean’s neck there and then, but he was no murderer. That is what separated him from scum like Moxley… and Vincent.
David eventually had to let go, Moxley’s fish hooking becoming too much to bare. Noticing him faltering, the maniacal Moxley sprang into action, catching the detective with a stiff punch to the jaw that dropped him - mere seconds later Moxley began reigning down upon David with one kick after another. Each shot seemed to hurt more than the last, with Moxley rearing back and hitting David in the stomach with a penalty kick. The rookie grimaced in pain, letting out a slight welp that brought a smile to Moxley’s face. The maniac quickly scurried over and picked up the knife lying on the ground. He took a moment to look at Vincent’s lifeless body sitting in the chair in front of him.
“The beginning of the end.”
Upon turning around, he was head on by Detective Sheffield, who took the fight to the floor with a takedown that would make most rugby bigwigs proud.
It then became a struggle of epic proportions, with both men trying to take control of the knife. It was not in David’s nature to kill anyone, he stood for what was right in the world but at this point, he started to believe that the only way out of this alley was to finish of Dean Moxley for good. Moxley however snarled and cussed as loud as possible, using seemingly years of pent up anger and frustration as his motivation, not to mention his desire to see justice prevail. However, it appeared on this occasion that no amount of malice was going to out-match the young detective...
... Until Moxley managed to turn David over and grab him in a reverse choke. David scrambled and gasped for air, the knife behind both men at this point…
He could hear Moxley whispering in his air, asking him to stop and give up, let things take its course…
Fuck that.
In a last ditch effort, David broke free of the hold by throwing his own head back full force and shattering Moxley’s nose with the back of his head. Moxley fell to the ground is sheer agony, grabbing his face in pain. This would be his only opportunity – he had to disable Moxley any way he could.
Picking up the knife, David managed to use the last of his energy and stabbed his attacker in the left thigh, right in the central pressure point. Moxley instantly fell to the left, grabbing his leg in agony, as the dark red blood began to pour at a rapid pace!
David Sheffield was battered, bruised and bloody, but he had succeeded in apprehending Dean Moxley. Handcuffing the killer, he called in backup, and the fight of his life was over.
David Sheffield had prevailed where others had not…
“Justice...” whispered Sheffield, who sat on the floor of the abandoned warehouse until sunset, watching Dean Moxley slip in and out of consciousness. As the sun began to rise on a new day, the young detective knew he was lucky to be alive.
And yet, there was still more work to be done...
EPILOGUE
SALVATION
“This is your life and it’s ending one minute at a time.”
VINCENT WILLIAMS
It was raining.
Vincent Williams was dead.
He had lived a life marred by controversy, a life he likely would have sacrificed long ago to be with the rest of his family.
Vincent had never known normality – even in his younger days, the area he grew up in was rough. It was a dog eat dog world he had learned early on, and that always stuck with him.
Survival of the fittest he would tell himself. Only the strong survive.
Or the smartest.
Or the cowardly.
Still, it was over now. Finally, Vincent Williams was laid to rest. He never did find that inner-peace that he yearned for, never found comfort in anybody else. A prisoner of fate and circumstance, he could never escape the crimes he had committed.
In a lot of ways, Vincent never really wanted to, not deep down. Burying the things he had done would have almost meant he had accepted them, forgotten about them, moved on with this life.
The truth of the matter was that Vincent never did move on. Could never forget the faces of those lives he had taken, even if he had convinced himself it was for their own good.
It was a terrible world they all lived in – Vincent was just trying to bring them peace. The peace he craved himself.
He likely welcomed death with open arms when all was said and done. He knew his time was up, probably relished the thought of being able to rest, even if it was for the rest of eternity.
It was raining, and Vincent Williams was dead.
Nobody attended his funeral. Not his peers, not David Sheffield, not Commissioner Wilson, not even his former employer. He was laid to rest, with nobody there to speak on his behalf. Vincent would have wanted it that way.
He wouldn’t be remembered as a hero, but that was okay - Vincent never pretended to be anything he wasn’t.
He was a killer - a hitman for hire, who would count the days he hadn’t taken a life just to make it through the day. A constant, daily reminder of the harm he could cause… but also a daily reminder of how he tried so hard to avoid going down that path.
It was raining, Vincent Williams was dead… and the world was a better place.
Godspeed.
DEAN MOXLEY
“Down brothers, let’s go down… down to the river to pray…” Moxley hummed to no-one in particular, sat inside his jail cell – solitary confinement was soothing for him, despite what the Regime had intended for it to be.
This was it – the end he’d waited so long for was finally here.
ABOUT THE AUTHOR
William Powell is a self-publishing author from London, England. An avid film and novel lover, William has been writing for as long as he can remember. Drawing influence from various artistic works over the years, William hopes to inspire others to follow their dreams, just as he has his.
His previous works include 45 Days and Descent Into Madness, the Kindle-only prequels to When Justice Comes Calling. Both prequel stories were published via paperback as The Justice Anthology – Part I. Also available is This Is Not An Exit, a 4th-wall breaking meta-story detailing the trials and tribulations of bringing these stories to life. All four of these publications are available via Amazon.
You can follow William on Twitter, @SaveUsWP, read his blog SaveUsWP.blogspot.com and check out his website, SaveUsWP.com.
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