King Maker: The Knights of Breton Court, Volume 1 (40 page)

  King ducked under the clumsy attack, cursing himself for an ill thought-out strategy with no end game in mind. The fact that he and Lott's blood got so roiled at the idea of someone menacing Lady G was all but dismissed by the pair. The threat of the Caliburn was just that: an empty threat. King was loathe to draw the weapon if the situation didn't warrant it. Ever since the Glein River incident. The weapon called when it demanded to be used. On its terms, any time else was an abuse. King threw a couple of quick jabs into the man's kidneys which seemed to annoy him more than anything else. What did he hope to accomplish? His only plan was to beat this man's ass under the guise of asking him to move on.

  The mistake most people made – it occurred to King as he stepped out of range of Caul's massive swipes while leading him away from a shaken Lott – was to use the same weapons against all enemies. There was nothing to be hoped for going toe-to-toe with Caul. That was fighting a superior foe on his terms. No, the only weapon against strength and size was smallness, stealth, and speed.

  As if reading from the same battle manual, Lott charged Caul, tackling him at the knees. The giant collapsed to his knees catching himself before his head hit the concrete. Scrabbling for purchase, he hoped to wrench Lott into his grasp.

  King withdrew his Caliburn. The gold glistened in the early morning light. Lott's eyes widened. Caul turned, following Lott's gaze, his sight landing on the gun. Shifting his grip, King swung the weapon in a low arc, clocking Caul just above the temple.

  "So what do we do now?" Lott asked.

  "Call the police?" King examined the unconscious giant.

  "And say what? Where I come from, snitches get stitches."

  "Self-defense."

  "Trouble just seems to keep finding you."

  The morning had barely dawned.

 

A pair of New Balance tennis shoes – gray and mottled with mold – dangled from the overhead phone line. A schoolyard prank gone awry to the casual passer-by; an advertisement, or ominous warning and cause for alarm, to those more in the know. King sucked his teeth in disgust and wondered how long they had been there and if it were too late to stave off the attempted infection of his neighborhood. His philosophy was simple: if a community didn't take control of itself and one guy entered who could think, the community would have a problem. If people in the neighborhood took control, however, that guy knew he had opposition. Most times before he stood against opposition, he would leave for an unprepared, less resistant neighborhood. Now, in LA or Gary, they might go toe-to-toe with opposition. Not here. Not in Indianapolis. Not yet.

  "Back it up." King waved the Outreach Inc. van back a few more feet then held his palms up for it to stop. Armed with a broom, he jogged around to the front and hopped up along the hood to the roof in a limber movement.

  "This is stupid," Wayne said. Brushing back a few of his long braids which had fallen into his face, he turned all the way around, revealing a scar on the back of his neck. A tight knit shirt stretched across him, showing off the stocky build of a football player, with the light gait of someone who knew how to use their size should the necessity warrant. A quick smile broke up what otherwise would have been a hard face. "You better not leave any shoe prints up there."

  "A little work now prevents a huge, pain-in-thebehind worth of work down the road."

  Breton Drive separated the assemblage of townhouses of Breton Court from Jonathan Jennings Public School #109. The school was designated a zero tolerance zone and once Night's drug crew had been dismantled, it was one in deed as well as word. King stared at the shoes as if they personally mocked him.

  "It's a pair of shoes."

  "It's a
declaration
," King said. "Says someone intends on dealing out of here soon. It's a set-up notice. Well, message received. Now we're sending one back."

  "Yeah, throw up a pair of tennis shoes and see how many brothers it takes to take them down."

  "Two. One to do the work and another to wear his ass out with complaining about it." King waved the broom handle about, a blind conductor directing an unseen orchestra. Eventually one of his haphazard swings connected with the shoes and they tumbled free. "There. Now they know. You try to set up shop in this neighborhood, there are folks around here who care enough to stop it."

  "Uh huh. If you close your eyes, you can hear your applause."

  "Come on." King gathered the shoes, holding them with two fingers well away from him. "We going to be late."

 
 

ANGRY ROBOT A member of the Osprey Group

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Dragon rising

 

Originally published in the UK by Angry Robot 2010

First American paperback printing 2010

 

Copyright © 2010 by Maurice Broaddus

Cover art by Steve Young @ Artist Partners

 

Distributed in the United States by Random House, Inc., New York

 

All rights reserved

 

Angry Robot is a registered trademark and the Angry Robot icon a trademark of Angry Robot Ltd.

 

This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents are the products of the author's imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual events, locales, organizations or persons, living or dead, is entirely coincidental.

 

Sales of this book without a front cover may be unauthorized. If this book is coverless, it may have been reported to the publisher as "unsold and destroyed" and neither the author nor the publisher may have received payment for it.

 

ISBN 978-0-85766-052-7

 

Printed in the United States of America

 

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