Nobility: The Dystopian King, #1

By Mason Dakota

Griffon has survived by following one rule: Don't be a hero.

But when this bank robber becomes a hostage on a train with a lethal terrorist, Griffon will have no choice but to break his one rule.

In a race against time, Griffon must navigate through a web of conspiracy to save innocent lives and stop a killer from destroying everything he loves.

Before the killer puts a bullet in his head.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Dakota Publishing
• Release date: Jan 1, 2021
• ISBN: 9781393763109

Mason Dakota

Mason Dakota's real name is Mason Powell. Mason was born at Fort Bragg Army base on January 3rd of 1995. Mason started writing fiction in middle school with a buddy writing silly fan fiction of their favorite superheroes. In his senior year of high school, Mason became serious about writing fiction when he started writing his Dystopian King Series. Mason is the Teaching Co-Pastor at The Bluff Church in Poplar Bluff, MO. You can check out his messages by going to www.thebluff.church or checking out their Facebook page. Mason also writes nonfiction under the name Mason D. Powell and is the co-host of the Archippus Podcast. Mason is happily married to a beautiful wife who shares his passion for making the world a better place. His wife, Jodi Powell, is also an author who writes illustrated children's books. They have one daughter and are expecting a second kid to be born in the summer of 2023.

Book preview

1

It all started the night I robbed a bank...

I took a deep breath and held it, trying to quiet my beating heart in fear the pounding was audible. The slightest noise could drastically ruin everything. My life hung in the balance, and the consequences of failure were severe. My excitement threatened damnation in that dead of night. Every fiber of my being roared and buzzed with life so rich and sweet that I swore I could hear angels singing to cheer me on. I had lived for this rush of life, this kiss of death closer than any lover’s embrace. I survived off it for years, for the consequences of thievery in the Empire by the hands of an Outcast mocked the wrist slap any thieving Noble felt. A Noble might spend a few years in prison for robbing a bank, but an Outcast like me would be hanged for anything worse than publicly insulting a Noble.

A bit drastic in my opinion.

Sixty seconds remained before I had to move into position and ensure everything would go according to plan. It required perfect timing and finesse. High above the room, I lay unseen behind a cut portion of an unfinished ceiling. I waited patiently. The bank had been going under reconstruction the past few days. I was hired, to be one of the construction workers, I planted my body inside the ceiling and waited all day until night fall. The wait was long and incredibly boring, but it was the window I’d needed to get inside. I passed the time reading old comic books and western novels and people watching through small slits in the paneling.

People act weird, even in public when they do not think anyone is watching.

Now, in the dead of night I observed everything beneath me before making my move. Details always meant success or failure.

Below me was a brass chandelier that lit a large room made of marble flooring. A small flank of stairs descended to the bank lobby. Large windows flooded the room with rich, pure moonlight, illuminating the few dark crevices that the guard missed with his flashlight. Four large spiraling pillars stretched to the ceiling and desks, used for banking consultations, scattered around the room. Counters with velvet roped-rows flanked the stairs leading down to the main entrance. A large round vault door sat behind an electrified gated area. But my target was not the vault. That would be too obvious.

At the front desk sat a lazy and careless security guard with his feet propped up at his desk. He snoozed, like a man with few worries in life. I knew more cheaply hired guards were in the back and spaced out through the bank, doing coordinated patrols. With their body language and facial expressions, they looked complacent, like they were certain no one was stupid enough to rob a bank owned by this city’s most dangerous mob boss, Lady Alexandra Carline.

Well, there’s one thief crazy enough tonight.

Just for fun, I spent my last few seconds studying the overweight sleeping guard at the front desk. His shirt was un-tucked on his left side and ketchup stained his dark blue tie. Burger wrappings lay on his desk with a few fries left over. He wore a small flask on his hip which, prior to blacking out, he frequently drank from when he thought he wasn’t seen. He had a fading line where he once wore a wedding ring and sagging bags under his eyes from a weariness that appeared to be caused from more than lack of sleep. His near alcoholic state and the faded line on his finger suggested to me the man was going through a ugly divorce and did not seem to be taking it well. He carried a standard small sidearm on his right hip that I imagined his pudgy hand struggled to use properly. He also had the word Outcast printed on his left forearm like every Outcast has at birth, myself included.

My wristwatch flashed a red light and I saw the cameras begin to change their angles of direction, which gave me a matter of seconds to move into the next blind spot.

Time to begin, ordered Gabriel, my boss and mentor behind the scenes, in my ear piece.

Here we go, I whispered. The rest of my team was smart enough not to answer over the line just yet. I silently slid the ceiling panel to the side and quickly propelled down a black rope I had attached to a crossbeam above me. Without a thud, I landed on the cool marble floor.

Five seconds left to move to the next blind spot.

I leapt like a silent panther to the stone pillar to my left and slid around it to its backside, out of sight. A count of three breaths and I was off again. I moved to a desk about ten yards away. I slid the last few feet, landed under the desk, and reached up to plug in a special hyper-slicer into the computer’s hard drive to hack into the bank’s direct system in a single fluid movement.

All right Michael, you’re up, I whispered in the ear piece.

Roger that, Griffon, he replied over the air. Michael was my team’s hacker and computer whiz, a real master, and he went to work immediately remotely slicing into the bank’s system through the hyper-slicer I installed while I lay there, motionless, counting away the seconds.

All right, I did it. You’ve got fifteen seconds, Griffon, said Michael moments later. I ripped the hyper-slicer free and stuffed it into a pocket. I slid from under the desk and moved to a position unseen further from the computers. I didn’t bother to stay hidden anymore, it was no longer necessary. The video was just recording, nobody would see it until after the robbery, and the only part I wished no one to see was over now.

Now for the good part.

I strode confidently around the bank’s floor like a man who owned the place. I skipped to the sleeping guard and swiped a few of his delicious fries. I scooped up some papers from a nearby desk and threw them left and right as I marched down the room. I jumped up on desks, kicked over chairs, and scattered office supplies all across the floor. I’m surprised the security guard slept through it all. I did all of this in full view of the cameras. It was all about making a statement.

Hey, this might be the only chance I get to rob a mob queen. Might as well enjoy it.

I slipped up next to the vault’s electrified gating and settled in right beside a doorway without any door handles and only a keycard scanner and thumb print reader. The door led into the rear of the bank where my prize awaited. The only problem was that I didn’t have a keycard or the right thumb print. But I had planned for that too. I crouched under the safe door to hide in the shadows as my internal clock counted down. Seven and a half seconds late, another guard emerged from the metal door.

This one was leaner than his overweight co-worker still snoozing at the front desk, and he remained ignorant of my presence. I came up from behind and wrapped my arms tightly around his neck till he couldn’t draw another breath. His panicked scream was cut off by the strangled windpipe and muffled by my hand. He tried to fight back, but failed. After a few seconds, the guard slumped, unconscious in my arms. I laid him aside and took the keycard from his belt. A quick swipe of the card and a reading of his thumb print from the scanner put me through the door. It opened into a long hallway with many doors. Other hallways branched off from where I stood. My target lay behind one particular door. I kept my movement silent and on a rhythm, first taking a right and then the next left, making sure I remained undetected by the few guards back here.

My target door was just a normal wooden door of fine polished oak. What wasn’t so normal was the gate made of iron pulled across it and locked in place. Twenty seconds, I told myself as I pulled out my lock picking gear and dropped to one knee to begin. The lock was amateur stuff with only two tumblers and took me fewer than ten seconds to open.

These guys really don’t think anyone is stupid enough to rob them.

I slid the gate back, swiped the key card and entered the safe deposit room. Some thieves believed the reward for pulling off a bank heist laid behind the vault door. I disagree. Sure, there was plenty of money in a safe, but money was heavy and difficult to carry if a speedy exit was needed. When that happened, it often meant having to abandon some of the earnings just to escape.

However, the really valuable stuff always lies kept in the safe deposit boxes in sizes easy enough to conceal in your pocket. Things like important documents and gemstones.

Inside the room, metal boxes lined the walls on every side from floor to ceiling. Each box had its own number and key slot. In the center of the room sat a single wooden table and a chair. There were no cameras or surveillance in this room. Those who entered paid for privacy. The only camera was the one outside that recorded me entering. I wanted the authorities to see me enter this room. When the investigation began, officials would review that camera’s footage, and fail to see my first crime of hacking the computer system. Cops would tear the safe deposit box room apart, searching every lock box to identify what was taken. Those rich enough to have access to the boxes would protest at first, and the cops would be so bogged down in paperwork and search warrants that I would be long gone. But, what I did in that room would be remembered, and the effects of my actions would forever change the city’s infrastructure.

The clock ticked, and I had to move fast. I had come for two boxes—two boxes that would put a huge target on my head. Both were secured with silent alarms built in to alert the police and the box owners. Boxes SB274859 and SB820957 belonged to Lady Alexandra Carline, a ruthless mob boss who owned the bank, and Mayor Josephus Kraine, the mob queen’s personal puppet. Both were Nobles, which meant their ancestors were conceived in a lab and crafted to be genetically pure of any flaws or mutations in their genetic code, an aspect passed down through generations creating a completely separate race of humanity and breeding a host of hostility and heavy racism between Nobles and Outcasts (those without genetic purity in their blood systems and prone to mutations and diseases like me.)

I dove into my work, going first for Alexandra’s box and then the Mayor’s. Both proved more difficult to unlock than the outside gate, but not too hard for me. It wasn’t long before both boxes laid open before me on the table. I knew silent alarms were going off. Less than three minutes remained before the cops arrived in heavy force, or worse...Alexandra Carline herself. Time ran short now.

You’ve triggered the silent alarm, Griffon. Security is on the way, warned Michael in my ear, telling me what I already knew.

I hear you. I hear you, I replied as I worked as fast as I could.

The contents of Alexandra’s box consisted of the items you’d expect to find in a mob boss’s safety deposit box: a gun, a few passports all with different aliases, a small velvet bag filled with diamonds without serial numbers, a beautiful ring, a large wad of cash all in crisp hundred-dollar bills, and a small leather book that was likely one of her ledgers for her business. To be honest it resembled more of what I’d imagine a spy’s safe deposit box probably looked like.

The Mayor’s box held much less: a single passport with his actual name; a little black box with a sigma ring marking his status as nephew to Emperor Adam Rythe, a stack of cash to match the one in Alexandra’s box, some more jewelry, and a couple of folders that contained highly sensitive information Gabriel instructed me not to look at for fear of death. I was already a dead man for being in this bank after business hours as an Outcast. But looking at these boxes meant something much more dangerous. If the police did not catch me and have me hanged, Alexandra and the Mayor would have me hunted down for sure. Kraine’s punishment would be public and short. But Alexandra’s version would be long, painful, and in solitude...with repercussions that might extend to those who helped me tonight.

I truly do love my job; every moment feels special when you know it may be your last.

I read once that adrenaline could be an addiction for some. If that was true it certainly described me. I wanted to dwell in that moment’s rush, but there wasn’t time and I still needed to complete my job before the security arrived. Otherwise, this would all be for nothing. I swapped some contents between the boxes, sticking Kraine’s heirloom and all but one of his files within Alexandra’s safe. I kept the last file, labeled "Nebula." I slipped it into my pocket out of sight. This is what Gabriel asked me to steal and why I came here. I wasn’t sure what it was, only that Mayor Kraine went to great length to keep the file off any digital database and have it hidden in a place he thought secure.

Too bad for him he never bet on someone’s recklessness.

The police are here, Griffon! They’re blocking off the area and the guards inside are heading toward your location. They’re nearly at your door now. Get out of there! Michael radioed.

I looked up just as the door started to open and a guard stepped in with gun in hand. I lifted my leg and kicked against the table with the flat of my boot. The table slid forward, smashed into the guard, and pinned him against the wall. He fell forward onto the table and dropped his gun on the ground by his legs. He looked up just as I hit him with the chair to knock him out.

The movies have it wrong when someone gets hit by a chair. In real life, the chair doesn’t break; you do.

That is exactly what happened to the guard as he collapsed forward unconscious on the table with his legs still pinned to the wall.

Time was up. I slid the unconscious guard and the table back and headed out the room, leaving the open boxes exposed. At the end of the hallway appeared another guard who shouted and pointed his gun at me. I dove to the right and headed for the emergency exit. Shots sounded, and I heard wood and plaster shatter as the guard’s shots hit the wall. I made it to the end of the hall and slammed against the emergency exit to throw open the door. It opened onto a dark alley that housed a dumpster, trash cans, and a fire escape that led to the roof of the building next door. Already, I could hear police car sirens close by as they worked to cut off exits and establish a perimeter.

Seconds later, the guard burst through the emergency exit and into the alley, but I was already gone and high above him on the rooftops. This was my comfort zone, racing along rooftops, leaping from building to building. They each got progressively taller the farther away I got from the bank, which meant escaping to the ground level would only get more difficult—all a part of the plan. I went higher and higher all so my finale would be all the greater. They spotted me at the end of the line with nowhere to escape twiddling my thumbs. A Noble Police Force of Chicago (NPFC) helicopter flew high above the rooftops lighting me up with its massive spotlight.

I really had expected these guys to show up sooner.

The parking complex is clear of all civilians and the charges are set, Griffon, said Michael.

Gotcha, wait for my signal, I replied. Michael affirmed, and then the line went dead again.

Freeze! someone finally shouted through a mega-phone from the helicopter.

Do I look like I’m still fleeing still?

Remain where you are! You are under arrest, said that same person.

I sighed in annoyance and muttered, These guys are blind. Do they not see me already standing here.... not going anywhere? Not wanting to be shot, I raised my hands. The NPFC was known to be trigger happy, especially towards Outcasts. Three black ropes fell from the helicopter and an armed man in black propelled down each rope. All three carried semi-automatics and approached me cautiously, giving me odd looks. I couldn’t blame them, given how I looked.

I wore dark pants, a black shirt, and a brown canvas duster jacket. I wore a black wide-brim fedora on my head. I wore military issue black combat boots and gloves. I had a knife attached to my side beneath the duster, a bullwhip next to that, and a metal retractable bo staff on my back. I carried an old, bulky revolver on my hip, an ancient weapon in today’s world of blaster weapons, but a tool I found both comforting and nostalgic in a time in which I never felt I belonged.

The strangest part?

I wore a tight-fitting black mask with finger-painting-like white streaks across the right cheekbones and eyes socket and little studs dotting downs my nose and across my eyebrows area. My eyes were covered by silver lenses and my mouth was completely covered over by the material of the mask.

Freeze! Put your hands up slowly! ordered one of the men. I couldn’t resist rolling my eyes, even if I knew they couldn’t see it.

I’m sorry are you wanting me to freeze or put up my hands because I can’t do both. Besides, if you haven’t already noticed, my hands are already up in the air, I said smugly.

I tend to act sarcastic around authority I don’t respect. It’s a flaw Gabriel tells me will get me killed one day.

The man gritted his teeth and growled, What are you doing up here?

Well, isn’t it obvious? I robbed the Mayor’s safe deposit box. I did it for Lady Alexandra Carline, and now I’m fleeing across rooftops to get to this very spot. I’ve been waiting for you buffoons to get here ever since. It’s hard to make you all look like fools to the rest of the world when you’re running late. Sheesh I thought you NPFC guys were all top notch.

I know it was dangerous—correction, stupid—to insult a Noble, especially an NPFC officer. The law was very clear about Noble and Outcast relations. If an Outcast struck, stole, hit, killed, threatened, violated in anyway, or even insulted a Noble, he could be reported and later executed...often publicly. But, if a Noble did the same toward an Outcast, he would only be let off with a warning or maybe even congratulations. Only murder brought a Noble to trial, but even then, a conviction may only put a Noble in a cushioned prison a few short years at most. Overall, Outcasts were nothing more than slaves to the rest of the world, especially in the eyes of an Empire ruled by a Noble family that has always despised the Outcast race.

The NPFC officer, obviously an alpha-male kind of person who did not usually get insulted to his face, raised his gun at me, and his buddies did the same. Clearly, insulting these men was not the best course of action. I’m a very quick learner, and highly intelligent (in my opinion), but I tend to follow my emotions more than my reasoning. My second greatest flaw.

You’re under arrest for burglary, assault, and for pissing me off, shouted the alpha-male. The short version of what he meant: I would be hanged the following night without a trial. Outcasts weren’t allowed fair hearings. I’m pretty sure that was written law in the city. I’m certain it was routinely practiced.

In the distance, I could hear the monorail moving down its track right on schedule. I only needed to stall a few more seconds, and then I was as good as gone...if the officer didn’t shoot me for talking back to him. With my mouth this might be harder than I thought.

I imagine you think I will be coming with you quietly, but ask yourselves, if that were the case, why did I wait for you? I said. I rolled up my left sleeve, revealing my forearm with the word "OUTCAST" printed in large, bold lettering. It was the mark given to every child of the Empire, a physical marking of either Noble or Outcast for everyone to identify.

I’m here to change the injustice plaguing this city, and to help those oppressed by it.

The officers gave me odd looks, thinking me to be a crazy fool. Then again, maybe I was out of my mind.

But aren’t those who change the tide of life always thought to be out of their minds by those around them?

What is your name, Outcast? growled the man to my right. The monorail got louder as it approached on the track just below us. I could almost feel it vibrating the ground beneath my feet. I smiled behind my mask with glee.

Looking back, years from now, would mark this moment the beginning of the end.

I stretched out my hands and said in my most charming voice, I’m Shaman. Then, I snapped my fingers.

Fire erupted from the parking lot complex across the street, its fingers reaching toward the sky with a deafening boom. Car parts flew through the air like confetti. Even from far away, the building upon which we stood shook. The officers cowered in shock and turned away from me to look toward the explosion. Even the helicopter’s spotlight turned away. We were in complete darkness—well, except for the tower of fire with all the car bombs exploding.

And now for my next trick...

I would never recommend what I did next to anyone. It was incredibly stupid and unbelievably painful. But, I guess I like theatrics, perhaps a little too much for my own safety or sanity. My third greatest flaw.

Just as the monorail passed one floor beneath us, I leapt off the rooftop, completely unseen by the NPFC men, and landed on top of the speeding the train. Not a pleasant landing. Judging from how much more it hurt on landing than I’d originally expected, the rooftop from which I’d jumped was more like two floors above the monorail and not one like I judged originally.

No, it wasn’t pleasant at all.

I crashed hard onto the monorail and bounced back up into the air. I would have screamed if gravity hadn’t sucked me back down and skipped me across the train rooftop like a skipping stone on water. I lost count of the number of skips, only remembering the pain. I flung to the left and flew off the side of a train car in a mess of screams and limbs toward certain doom to the street far below. I struck out with my hands, desperate to find something, anything, to save me.

What a great idea this turned out to be!

But luck was still on my side. My right hand caught hold of a handrail between two monorail cars. The sudden yank was tremendously painful and I thought it would rip my arm completely off, but the force threw me forward to slam against the monorail. The air escaped my lungs and I choked on emptiness. My arm wrenched and twisted and I gagged in agony as I held onto that train. I stayed there, pressed up against the side of the car like a splattered bug, holding on for dear life as the wind slapped against my face and threatened to throw me off. My fingers shook and burned with pain. The muscles in my arms stretched to their limits and muscles I did not even know burned and snapped. My duster flapped behind me like a parachute working against me. I couldn’t stay there and expect to live much longer.

I clawed and stretched my free hand, searching for something to dig my fingers into. They found a grip in the space between two sheets of metal and I pulled with every ounce of strength left in my withered body. Slowly, inch by painful inch, I worked my way toward the tiny connecting platform between the nearest two monorail cars. Thankfully it wasn’t far and I didn’t have to pass any windows. That was just what I needed, for someone to spot me as he looked out the window. I crested the opening and fell forward to lie on my face on the small platform, breathing heavily and thankful that I was still alive.

Well, that was stupid, Griffon.

My side screamed in pain and I could tell I would walk away with some injuries, bruised ribs if nothing else. My head and neck spun and ached, and my shoulder and knees felt like they were exploding repeatedly.

If I escape this situation with no concussion, I’m one lucky man.

Overall, I was alive. I wanted nothing more than to just lie there for the rest of the night, maybe for the rest of my life, but I still had work to do before that could happen. I took out a large black trash bag from my pack and began stuffing all my gear into it: my tools, my duster and hat, my weapons, the file, and then my mask. In a few moments I was no longer Shaman, but just an average guy in a gray sweatshirt. I leaned out over the platform and waited, still counting down in my head. The monorail moved past buildings of all shapes and sizes, some new and some old. We moved passed a certain alley way inside of which I knew was an old green sedan, just like I’d planned. I tossed the trash bag with all my gear as we passed and it bounced on top of the car. I barely got a glimpse of someone opening the door as the monorail whipped on by.

Got the package, said Alison, the third member of my team, with her silky-smooth voice in my ear piece. I couldn’t help but smile at hearing her voice. I turned to open one of the monorail doors to enter the car. I learned a very shocking truth right there and then: no plan survives contact with the enemy, not even my genius plans.

Before me was a car full of maybe twenty people, both Nobles and Outcasts, men and women, which was odd since the monorail was usually segregated between the two groups. But the really strange part was that all the people were tied to their seats and their mouths were gagged. Four men in ski masks stood between the seats and held semi-automatic weapons. The armed man nearest to me looked up after hearing the door open and stared at me in shock. He started to raise his gun and opened his mouth to shout something. I had only moments to act, not much time to think things through properly. I slapped the man’s weapon up and away from me with my left hand and I grabbed his throat with my right. He reacted by squeezing his trigger and his gun went off, spraying bullets into the ceiling and nearly deafening me.

There’s no way that went unheard.

I kicked the man’s knee cap and he dropped in pain, which gave me a good view of the other three men, all of whom raised their guns and came forward. I twisted the helpless thug around keeping my right arm around his neck and held his own gun outward with my left.

I... I think I got on the wrong train. Let’s just pretend I wasn’t here, I said. My hands were shaking and I had the horrible image of me having to shoot someone...or worse getting shot by these men after my grand disclosure on the rooftop. I had no wish to ever shoot anyone—and even bigger wish not to be shot in return. I might carry a gun with me in my heists, but that was more for show than anything else. I was not a killer. I could not imagine seeing myself pushed that far to do something drastic. But now I wasn’t sure how I could get out of this situation without breaking my vows when I became Shaman.

I inherited the title and mask from Gabriel, the original Shaman. With it came rules—one of them being I wasn’t allowed to kill anyone as Shaman! But here I am with a hostage and a gun standing off with other armed men on a train filled with hostages. How am I not supposed to break my vows in this situation?

The three terrorists froze in place and I believe they slowly began to smile and lower their own weapons. Before I could question why, I was whacked in the back of the head and knocked out cold.

Some night this has turned out to be.

2

Hello, anyone awake in there? asked a far-off voice. I felt the words more so than actually hearing them, as if I drowned in a pool of mud and someone outside the pool was shouting to me. The voice called again and something thumped my skull like knocking on a door. I gurgled and sputtered as I swam through those muddy waters, drawing closer and closer the the voice calling for me. Though the act was purely mental, it opened a door for pain to wash in. It washed away the muddy waters and sent my swirling to the surface in rapid waves of turmoil and pain. My muscles ached and creaked like tree bark rubbing against sandpaper. My dry cracked like stone. My gut swam from a mixture of motion sickness and head trauma. I stirred slightly and tried to pry an eye open. Immediately, a blinding array of flashing colors spun around me like small fireworks.

There you go. Come back to the real world now. We have much to discuss, said that same voice again. It was a man’s voice, and clearer now than before, with great certainty and confidence dripping from his words like honey from a jar. This man, whoever he was, was the man in charge of this operation for sure. My vision cleared, and with it a final flash of pain wafted over me. I gasped and groaned helpless to fight against it.

Concussion? Hmmm. Maybe even lasting loss of brain function. Hence forth I will forever blame all bad decisions on this experience!

I apologize, but I had to hit you that hard. I couldn’t allow you to walk freely through this train and risk getting yourself hurt or ruining what transpires here, said the man.

Once my vision recovered, coming in slowly in blurry bits and pieces, I realized I sat on the floor of the monorail in the first car, handcuffed to a pole. Squatting before me was a man who looked higher in class than the common criminals I was used to seeing on the streets. He was lean-muscled like a foot soldier, wearing a charcoal suit, a dark blue striped shirt, and a black tie. His face showed the beginnings of a five o’clock shadow, which cast a gray curtain across his pale chin. His short black hair twisted up and back like an ocean wave cresting just before its forward crash. His eyes sparkled light hazel, like two jeweled amber stones upon his face. He smiled with flawless white teeth. His smile was so perfect that I felt instant hate and respect for him. I knew him to be older than me, possibly by a few decades, but his Noble genetics made him appear only a few years older compared to possible decades if he was a middle-aged man.

His eyes shifted down to his hand and I realized he held my earpiece. He twisted it around in his hand, as though it fascinated him. Then he slid the earpiece in the center of his palm and casually crushed it like a handful of empty peanut shells at a baseball game.

Well, so much for back-up.

I was alone then on a train full of possibly trigger-happy terrorists and tied-up hostages.

Yup, seems like a great way to spend a Friday night.

The sharply dressed man flashed his perfectly white teeth and stood up to reveal his full height. Even while sitting down, I could tell this man stood taller than me by at least a couple of inches.  He held a black sword cane made of Malacca wood with a silver raven head at its tip. He leaned carefully on the cane, not in a manner of need but in a manner of relaxation and consideration, with his hands folded over the raven’s head. His breath smelled of mint, his body of light cologne.

None of that shocked me as much as what I saw on his right hand. He wore a gold banded ring with a black sigma. The sigma design was of a silver skull holding a rose between the teeth and a combat knife stabbed through the skull.

I’ve seen that symbol before! But where?

My mind raced through repressed memories once thought locked away forever. They flashed rapidly and painfully through my mind’s eye and suddenly I was a child again watching the horrifying day when my parents were murdered. And at the center of each brutal image was that sigma.

That meant...

I knew him.

He caught me eyeing his ring, and said as he lifted up his hand to eye it himself, Ah, I see you like my ring. I don’t blame you. It’s a nice ring. Nothing on this Earth is more valuable to me than this ring, and that’s because what it represents to me. Call it a reminder if you will of the life I have chosen. When I look at it I am reminded of my goals and that I am freely able to take the lives of those who would seek to stand in my way...or the lives of those who stumble into places they don’t belong and are tempted to lie to get out of it.

My gut twisted a little as he smiled wickedly.

Honesty might buy you life, but lie to me and you die. So let’s start with an easy question. Were you attempting to stop my operation here? His canines flashed at me. He looked like a wolf just before it pounced on some wounded and helpless prey. Fear silenced me. I stared at him and could only shake my head. Every time I thought of speaking, that symbol on his ring flashed in my mind, and I felt such burning emotions that I spent all my energy to push those memories down again. I hadn’t the strength to both reply to the man and fight the memories.

Wrong place at the wrong time then. Excellent. Now, you may call me... Ziavir Yiros.

Gulp.