Nick Stone: The King of Swords

'Freeze, asshole! Police!'

The man didn't move.

'Face down on the floor with your hands behind your head!'

The man still didn't move.

Max kicked the shotgun away and then put his foot on the man's back and sent him toppling on his front.

He was about to frisk him when there were several heavy bangs on the door, followed by a huge crash. Part of the mural came away as Joe came bursting in.

Max turned Do-rag over.

He didn't immediately realize who it was. The face was plain, a photofit of a black Everyman.

But there was something about his stare, and mostly the hint of the smile, the mouth's not quite mu?ed mirth.

Boukman.

The shock hit him and he felt himself retreat a step or two, dazed, stung by a phantom punch.

Boukman lay quite still, arms spread out, palms out, and his eyes on Max, beaming recognition.

Max was speechless.

So was Joe.

They stood him up, dragged him against the wall and frisked him.

'Open your mouth and stick your tongue out,' Joe ordered.

Boukman affected a yawn and rolled out his split tongue -pale pink, except for the ends, which diverged and were pointed and red.

Both Joe and Max winced at the sight of it.

'Put it away,' Max mumbled disgustedly.

Keeping his rifle trained on Boukman's head, the barrel inches away, Max sized him up. They were about the same height, but Boukman was of a much slighter build, an almost insignificant presence. Only his eyes-which never once left Max's-hinted at innate strength, at a will and ability to do what others wouldn't.

'Solomon Boukman: you are under arrest, motherfucker,' Max began. 'You have the right to remain silent. Anything you say can and will be used against you as evidence. You have the right to a lawyer. If you can't afford one, the state will provide one.'

Max looked around for a chair to sit Boukman down in so they could question him about his high-level protector. He couldn't see one anywhere. He noticed how the place had once been four separate apartments, but the walls had been knocked out. Outside he saw columns of dark smoke rising up into the sky and a Miami PD chopper flying low across roofs. They couldn't take Boukman in until the riot was over. Their car would probably be burning now.

'And you also have the right…'

Max thought about what he'd been through, the needle through his lips, almost killing Eldon and Joe. Then he thought of Sandra. And how Boukman had kidnapped her.

'…to file a complaint against me…'

And the small, fragile restraint separating man from beast snapped.

'…for police brutality.'

Max swung his rifle butt hard at Boukman's face. The wood connected flush with the bone and Boukman went down with a quiet plop. He spat blood and started pushing himself up, but Max grabbed him by the shoulders and threw him against the wall. He pounded him like a heavy bag, slamming his fists into his head and torso. Boukman collapsed under the fusillade of punches, but Max didn't stop. Screaming and snarling he kicked and stamped on his prone body.

Boukman stopped moving, but Max, in a blind vengeful rage, didn't notice, didn't even care.

He grabbed Boukman's head and started banging it on the floor.

Joe, who'd stood by, knowing this would happen, decided to intervene. He gripped his partner in a bear hug and dragged him off.

'He's had enough now, Max! And so have you! That's it!'

Max lunged forward but Joe pushed him back against the wall. Max struggled, but Joe penned him in using his bulk.

'Cool it now, Max! Come on! Come on now…'

Joe kept him there until he saw the mad fury begin to dim in his partner's eyes; the violence give way to the possibility of reason.

'Let's do the right thing. By the book. OK?'

Max took deep breaths. Joe could see him calming himself inside, standing down.

Max looked at him, clear-eyed, and nodded.

Joe stepped away from him, but as he did so, Max saw Boukman had stood up and was staring at them-specifically at Max. His eyes were swollen almost shut, his nose and mouth were bloody, and his left cheek was a bloated, protuberant lump, and yet there was amusement etched through all the damage.

Then, before either cop could fully react, Boukman spun around and bolted for the window at an almost unnatural speed, as if he'd been whisked across the room by a hidden hand. He leapt feet first through the glass, taking most of the window frame with him. He missed the fire escape gangway and fell through thin air.

Max and Joe rushed over and looked down at the ground. They saw only shattered glass and splintered wood below.

Boukman was already up on his feet and running away from the building, making for the streets.

They bundled down the fire escape.

There was blood all over the debris where Boukman had landed, and a trail of thick wet red splashes mapped the direction he'd taken.

They followed the blood markers down the sidewalk and across the street. The riot squads had moved in. Choppers were sweeping the sky, which had darkened considerably, storm clouds mingling with the towers of black smoke rising from incinerated buildings and cars, as a hot dirty wind fanned the flames and blew tear gas and gasoline fumes into their faces.

They kept their watering eyes to the ground, following Boukman's spoor, the blood making bigger and bigger marks. Max guessed Boukman had opened an artery. The faster he was running the more blood he was losing. He didn't have long and neither did they, if they wanted to get him alive.

They negotiated scenes of chaos: full-scale battles between helmeted, baton-wielding cops and rioters on one street; a car being rammed into the front of a laundromat in another; a near empty supermarket being looted; a man running through the streets with an aquarium; a woman pushing a cartload of golfclubs; groups of people making petrol bombs.

The blood splashes began to diminish in size. They began to note bloody handprints on walls and whatever windows were still intact.

They came to 54th Street, which was now completely deserted and strewn with trash and detritus. They looked for blood up and down the sidewalk and on the road, but saw none.

They crossed over the road and looked on the other side.

Nothing.

Max looked back to the opposite side and noticed a store on the very corner of the street. They'd had their backs to it and hadn't seen it.

The front was completely covered with thick steel shutters. On the side of the shutters, close to a narrow passageway dividing the store from a barbershop, was a bloody handprint.

They crossed the road again and went down the passageway, crouching, Max in front.

The back door of the store was wide open, hanging a little off its hinges and smeared with fresh blood.

They crept towards it and flattened themselves against the wall.

Max looked in. It was empty and dark, except for thin slivers of light coming through gaps in the shutters.

Boukman was lying in the middle of the floor, on his side, motionless.

Max went over to him carefully. He prodded him on his back with his foot.

Boukman unravelled, his limbs flopping out softly, like lifeless tentacles.

Max checked his vital signs. The pulse was faint, and his skin already had the coolness of death.

He stared at Boukman for a second, watching the life drain out of him with every fading heartbeat. It was tempting to let him die here, alone, except for his enemies, in the darkness and dirt. He deserved no better. It even made a kind of sense, but it wasn't right. And, ultimately, it was no kind of justice.

Joe sensed what Max was thinking, as good as knew it.

'What do you want to do with him, Max?'

Max thought about it a little more. He knew the way things worked in the city. The police would get blamed for the riot that was still raging outside-even if it wasn't their fault. Boukman might even get off.