“Was it an accident?” I asked, mild curiosity somehow an insult in my tone. “Did you see him informing on you and lose it?”
“I said drop the goddamn gun and shut up, Garro,” Danner shouted, so crazed he didn’t notice the roar of pipes and stopped, didn’t turn to see Cyclops and Axe-Man appear out of the dark, their weapons raised and trained on him as they drew closer, obscured in the shadows from Ventura’s goon squad.
“You don’t drop the gun, I’ll shoot you. You’re directly threatening the life of an officer. I’m well within my rights to end you!” he yelled, a crazed edge to his voice as the situation frayed out beyond his control.
If he didn’t deliver me and mine to the Venturas, he was dead. Maybe, I could almost hear him thinkin’, if he killed me now, it’d be enough to appease them and garner that extra percentage of payout money.
I laughed, filled with the giddiness of rebellion, high on the fumes of the looming tragedy, surprised by how hyper I felt at the end.
Maybe it was because I’d lived a good life, the best life, with near on five years beside a woman I’d dreamed of my entire life.
Maybe it was because I knew if I died, that I’d do it with our love like celestial dust in my veins so even when my body went, our story would be immortalized in the stars.
This was my one chance to get Danner put away. The one solution I’d come up with, and the only one I could live with.
If Danner went down for my murder, he’d go down for it. With the witnesses in place, it was as sure a thing as it could be.
And if Danner went to prison, with the rookie cop and Paula to testify against his other crimes, Zeus would be free.
Never thought much about dyin’. I was still a young man by anyone’s standards, only twenty-three and healthy with it, but my lack of curiosity about death stemmed more from my lifelong exposure to it than anything else. Had a father who killed his uncle in a church parkin’ lot when I was a kid, sent to the clinker for half a dime. There were guns in my house, in the clubhouse that was home to my dad’s motorcycle club, The Fallen, and guns worn on the hips of the men who hung out there. Learned to shoot when I was five, how to defend myself using the stick limbs of a twelve-year-old boy’s body, and how to use a knife like a fuckin’ extension of myself when Priest rolled into my life and taught me his deadly craft. Mostly, I knew death ’cause it stole my best friend, my fuckin’ brother in everything but blood, when we were still kids, still filled with hope and piss and a shit ton of vinegar.
So yeah, I knew death but not for myself. Never thought of it until now, but to be fuckin’ honest, I never could have known I’d be facing down death’s door without a chance to escape it. Suppose some would argue there was a choice; that there was choice to be had in all things.
Only, I’d counter there was no other decision to be made for me. Dyin’ meant my dad would be free, my girl would be safe, and my family would be whole.
How could I do anything else but die for that?
For them?
Yeah, that’s exactly right.
So, I stood on the edge of that cliff that had been my place, a kinda special setting for so many of the greatest moments of my life, and I stared down the craggy wall of rock into the sharp rocks and churning ocean below, and I braced while Danner’s ranting shouts escalated to the point of no return behind me.
There was pure evil at my back, and only a chasm that represented an empty future without any of the people I loved before me.
Should’ve been a sad moment, maybe, something like a tragedy. But as I heard the cock of the gun and the hard spit of the bullet from the chamber somewhere behind me, I couldn’t muster up a tear because I was only filled with hope.
Hope that my sacrifice would ensure the happily ever after I’d once promised my wife.
I’d found what I loved, and I was only too willin’ to let it kill me.
On that beautiful cliff under an all-seeing moon over grass seeped in memories, King Kyle Garro was shot and plunged over the edge to his tragic death.
Cressida
* * *
There was no party after King left. How could you have a wedding reception without the groom?
Instead, everyone but The Fallen and their families went home. The ones left funneled into our small house so that it was packed to the gills, the smell of leather and perfume thick in the air as we chatted quietly and drank the whack ton of booze left over from the half-finished party. They were doing their best to have fun, to keep the atmosphere light, yet there was still portentousness in the air, like a fantastic last meal before an execution. We were gorging ourselves on good company, good food, and good drink, but I just couldn’t shake the fact that King was with our enemies with only Wrath at his back.