Today was the day—the one he'd been waiting for almost thirty years. He was both happy and sad to see it arrive at last. Happy, because he loved watching blood spill, especially their blood; sad, because this day would never come again, at least not in his lifetime.
At least I'll be the only one who gets to enjoy it, he mused, staring absently at the small case cradled in his hands.
He had saved them all these years for this special occasion. He opened the humidor and admired the three cigars inside: they carried a deep, rich scent of leather, overlaid with a faint trace of nutmeg and resin.
He took the first from its elegant cradle. One of his men stepped in, clipped the cap, and lit it. Serge drew on it, holding the smoke a long, luxurious moment.
Fffff...
He released an enormous cloud that drifted through the room.
"I'm not sure I'll be back tomorrow," he declared.
He wasn't in his own office—the red walls there offended his taste. Opposite him sat his psychiatrist, who hadn't spoken since he'd barged in. She had tried, but he could barely hear her—perhaps age had dulled his hearing, or perhaps it was the gag covering her delicate lips; he wasn't certain.
He wasn't going to kill her—he was a gentleman, after all. But he couldn't let her talk about what she had just witnessed, not while David and the Prince of Justice were still alive. Those rats would scatter at the slightest slip, and the day would be poorer if he failed to catch them.
He drew again on the cigar.
God, how I've missed this, he thought, exhaling.
The ceremony wouldn't start for an hour—just enough time to finish his therapy session.
Fffff...
His heartbeat crept higher, anticipation and adrenaline spreading through his veins. After an hour of soothing silence Serge rose.
"Time to remind them who's king."
He flicked the stub into the bin, nodded to his psychiatrist, and left with a smile. Two men waited outside: one slipped an anthracite jacket over his shoulders, the other murmured orders into a walkie-talkie. Serge kept walking.
"Everything ready?"
"All ready, Your Highness. Everyone's waiting on you."
They crossed an empty waiting room, stepped outside, and met the wind. He still couldn't decide whether he preferred a storm on such a symbolic day or a clear blue sky.
At least it isn't raining.
Rain bored him; wind possessed that sudden, savage violence he adored. Thunder would have been perfect—the crack of lightning paired so nicely with nine-millimeter gunfire—but one had to play the hand one was dealt. Delaying the funeral would tip his hand.
So it goes, he sighed, reaching the cemetery.
All the actors were in place; only the ribbon-cutting remained. His men swung the gates open. One day, he would have his name carved at the very top—perhaps today, if fate allowed. While he pondered, James Smith hurried up.
"I'm nervous."
"It won't last long."
Death ends every feeling. James didn't take offense; that same foolish grin Serge despised still clung to his face.
"Do your job and leave the rest to me," Serge told him, smiling encouragement.
James nodded, crossed the threshold with George Washington, and guests trickled in. Only after the three princes had entered did Serge light his second cigar. The wind fought him, but nothing would keep him from smoking on this sacred day.
Fffff...
Mako advanced with her escort. Serge hailed her without removing the cigar.
"I'm afraid, Miss Fujiwara, your bodyguards aren't welcome inside."
"And why not?"
Fffff... He blew smoke straight at her.
"My cemetery, my rules, little girl."
She clearly disliked the smell; he didn't care what the yakuza heiress thought. He watched her consult her butler, savoring her beauty before she joined the dead. After a long exchange she entered alone, leaving her men at the massive gates.
Only one guest remained, a man a few years Serge's junior.
"You seem well since we last met."
Bernard Reddick searched his memory. Serge remembered perfectly: seventeen years earlier the man had come to him, wishing to leave this world, but had gone away, too cowardly to risk his life. Only John had followed up with the same request in all that time.
Bernard stepped through; Serge's men shut the doors behind him.
That's one thing done.
Phase two began: killing people. Those inside the walls would take care of themselves; Serge had to handle the reinforcements. He gave the signal with a single phone call.
"Go."
A crowd approached, footfalls muffled by the wind. As the vanguard passed the cortege's parked cars, the first shot sounded.
Fffff...
PEW.
Nearly thirty suppressed weapons fired in unison. Bodies hadn't even reached the ground before someone seized them, stabbed them, and dragged them to a waiting van. Serge had ordered a few left alive to savor their final seconds.
BANG BANG BANG BANG.
"What a lovely sound."
The hundred-strong crowd scattered down three streets; they wouldn't get far, not with so many people due to knock on their doors.
Just waiting for the fireworks to start.
BANG.
"Open the gates," he told his guards. A special guest had just arrived.
"You were right, Serge. The nerves vanished once I began my speech."
Fffff... James was already back.
"The guests satisfied?" Serge asked. The young man nodded.
"Good. Now I need to discuss a few details, if you don't mind."
"Of course, Serge—anything!"
Exactly the enthusiasm he wanted. Serge accepted a revolver from one of his men.
"You see, Mr Smith, your name is on one of my more exhaustive lists—a list I'm sworn to cross off, top to bottom. Your choice is simple: either I shoot you, or you do it yourself."
He loaded the six chambers one by one.
"Here's the interesting part: by sacrificing yourself, you'd save a great many lives."
"You're insane!" James writhed in his guards' arms.
"Come now, Mr Smith, give me your answer instead of telling me what I already know."
Serge stepped closer, revolver in one hand, cigar in the other.
Fffff...
"The last Prince of Justice saw me before his death, begging to be buried among us. He tried to hide his successor by multiplying outings and contacts, but in the end everything boils down to a list—a list of three-hundred-ninety-four names. He should have made it much, much longer."
James kept struggling, to no avail.
"So, Mr Smith—your life, or the other three-hundred-ninety-three?" Serge asked, holding out the now-loaded revolver.
The undertaker calmed when he saw the gun so close.
Moment of truth, Serge thought, watching the young man weigh his choices.
He would have loved to torture James for information, but Princes of Justice were trained by their predecessors never to speak under torture. That was one of the many skills that made them impossibly tiresome to flush out. All the more reason Serge waited for the man's decision with keen impatience.
James took the revolver. He pointed it at Serge, then turned it to his own head—and, after a very human few seconds of hesitation, pulled the trigger.
What a shame, Serge thought, dabbing away the spatter on his face with a handkerchief. Those three-hundred-ninety-three lives could no longer be spared— not if he meant to guarantee his own.
"Get rid of the body and shut the gates," he ordered his two bodyguards, then raised his cigar for another drag.
Fffff...
BANG.
Inside, the sniper kept firing at a steady rhythm, like the ticking of a clock. Most rounds would miss—the distance and wind were too great—but the sniper was only a distraction. John would handle the rest up close to ensure the proper outcome. Serge didn't care what happened inside as long as John delivered.
He was barely three puffs into his cigar when the first reinforcements arrived. One brow rose at their gear: black, military-style vehicles stencilled SWAT; men and women in body armour; and that unbearable, endless siren wail.
The team piled out, weapons ready, and advanced to the gate. A woman in her forties—likely the squad leader—stepped forward.
"We heard large-calibre gunfire inside your perimeter. Permission to enter and take a look?"
His answer was as brief as possible. "No."
One of his men relit Serge's cigar, snuffed by the wind. The squad leader watched with a small smile.
"Maybe you didn't get the memo, old man, but I was being polite. We don't need a warrant after hearing shots. Open these gates before I put you facedown."
Fffff...
She had come close enough to hiss her threat; he blew smoke back into her face.
"I doubt you'll dare, Madam. You and your people didn't crash the gate when you arrived, which tells me you know who I am—and that whoever sicced you on me can't afford my anger."
Her smile vanished; he'd hit a nerve.
"Cuff him and haul him in. Let this remind you you're not above the law, Mr Hindenburg."
He burst into booming laughter. The SWAT officer froze, cuffs half-raised.
"How amusing, Madam, lecturing me about rules."
His eyes turned icy. "You've stepped into my world."
He blew another cloud at her.
"The princes, the government, even the army—you've all forgotten who's king here. If you want your rules respected, learn to respect ours. No one enters these gates uninvited. Not while I'm Director, not while I enforce the rules, not while I am king!"
He drew again on the cigar, savouring the moment.
"I am the king! Do you really think you can lay a finger on me in front of my subjects?"
Only then did the squad leader notice the crowd massed behind her—the day's first true obstacle.
"What's the game, Director?" asked a petite blonde who stepped from the crowd. Her long braids gave her a schoolgirl look; an oversized wool sweater hid all but her small hands.
"Agathe, to what do I owe the pleasure?" Serge replied lightly.
"Very well, Mr Hindenburg. If you're stalling to have our boss killed, don't be shocked when I put a bullet in your skull."
"Relax, Agathe. I'm just waiting for a call."
As if on cue, his phone rang.
"May I?" he asked the young assassin.
"Go ahead."
The squad leader, ready to interrupt, fell silent at the sight of the gun peeking from Agathe's sleeve. Serge took the call as if nothing were amiss.
"Problem, Mr Fujiwara?"
"What do you think you're doing, Serge?"
"Please—call me Hindenburg. We're hardly on a first-name basis."
Heavy, ragged breathing came over the line.
"What do you want?"
"What do I want? War, Mr Fujiwara—and I think I'm about to have it."
He hung up before the namesake could reply. More pressing matters awaited. He handed the phone to a bodyguard and took another pull on the cigar; this one was nearly done, and he was saving the last for the grand finale.
Fffff...
"Where to start? Ah, yes—John isn't dead, and his wife fired the third shot."
Agathe's face showed no emotion, which meant she was hiding plenty.
"Proof, Director? I'll be first—and not last—to hurt you if you're lying."
"He's inside doing his job. Ask him yourself when he comes out. Now, if you'll excuse me, I have business."
A helicopter crested the cemetery wall, battling gusts that tried to tear it down. At the same time, several people pushed through the dense crowd, bearing a metre-long chest which they set before Serge. Inside lay a brand-new, ready-to-fire rocket launcher.
I do love dessert. This one had been prepared for an old friend.
"Do you remember that vote thirty years ago, dear David? I never forgot what happened that day." They'd expelled him from the War Prince's seat, thought they'd rid themselves of him, gone back to their quiet lives. Only David of the current princes had been present.
"He should be recalculating right now. Don't fret—he won't finish in time."
Serge hefted the launcher to his shoulder and fired. The missile was guided; all he had to do was enjoy the show. The chopper erupted mid-air, crashing in flames behind the white walls.
His mistake was believing my death depended on his.
After more than a minute of silence every phone in the crowd rang—everyone's but Serge's.
"You broke rules your whole youth, Director," Agathe said, looking up from her screen.
"I'm well aware, and I accept my punishment in good faith."
"Even if that punishment is death?"
He nodded. His cigar had gone out; he didn't relight it.
She raised her weapon, ready to be executioner—higher rank meant stricter adherence to rules.
"I interrupt only to ask: who leads the organisation in my absence?"
Silence answered. The princes kept Promesse running. Without them, everything risked collapse.
"In that case, the Prince of Justice is supposed to emerge to stabilise us. Unfortunately, he's dead."
A figure approached from inside; people hurried to open the gate.
"My prince..." was all Agathe could whisper, mouth agape.
John gave her a sad smile, then turned to Serge. One thing remained. Serge took his last cigar in his right hand, and in his left the same revolver as before.
"I presume they're dead?"
"Yes—though not all by my hand."
He didn't care. One of his men emptied four of the five remaining rounds, then handed the weapon back.
Now for the grand finale, Serge thought, lighting the final cigar.
With age he had learned: rules were sacred, the only thing separating them from apes.
"Let's finish this," John said in a weary voice, kneeling at Serge's feet. The crowd—and Agathe—were still stunned to hear him speak.
"John, you completed the list I gave you. Accordingly, I've removed all but one bullet, without knowing which chamber, as the rules require. Once I pull the trigger you'll be a dead man—free to live your life—and I, Serge Hindenburg, swear on my name and office that Promesse will never again involve you. Your name will be erased from current records and your rank lost as well."
Serge ended the speech with a drag.
Fffff...
"John, one last time—do you accept?"
The young man nodded and closed his eyes. The crowd held its breath; the wind swallowed their murmurs.
Serge placed the barrel on John's forehead.
CLICK.
John had survived Russian roulette. He spoke again.
"By the rules, I get my chance too."
Serge knew it and handed him the gun without blinking. One bullet, four empty chambers—twenty-five percent chance everything would blow up. John rose and pressed the muzzle to Serge's brow. Serge felt the cold steel, his pulse thrumming with adrenaline.
"I've been waiting for this," he murmured, more to himself than to the others, a shiver of excitement running down his spine. He lived for such lethal thrills.
He took one last drag, closed his eyes.
Fffffff...
CLICK.
He survived. John set the gun on the ground and walked away alone—bent, but very much alive. Serge turned to Agathe, awaiting her earlier answer.
"Once things settle, I'll come personally to kill you. Until then, Your Highness, we rely on you in the princes' absence."
Exactly what he wanted to hear. He drew once more on the cigar, thinking,
'What a beautiful damn day.'