Irresistible Knight

International District

Downtown Seattle



The back alley reeked. Though he’d been here many times before, it had never been as bad as this. The air smelled of something rotten mixed with urine, feces, and garbage. Bors breathed in and out through his mouth. Later, he would ask his brother Tristan to give him a surgical mask and wear it next time instead of a bandanna.

He pulled his collar tighter around his neck and flattened his back on the cold gray cement wall, a failed attempt to avoid rainwater that gushed forth from the useless roof gutters. With the amount of water raining down on him, he could have been standing under his shower and wouldn’t know the difference. Bors watched with dismay as water splashed on his new pair of boots. Damn. His sister-in-law had given him these Ariat Cobalt XR Crepe cowboy boots last month for his birthday. He would have worn his old boots if the weather forecast said rain. What a freaking prediction.

Since he’d touched the wall, he consciously avoided using his hands to wipe the moisture off his face. Instead, he shook his head the way a wet dog would shake his body. Of all the fucking nights, why did it have to rain right now? It was already a bitch to stand behind the reeking, lidless garbage dump full of shit from Zhin’s Chinese Restaurant, but to disturb the decaying crap? Well, hell on earth. The smell was twice as bad as his younger brother’s pet rat Ash that had escaped, crawled, and died under the belly of his bed. Gawain said rats were sensitive pets and smart. If taught, they could learn a variety of tricks—responding to a call included. He also insisted that rats needed at least an hour of playtime outside their cage every day. But Gawain forgot that rats, when they were sick and ready to die, would find a place to hide, which is exactly what his did.

Everyone except for their mother and sister helped looked for the dead rodent. When they found it, the stench was so bad, it clung to his skin for weeks. No amount of Febreeze could camouflage the smell. Their dad hauled the bed to the dump, then came back with a new one, but didn’t put it in the room until the smell was gone. Gawain had slept downstairs in his sleeping bag for almost a month and never asked for another pet again. He was only twelve at the time. Everyone believed he felt horrible and responsible for his rat’s unfortunate demise.

With the aid of a dimmed streetlight a few yards from where he stood, Bors could see the thick film of shiny grime slither like a snake on the water’s surface that quickly pooled beneath his feet. He took a step back to avoid the floating used syringe, rotten vegetables, Styrofoam, bandage, and a brownish plastic that contained something he didn’t want to know about. What the hell?

The streetlight flickered again. Bors wanted to shoot the damn thing. Since he’d taken his spot beside the darker shadow of the garbage bin, it had buzzed nonstop. The sound reminded him of the time he and his brothers hotwired their dad’s car. He wouldn’t be surprised if he started having epileptic seizures and ruined his retina. Fuck. The combination of rain and the stupid light wasn’t helping his already darkening mood. He’d go nuts if he remained here another hour.

Bors pressed the dark blue rain-soaked bandanna that covered half of his face. Though it was a useless thing to stop the stink from reaching his nose, it was a good protection from whatever crawled out of the dumpster and the wall behind him.

I hate this fucking place.

Zhin’s Chinese Restaurant might look like a regular family diner owned by a friendly elderly Chinese immigrant, but its fancy Chinese lanterns and jade Buddhas hid the vilest man Bors had ever known—Congressman Bruno Jean. The bastard had been paying Zhin in exchange for his silence. He used the restaurant as a front, a place to conduct his sickening business.

Seattle’s International District would do well without Jean’s filth, but the goddamn dog had the city by the balls. No one dared touch him out of fear that he’d stir up foul smelling deeds ten times worse than the garbage floating around him.

Well, too fucking bad for Jean. I’m not one of the coward dogs that cower whenever someone mentions his name. Not this Knight.

He’d start by fucking digging up everything he could about Congressman Bruno Jean. He’d bury him and then he’d stand on the mound. Once he shoved Jean deep down, Bors guaranteed it that the rest of his friends would follow, including Zhin.

Cut the fucking head and the rest of the body will fall.

Something wet slithered down his nape. He smacked the back of his neck. Fuck! Okay, he had enough. Branyan had better give the signal now. He and his partner had been in this alley for almost three hours. They should call it a night, or in this case morning. Evil men like Jean always stayed in the shadow of darkness when stirring up vicious deeds. It would be daylight soon. Jean and his men wouldn’t show up now.

The only person that came out of the paint-chipped red door he’d been watching was the cook wearing a god-awful apron. The filthy maggot came out, stood just outside the door, placed the pad of his finger on his nostril, blew his snot on the ground and then used his apron to wipe his nose. What he did next reminded Bors to tell his family to stay away from this restaurant. Man, his brother Gawain was a pig, but at least Gawain knew how to use tissues and always washed his hands.

Where the fuck was Congressman Bruno Jean? Snitch was never wrong. He said there would be a delivery tonight of girls Texas Jean’s men had befriended online. Those girls who hated being under the same roof with their helicopter parents and would rather hang out in chat rooms online, or on Facebook and MySpace. Girls to appease the higher bidders’ fucking libido. Except for the disgusting cook, he hadn’t seen anything. No cars, limo, or van in sight. Meaning, no Jean tonight. Where the fuck is he? Changed his mind, or the girls were taken somewhere else? Jean, he learned, wanted to be around when his delivery arrived to inspect them. So far, no Jean, or his cronies. What happened?

If someone tells me his assholiness cancels his delivery when it rains because he hates getting his expensive shoes dirty and wet, I’ll punch the son of a bitch.

Everything about Bruno Jean was filthy. According to his sources, aside from dealing and selling girls, Orgy was Jean’s pastime. He slept in the morning and stayed up all night. If he wasn’t busy watching couples fuck, he was busy getting a blowjob. Or, maybe sitting comfortably somewhere while inspecting virgins. Anyone like Jean, who would use young girls for profit—damn their souls. He could scrub his skin until he looked like a newly sanded wood, but he would never be clean.

Fucking bastard.

Jean’s dubious, unsavory reputation and constant supply of fresh young girls was far from being a secret. But Bors could not find one soul to say so or put it in writing. Jean’s absolute talent in discretion made him in demand among the vultures with strong appetites for virgins. In return, they made him rich, untouchable, protected by their names, and hard to find evidence against him.

Damn, there must be one person out there brave enough to come forward.

Working for the FBI, he knew how many abduction cases remained unsolved. Agents assigned to those cases suffered mentally and emotionally. Years spent looking for clues ate away time and energy that they should be spending with their families. Some agents ended up having family troubles because they remained in the dark, blinded from the knowledge of what happened to the victims that weren’t even blood relatives. God, he couldn’t imagine the kind of pain the victims’ families had to go through when they learned their daughters, sisters, cousins or stepsisters disappeared.

To lose a precious daughter in the hands of evil men—unthinkable. Bors thought about his sister, Kirsten, the only girl in the family and his parents’ precious flower. He bet his brothers and him, including their father, would take turns gutting someone who dared touch her the wrong way. Of course, the brat would never let any man disrespect her. She’d fight the way they showed her—dirty.

A sodden rat crawled out of the bin and jumped into the puddle. Bors had the crazy urge to draw his gun and blast the dirty rodent. His frustration from yet another thwarted job made him want to shoot anything. Shit. Looked like he would have to face one more sleepless night. They’d just wasted another day, but there would be another chance to catch filthy trash like Jean.

And he hoped the bastard would put up a fight, giving him reason to put a bullet between his eyes. The fucking congressman put a different meaning to the word dirty. He must be flushed and rid this world of a scum worth nothing. Anyone that preyed on women, innocent or not, didn’t deserve to breathe fresh air, but the stink of jail. Better yet, to rot in a grave.

Bors pulled back his sleeve to check his watch. Almost two. No way would Jean show his ugly face now and this alley would come to life soon.

A short wave came from the corner where Branyan stood in vigil. About time. Bran’s wife probably fell asleep on their couch waiting for him. Married men should stay away from this profession. They should be sharing meals and watching movies with their families, not spending hours scouting dangerous areas like this alley.