Prologue
9th December 2023
It was too late.
The heavy downpour wasn’t enough to subdue the army surrounding the hospital.
They were determined, fighting against mother nature herself. Their clicks and flashes disturbing peace of the hospital.
The stretcher rolled out, white cloth covering the silhouette hiding beneath.
Even in death, the dead couldn’t find peace.
The men in blue barricaded the entrance from further onslaught, but it did more harm than good.
They were shrouded in the mask of the crimes of one their own; each looked as guilty as the next.
“How is the NYPD moving forward with this investigation?”
“Will all the convictions be reversed?”
“This is Janet reporting live from Shawn Memorial-”
The rookie in long sleeves looked unsure; was this what he wanted to be a part of?
Hands buried deep in his pockets, his shirt clung to him for dear life. His face was a mask of indifference but his eyes were a reflection of the demons he held.
For the first time in his life he walked with the confidence he had longed for.
Pity, though, that it came at such a heavy cost.
He saw them roll the stretcher out, but he didn’t stop.
Logic, reason and faith, all had failed him.
He felt anger, felt it course through him, mixed with his blood.
They say anger is the core for vengeance, but he felt no desire to avenge himself.
Who would he avenge? The predator was dead.
Instead he clung to his anger, like his shirt to him, as he pushed and shoved his way through the mob.
He needed the rage to keep him sane, for he was just a shell without it: a dead man walking.
He handed the attendants pass to the officer with practiced ease. He knew what came next.
The checking, confirmation and then approval. They wouldn’t find anything on him and let him pass.
He would greet the receptionist and she would tell him the floor he had to be on. He would thank her and get onto the elevator.
The cold chill of the A/C didn’t bother him.
He knew his body would turn permanently cold in a few moments.
When the elevator door rolled open, he saw what he came for.
Creases were etched deep into the otherwise handsome face.
The man was busy firing rapt orders to his subordinates with such grace that the latter couldn’t help but smile.
Would he look this beautiful when they would bury him six feet underground?
He reached inside his sleeves until his hand hit the cold metal.
The safety clicked off, a whisper of finality.
He took a step forward.
The man hadn’t noticed him. Not yet. But he would. He always did.
Their gaze met and he was hit with a pang of something.
The man always managed to sense his presence from miles away; one of his most endearing qualities.
“Zale.”
Recognition flickered in the blues.
The man’s voice embraced his name. Smoothed out the rough edges.
Their eyes locked and even from the distance, Zale saw his reflection in the blues, his Achilles heel was now Medusa’s curse.
The minute the metal made its presence known, fear flitted across those eyes. The emotion was new.
For a second, he found himself lost in them. The moment lasted a second, literally.
From his peripheral, he saw the guns point toward him.
He heard screams echo off the walls. He felt his eyes burn and vision blur.
But he was too far gone. He was too much a shell to hear.
He was too consumed by his demons to see.
“Why?” The question rolled of his tongue before he could stop it.
He wasn’t supposed to feel anything.
He was supposed to feel anger.
Anger only. But despair fought against him. His mind was at war with itself.
His fingers clenched around the handle.
How could he? He saw the man smile in sad understanding.
He saw the guilt in the man’s eyes. How dare he?
The metal went off with a bang. The man followed with a thud.
The recoil was greater than he expected but he recovered easily.
He didn’t see who screamed.
He didn’t hear the shot that followed.
He just smiled. Smiled, as he felt his soul leave his body.
He was free.
