Knightshade

He was the sort of figure that few paid any attention to. Bespectacled, rumpled suit, greying hair. Just another businessman on a trip to London. Seen but not seen. Not really. By design — there was little point to an alter-ego if it came to close to the reality.

He cleared customs and exited Heathrow. The city was concrete and glass, the sky above just as grey. Rain misted down, making the sidewalks glossy. He should have bought an umbrella from the airport shop.

Hailing a taxi, he escaped the cold and damp to sit on the back seat as the driver navigated the heaving streets to the hotel that had been booked. The taxi pulled over and the driver took the bag from its trunk — he’d travelled light, the bare essentials. He didn’t plan on staying longer than necessary.

He checked the time after putting his bag on the hotel bed. Double room, clean if bland, on the fifth floor with a good view of the city. He’d made it through customs in good time and there was enough to kill.

He snorted at the idea.

“I have a problem that needs dealing with,” Vermain had said on the phone. “Permanently, if you get my drift.”

Killing was certainly permanent. It was also something that he did less than his reputation might suggest. He was a fixer, not a contract killer. Not even when it paid as well as Vermain had put into his bank account. Half upfront. The rest when the problem was… solved.

He went to the window and looked out. At just after noon, London was a hive of activity. A bustling metropolis of cars and trucks and people. Working the nine-to-five and then going home to their families and meals in front of a TV. Sleeping. Fucking. Doing the same damn thing the next day.

It wasn’t the life for him. Probably wouldn’t have been even if the army hadn’t left its mark on him, both figuratively and literally.

Abandoning the window, he opened his bag and took out another suit. He changed, pulling on the persona as much as the attire. Although if he was honest with himself, he was no longer sure which was the alter-ego and which was truly him. Did it matter? He wasn’t sure about that, either.

He left the hotel by the back stairs where there wasn’t any CCTV. Drew down the visor.

And walked out into London town as Paladin.

---

VINDICTA.

Noel Vermain stared at the word written on the glass of his office window. Anger and fear boiled inside him, fighting for dominance. Miss Wells, his secretary, hovered fitfully at his side. Nervous, he decided. As well she should be.

“How?” he asked, though he didn’t expect an answer. “How did they get in here without tripping the alarm?”

“They must have a code, sir.”

He whirled to face the woman and she flinched back. “And where did they get a code?” he demanded. “Run another check on personnel. See if there’s anyone vulnerable to blackmail. I want to know why the security cameras didn’t capture anything as well.”

“It’s being looked into, sir.”

A knock at the door halted a further tirade. He took a deep breath and let it out slowly. When he exuded cool, calm and professional once again, he called out, “Come.” Then in an undertone, “You’re dismissed, Miss Wells.”

“Yes, sir.”

She turned as the door opened. Her eyes went wide at the figure that strode in.

“Out, Miss Wells.”

The woman squeaked and scuttled around the visitor, who watched her go, a smirk pulling one corner of his mouth up.

Vermain swallowed as the door closed, shutting him in with Paladin. The mercenary’s reputation was fearsome and, now that he saw him, Vermain could see why. Six foot plus, wearing a suit that comprised of purple armour over a black skin-tight suit and visibly armed, Paladin cut an imposing figure. And that was before one took in the weaponry.

“Mr Paladin.”

The man smirked. “It’s just Paladin.”

“Ah. Okay. Paladin. I’m sure you wondering why I called for your… assistance.”

“Not really.” He nodded at the window. “Vindicta. Who’d you piss off?”

“That’s what I want you to find out. I’m an honest businessman, mist- ah, Paladin. My company develops life-saving drugs, for crying out loud. All our testing is certified and above board. One has to cross t’s and dot i’s in this game.”

“Rival, perhaps?”

Vermain rubbed his chin. He’d not considered that angle. “Perhaps, though it seems a little dramatic. Personal.”

The smirk returned. “No exes with an axe to grind? Metaphorically or literally.”

“This is London, Paladin. Not an episode of Midsomer Murders.”

“So, no ex?”

“I’ve been happily married for twenty years. And no-” He hardened his voice, brooking no argument on this point. “I have never had an affair.”

“Yet, despite you being whiter than white and all, there’s still someone stalking you and threatening vengeance.” Paladin folded his arms. “What aren’t you telling me?”

Vermain swallowed. There were skeletons in his closet, not that he was mentioning them. Anyway, didn’t everyone have secrets? As a soldier of fortune, hiring himself out to the highest bidder, Paladin certainly would.

“Nothing of importance,” he said stiffly. “Just… do the job that I’m paying you for.”

Paladin huffed. “Fine.” He looked past Vermain again and drummed his fingers on his arm. “You have cameras? What’s you security like?”

“You came in so you saw. Keypads on every door past reception including the lift. CCTV throughout the building. I have my own people going through that now, but… This isn’t the first time. There was nothing on the feeds the last. It’s like whoever got in was a ghost.”

“I don’t believe in ghosts,” Paladin replied, which didn’t come as a surprise to Vermain. Men like him tended to only put stock in things they could see and touch, which as someone slightly more than human was a curiosity. “No, this is a flesh-and-blood person. One with passion and drive.” His attention turned back to Vermain. “One who has it out for you. Do you have a protection detail?”

“Yes, but—” He shook his head. “There’s been no threat to my life. Just graffiti.”

“Let’s not rely on it remaining so benign. That says vengeance. That means someone believes you have something to repay. Hopefully, it means money and not blood.”

“I’ve never hurt a fly,” Vermain stated, which wasn’t quite the truth. “However, I’ll double my guard. Though I do hope you will get to the bottom of this sooner rather than later.”

Paladin inclined his head. “Of course. You’ve hired the best.”

With that, he turned on his heel and stalked out. Vermain sagged back against his desk and wiped sweaty palms on his trouser legs. He glanced over his shoulder. The letters were written in paint; broad strokes of red that had run before they had dried.

They looked just like blood dripping. No wonder Paladin had taken the word as a threat – it was.