King of Sin

Prologue

Prologue

After being on the road for hours, the traveler, tired to the bone, glanced up at his rear-view mirror and frowned at what he saw. His face looked as though it had been taken apart and put back together again by a child with only a vague knowledge of the human form. All right, so maybe he was a little rough looking, but it was late and he’d been on the road since early morning.

After a while the dark and foreboding landscape began to bleed together, his head began to nod, and his eyes fluttered to a close as he slowly lost consciousness. In only seconds he began to float comfortably in a warm netherworld. He didn’t realize the car had begun fishtailing until he was brutally thrown against the door. Upon his rude awakening, he realized what was happening and quickly stomped on the brakes causing them to scream with distress. The tires began to skid crazily, and the car continued to swing from side to side erratically until he hit a tree, and was thrown from the car.

After the shock wore off, his eyes opened, and their electric blue color sharply pierced the black night like two flashlight beams. He moved to get up, but he winced when he felt a sharp, piercing pain digging into his ribs. That’s when he discovered he was covered with cuts and bruises. Every sense in his body urged him to claw his way to a standing position, but because of the pain, he had to go slow and move very carefully. When he finally got to his feet, he saw his car smashed against a tree with the engine smoking in the early morning mist.

The sky above looked angry, as if the elements were preparing for an attack. The biting, harsh, chill-to-the-bone wind rustled impatiently through ghostly black trees that grew on either side of the road—a road that seemed to stretch into infinity. While looking around he noticed a half-rotten sign post standing at a jaunty angle that read—this way to hell.

Feeling dazed, he shook his head, but when he looked again the sign was gone. Maybe it was the stupor he was in, or nothing more than the power of suggestion from the stinging odor of burning oil from his car that he mistook for sulfur and brimstone. In spite of it he looked around fearfully, almost expecting the fires of hell to overcome him at any moment—until he saw something in the distance. Feeling a twinge of hope, he desperately moved his feet forward. One step, and then another brought him closer and closer to what he thought was a white, gleaming mirage that took his breath away. He felt drawn to it. Pulled. Was it real, or like the sign, an illusion? With his head swimming and his body aching, he stumbled painfully until he got nearer and saw another road sign, and his eyes widened.

What his madness had called hell—this world called New York City.

* * * *

The Night has a thousand eyes…

Later, as he wandered into the urban metropolis, the inner city began to slowly surround him. Was it a loving embrace, or a fist that wanted to squeeze the life right out of him? The piercing eyes of this bizarre city watched the stranger as he continued down the street. It slithered beside him, crawled along the ground at his feet inhaling his scent, and getting to know him.

The stranger’s disbelieving eyes glanced at the cracked sidewalks, graphitized walls, and what seemed like miles of suffering and desolation. He saw white steam spewing out of sidewalk grates that floated like ghosts along the ragged concrete walks in front of abandoned skyscrapers and over garbage bins that were surrounded by homeless rejects and hungry animals.

Misery was etched in every gaunt and dejected face he saw, ragged individuals that made their beds in back alleyways, recessed doorways or in the darkened hallways of poorly-protected buildings. Some would even make their beds in a dark and haunting graveyard rather than take the bed bugs in the shelters.

The deceitful pious types would cling to their holy books that had been hollowed out to hide their brass knuckles, switchblades, improvised weapons such as guns, knives, acid bombs, and of course the most potent snakebite they could find when they needed the courage to face another day, another night—another enemy.

This ragged collection of damaged bodies hid damaged minds. Minds that think nothing of hovering in the darkness for the chance to block your path, their thick fingers closed over a shiv that glimmers in the blinking neon lights. The man will speak steady and sure since this isn’t his first dance in a New York City alleyway. If you’re smart you won’t try to fight because footfalls in the dry brush behind you will tell you that you’re surrounded. Your hands might shake as you surrender your most valuable assets, but almost as soon as they have it in their eager hands, like ghosts these phantoms will be gone. So, if you find you have to be in this part of town, don’t go on foot, but surround yourself in the safety of your car with your windows up, your doors locked, and your music loud enough to drown out any cries of suffering on the streets.

* * * *

Now, fresh from a smoking car, and a long road that led him into an intricate, labyrinth of noisy streets and alleyways, the man slowly got his bearings. As one day led to another, he learned that during the day the streets were overrun with impatient businessmen and rushing professionals who had to get to their offices before the clock struck eight. But at night the streets belonged to the gangs, thugs, and cheap hooligans, leaving the uniformed bulls with the puzzling challenge of having to navigate through them with guns, steel blades, Billy clubs and tasers.

The first thing he did was rent an office in the cheapest part of town where he slowly became familiar with the gangs that worked the streets, and strutted among them as if he’d been born there. Word quickly spread, and the gangs soon learned all about the new face in the middle of this urban hell.

But like any hell, there had to be a devil.

This devil wore a cop’s badge, and the gangs branded him—Lucifer.

Lucifer, alias—Lathe Bronson.

* * * *

As these felons got to know him, it was hard for them to imagine him as an innocent babe. To them, the first day he drew breath was the day he rolled off the assembly line of the Police Academy in Quantico, Virginia.

They soon learned that Lathe was a serious man with a serious gun, and he had a spotless reputation that reached all the way to California where the Police Department tagged him as their secret weapon. It was joked around town that he was like an alien who got beamed in from Mars as a full adult. No one knew a single person who had any idea who his parents were, what his childhood was like, and if he had any siblings.

Lathe belonged—but not quite.

He had the standard issue swarthy face, square shoulders and strong chin. He had only the trace of a beard and he spoke with a baritone voice and clipped legalistic words. Life had no color for him, no shades of gray. He saw the world around him as good or bad, right or wrong, legal or illegal. When he wasn’t preparing perfect paperwork, he was chasing down criminals with that action-man run of his. But they didn’t believe that Lathe was totally honorable—and they were right.

Lathe’s downfall was his dirty martinis, and his love of another man’s ass.

He had a knockout body that was more ink than skin. He didn’t smile a lot. In fact he’d been accused of having had a humor bypass. He had no social life to speak of, but his good looks enabled him to find a good f**k now and again. Although there were those who hoped to get more from him, he wanted none of it. No forever after for him. He didn’t go in for sticky, complicated relationships. He did what he had to do in order to keep going, and then went on to the next one. Sure, he turned lots of heads in his time, but what ruined him was his lack of charm.