Page 17 of When Kings Fall

Just as I start to think I might miss dinner, after all, the fishing boat comes into view. It’s an old schooner; its once vibrant green hull is now faded and weathered by years of harsh saltwater. The white sails billow in the wind, but I can hear the engine puttering even from this distance. The boat bounces on the waves as it approaches the shore, the front lifting and dropping with the rhythm of the sea.

I squint, trying to make out the name on the hull, but I don’t need to see it to know. Deirdre. Named after the tragic figure from Irish legend, the woman who died of a broken heart. Fitting, in a twisted way.

I get out of the car, moving silently toward the pier, keeping to the shadows. The schooner coasts smoothly toward the dock, the hull scraping lightly against the wood as it comes to a stop. A large man jumps off the boat, rope in hand, and begins tying up the schooner with practiced ease.

This must be Ben Fleming. Even from here, I can see the years of hard work etched into his broad shoulders, his every movement deliberate and strong. He finishes securing the boat and turns back, ready to climb aboard again, when he hears the click of my gun.

“Let’s take a ride, Ben,” I say, my voice cutting through the stillness.

He freezes, his back to me. For a moment, I expect him to panic, to bolt, or at least stammer out some excuse. But he doesn’t. Instead, he straightens, his shoulders stiffening, and slowly turns to face me. There’s no fear in his eyes, just a weary resignation like he almost expected this.

Something tugs at the back of my mind, a warning, but I push it aside. Paranoia. That’s all it is, leftover tension from dealing with Wolfe. This man isn’t Wolfe. This is Ben Fleming, a simple fisherman who got caught up in something bigger than himself.

“Untie the boat,” I command, keeping my gun trained on him.

Without a word, Ben obeys, his large hands deftly undoing the knots he just tied. The schooner drifts slightly as he releases it from the dock. I gesture with the gun, and we both climb aboard. The boat rocks underfoot, the cold sea spray hitting my face as I keep my eyes locked on him.

“Take us back out to sea,” I tell him.

Again, he complies without a fight, moving to the controls and guiding Deirdre away from the dock. The engine grumbles as it powers up, and soon we’re gliding back out into the open water, the shoreline slowly fading from view.

The plan is simple: kill Ben, dump him at sea, and be done with it. As I stand behind him, the cold steel of the gun in my hand, I can’t help but feel a twinge of disappointment. This isn’t what I’d hoped for. No challenge, no thrill—just another task to tick off the list. I might as well be running errands for all the excitement I’m getting out of this.

The waves slap against the hull, the cold wind biting at my face, but there’s no adrenaline, no rush. I was hoping for more—a fight, something to get the blood pumping. But Ben just stands there, quietly steering the schooner like a lamb resigned to the slaughter.

I shift my weight, considering how quickly I can make this all end. Just one pull of the trigger, and it’s over. But before I can make my move, Ben does something unexpected. He slams the throttle forward, gunning the engine with a sudden roar.

The boat lurches violently, throwing me off balance. I stumble backward, my feet slipping on the wet deck. The next thing I know, something heavy and hard connects with the side of my head. An oar. Pain explodes across my skull, and I crash to the deck, the gun slipping from my grasp and skidding across the floor.

The boat surges forward, cutting through the choppy waves with no one at the helm. I can feel the cold spray of the sea on my face as I struggle to clear my vision, the taste of salt on my lips. Ben has left the controls, and he’s coming at me again, the oar raised for another strike.

I barely have time to react, rolling to the side as the oar comes down where my head was a second ago. The deck tiltsbeneath me, the schooner still plowing ahead, out of control. I scramble to my feet, scanning the deck for my gun, but there’s no time. Ben’s on me again, swinging the oar with surprising strength.

I grab the oar as it comes at me, gripping it with both hands, trying to wrestle it from him. The wood digs into my palms, the muscles in my arms straining as we struggle. Up close, I can see it in his eyes now—Ben Fleming is not a simple man.

There’s a ferocity there, a wildness that I didn’t expect. His weathered face is twisted with determination, his teeth gritted as he fights back. The oar shifts between us, our bodies pressing against each other as we grapple for control.

This isn’t how it was supposed to go. My mind races, trying to reassess, to adapt, but the boat lurches again, throwing us both off balance. Ben uses the moment to his advantage, wrenching the oar free from my grip. I barely manage to duck as he swings it at my head again.

I can feel my heart pounding now, adrenaline finally surging through my veins. This isn’t just a routine hit anymore—this is a fight for survival. The thought crosses my mind that maybe this is exactly what I wanted. A real challenge. But there’s no time to savor the irony as Ben comes at me again.

We’re locked in a deadly dance, the boat careening through the waves, neither of us in control. Each move is calculated, every second counts. Ben isn’t going down easily, and it’s clear now that he’s been in a fight like this before.

As much as I want to deny it, one thing is certain: Ben Fleming is far more dangerous than I ever imagined.

Ben moves faster than I expected, just as fast as I am. The way he shrugs off pain, like it’s nothing more than a mild inconvenience, tells me everything I need to know. This isn’t some simple fisherman—this is a killer, a man cut from the same bloody cloth as me.

When I lunge at him, trying to get a grip, my hands only tear away his shirt. That’s when I see them—the scars crisscrossing his back, eerily similar to the ones I bear. My blood runs cold. This isn’t just a hit. This is a battle with someone who knows the same darkness I do.

He comes at me again, relentless, and I barely manage to pull myself up to the console. My hand finds the wheel, and I spin it hard, sending the boat into a sharp turn. The schooner leans violently to the side, the masts swinging as the sails adjust to the sudden change in wind direction. Ben stumbles, losing his footing, and for a brief moment, I have the upper hand.

I straighten the wheel quickly, pointing the boat back toward shore. I can’t afford to be stranded out here, not with this maniac coming at me. The sea is no friend to me, not like it is to him.

But Ben’s quick to recover, grabbing a rope and coming at me with murder in his eyes. I know what he’s planning—he’s going to try and strangle me. But I’m ready for it. The moment he loops the rope around my neck, I slip my hands under it, stopping him from tightening the noose. My muscles scream in protest, but I hold on, refusing to let him choke the life out of me.

The fight is brutal, a drawn-out battle where neither of us can gain the upper hand. The boat lurches and sways beneath us, making every movement a risk. Ben has his sea legs, moving with the boat’s rhythm like he’s part of it. I’m at a disadvantage, struggling to maintain balance, every step a fight against the shifting deck.

The gun is long gone, lost somewhere in the chaos, and exhaustion is starting to seep into my bones. My muscles burn with every movement, and for the first time in my career, I feel something unsettling—fear. I’m not just battling Ben; I’m battling my own limits, and I’m starting to realize that I might lose.

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