Children of the Knight by Michael J. Bowler (book recommendations based on other books txt) 📖

“Now we’re going to casually turn and walk through the crowd ’til we’re clear of them,” the voice went on in her ear, casual and deadly. “You make a false move or try to get any of these kids to help, I’ll shoot you and then randomly shoot kids. You got it, lady?”

She nodded, and slowly turned around. The boys surrounding her were engrossed in the fighting, their swords out and ready should they be needed, and had not even noticed her deadly predicament. With the metal still pressed into her back, Jenny wended her way carefully through the throng, death right on her heels.

Within the limo, Lance watched the fighting unfold on the flat screen with confidence and fear. There were too few attackers, he knew. There was no way they could beat all of Arthur’s knights. So why bother? A diversion, R. had said, but diverting attention from what? Despite his fear, he felt pride in his fellow knights. Most of them had been trained by him, which gave him a fleeting sense of accomplishment, something so rare it caught up in his throat like a wad of gum.

R. observed the mayhem with amusement, occasionally glancing up through the open moonroof and drawing Lance’s attention. He, too, looked up through the open rectangular hole.

A building loomed to the right of the limo, and he thought it was an old court building or something. But why would R. keep…? And then movement caught his eye, a flash of light against metal, up on the roof, right there on the corner.

“What you lookin’ at, Pretty Boy?” R. barked.

Lance whipped his head around, but quickly recovered. “Nuthin’. The stars.”

R. shook his head in disgust. “You’re a pathetic excuse for a boy, you know that?”

If he thought Lance would rise to the bait, he was mistaken. Lance’s mind spun. Roof. Metal. What did it…? And then he knew.

A sniper!

That had to be it, and that’s what the diversion was about, so he could shoot Arthur!

Desperation swept over him. He wanted to blurt it out to Jack, who sat fuming over R.’s insult, but knew he couldn’t. Their time was up. They had to get out of this car, and they had to do it now! He locked eyes with Jack, exchanged a slight nod, and then began.

R.’s phone vibrated, and he put it to his ear. “I said I didn’t… what?” His eyes bugged out in fury, causing the boys to press closer together. Each had casually slipped a hand beneath his own tunic, and so far no one had noticed.

“Sit tight, and we’ll get you later.” He slammed the phone down.

L. turned from the fighting. “What?”

R. glowered with such hatred at Lance that he thought the man might rip him apart with his bare hands. “That was Gutierrez. He barely got away from the cops, after our warehouse was firebombed!”

L.’s face twisted with anger. “What?”

But R.’s fierce, killing glare fixed on Jack. “Forgot to mention that, did you, fagboy?”

Jack pretended to consider the question. “Oh yeah,” he said with a shrug. “I did forget that.” Then he grinned.

R. turned red with rage. “Kill him!”

That was their cue. They yanked their hands from beneath their shirts. Each wielded half of the metal rod used to lift the toilet stopper—the metal rod from the toilet of their holding cell, the one Jack had snapped in two with his powerful hands.

With the quickness of youth, the boys twisted around and rammed their sections of steel right into the throats of the Asians flanking them, causing both men to flail wildly about, grab for their throats, and drop their guns.

R. dove across the space toward Lance, but Lance was faster. He dropped to the carpeted floor of the limo, reached under the seat, and grabbed his skateboard.

Jack flung himself across the small space and attacked L. like he was a tackling dummy in football practice. He drove his shoulder into L.’s chest, shoving the man back hard against the car seat and sending the wind whooshing from his lungs.

Quick as a rabbit, Lance was up with his board and swinging. It struck R. hard in the jaw, and the audible crack of bone warmed Lance’s heart. R. went sprawling, and Lance called out, “Let’s go, Jack!”

Before the other boy could even respond, Lance was up and through the moon roof. Jack leapt up after, his muscled frame finding it more difficult to squeeze through. L. reached out a hand to grab Jack’s ankle, but when Jack kicked out, there was an “ugh” sound and his ankle was free.

Lance hauled him the rest of the way up and they and stood atop the limo. Lance pointed up at the court building.

There was movement, visible even in the dark.

“I think it’s a sniper. C’mon!”

The boys leapt onto the hood, down to the sidewalk, and took off down Temple Street.

Mr. L. was the first to recover and started to jump from the car with his gun. Mr. R. flung a hand out to stop him. “Let ’em go. It’s too late anyway. Help me up.” His voice sounded slurred and uneven.

Fagboy broke my jaw, he silently fumed. He’ll pay for that!

Mr. L helped him back onto the seat. He pulled out Lance’s phone and dialed Arthur.

The battle had wound down. Only Arthur still fought, clashing with the biggest of the attackers. His knights, the mayor and his group, the LAPD officers scattered around the perimeter, as well as the rubbernecking local residents, stood by helplessly, breathless with anticipation.

Arthur’s attacker fought hard and with deadly efficiency, his katana swinging deftly up, down, and across with dizzying speed, parrying many of Arthur’s thrusts. He could jump high above Arthur’s swings and crouch low to avoid the same. After a time, Arthur figured out his pattern, and when the man leapt, Arthur swung high instead of low, and Excalibur slashed across the attacker’s thigh, slicing it open.

The man crumpled to the ground with a piercing scream, blood spurting from the jagged wound, his sword spilling to the concrete for Lavern to retrieve.

Arthur stood back, panting from the exertion, eyed the writhing, wounded man and the blood streaking Excalibur, and then thrust the sword skyward in triumph. The kids roared their approval. The fight was over. They had won.

Then the phone in Arthur’s hand vibrated.

Lance and Jack sprinted feverishly down Temple and had just passed Spring Street. Lance’s lungs burned and his heart pumped wildly, adrenaline propelling him forward with desperation.

Up ahead in the distance, he saw the lights of City Hall and the crowd of knights and spectators all spread out in a massive circle that spilled outward like a spiral galaxy. All heads faced inward, toward the center, toward something Lance could not yet make out.

Hundreds of winking and flashing cell phone lights made the whole area look like a glittery star field, as though the boys were headed into the center of the Milky Way, itself.

Traffic on Temple, usually extreme, had trickled to almost nothing, maybe because everyone knew all the action was up ahead at City Hall.

Lance’s panting heaved and pulled at his lungs, but Jack seemed hardly winded at all. He nudged the younger boy as they pounded along the pavement. “You got the board, man, go! I’ll catch up.”

Lance tossed him a worried nod then deftly leapt atop his board and began to fly.

Arthur lowered Excalibur and raised the phone to his ear. The surrounding starfield of people saw the movement and, bewildered, fell silent. Arthur forced calm into his voice. “I am here.”

Within the limo, a disheveled Mr. L. sat smoothing out his wrinkled jacket, while Mr. R. sat across from him, his jaw swollen and enflamed, his fury raging. He held up Lance’s phone and growled, “You wanna see your punk-ass kids alive again?”

Arthur exhaled in relief.

My boys yet live! Thank you, Lord.

“What do ye wish me to do?”

Everyone watched uncertainly, and waited, including the mayor and his people. Absolute silence filled the night.

Mr. R. knew he had but moments before those kids raised the alarm. His jaw throbbed, and his words came out slurred.

“It’s very simple, your majesty,” he said mockingly. “Simply lay down your sword and step away from it.”

He and Mr. L. exchanged a look while he awaited Arthur’s answer. “Remember, I am watching everything.”

Arthur frowned. It was an odd request. And the man’s voice sounded different somehow. He heard pain in that voice. He’d been around more than enough battle injuries to know the sound of a battle wound when he heard it. Had Lance or Jack somehow hurt this man? If so, were they even, in fact, still alive?

He gazed a moment at the mayor and police chief. The chief had a radio to his mouth, presumably calling in reinforcements. Then Arthur turned to the sea of faces awaiting his next move. Reyna flashed him a “what’s going on” look, but he didn’t respond.

Lay down Excalibur. A simple request. It would make him vulnerable to attack, he knew. But if there was a chance to save Lance….

“Very well,” he said into the phone.

He bent to lay Excalibur onto the pavement.

Lance kicked and barreled down Temple Street, lungs burning, not daring to look up, but feeling the sniper high above taking his aim.

Lance understood the stakes. This moment would define his life. This would be his greatest event ever, greater and more important than anything at the X Games.

His real gold medal, the only gold medal that mattered, would not be for him alone, but for all of his fellow knights, for all of his family—he had to save Arthur at any cost!

The needs of the fellowship demanded it.

Hair trailing behind like the mane of a galloping colt, Lance caught sight of a ramp beside the incomplete bleachers, a ramp that rose up to the height of those bleachers, a ramp that would propel him up and over the crowd to Arthur.

Legs burning, sweat pouring into his eyes, Lance pumped and kicked harder than ever in his young life.

Atop the old Hall of Justice, Alberto Santiago had Arthur clearly framed within his scope. Santiago had been one of the Army Rangers’ best snipers during the Gulf War, but had been summarily dismissed from military service for later taking out a particularly nasty warlord in Somalia without proper authorization.

Hell, he’d seen the chance to take out the bastard, and he’d grabbed it. Probably saved thousands.

But his superiors hadn’t seen it that way, and he’d been given a dishonorable discharge. All he knew about this Arthur guy was what he’d seen on the news. Seemed okay to him, but Mr. R. paid the bills, and if Mr. R. wanted him smoked, well, that was his job.

His cue, Mr. R. had told him, was when Arthur laid his sword onto the ground. Then, when the man stood up, he would take his shot. Armor-piercing bullets, too, since the king would likely be sporting some kind of armor.

He observed through his scope as Arthur bent down with his sword and began laying it out on the ground. His trigger finger twitched. Almost there.

Sending a silent prayer skyward for worthiness, a sweaty, adrenaline-powered Lance bolted up the rickety wooden