Chapter Text
[...] After escaping the chamber, where the satanic ritual of sacrifice had taken place, Harrison Portier navigated the narrow passages of the maze-like undercroft, guided by the light shining through the broken sandstones of the crumbling ceiling and deteriorating walls.
Through the metal grates of the occasional window, he could hear the sounds of a battle raging outside and could see the shadows of the fighters moving erratically as they clashed wildly with one another.
He sneaked amongst the looming shadows, crossed under tall, arched doors, and slithered behind stone pillars, fighting his way unseen, up the stairs to the courtyard, and into the White Tower. He passed cultists and officers of all ranks and agencies who fought using guns, fists and even swords, and at last, he was able to make his way inside the Grand Assembly Room.
The Duke was in the center of the long hall surrounded by a sea of combatants. He was waving his revolver around frantically, shooting stray bullets indiscriminately on all nearby, his face contorted in an ugly, satanical kind of mask, overwhelmed by blind rage.
Harrison could not get a clear shot from that distance and due to the large crowd, but fought his way nearer, still obscured under his large hood, weaving between the eight lofty wooden pillars, holding the Assembly room’s impressively high-rise ceiling in place.
As he neared close, he saw the Duke raise his Colt and direct it at the three Chief Inspectors of the Yard —and Harrison’s long-time mentors— who stood back-to-back on a circle defending themselves. As the gun was firing, Harrison—without wasting a single moment of thought—slipped off of the Jacket of Bulletproofing with one fluid continuous movement and threw it forcefully on the path of the bullet, causing it to lodge on the fabric securely, shielding the Chiefs from harm.
With that, he finally jumped from behind the pillar and right into the middle of the room, as the stunned crowd roared and cheered and cried “Harrison!” “He's alive!” and the maniacal smile was momentarily extinguished from the Duke's badly scarred face.
But no sooner had the screams began, than they began to fade, rapidly descending into a deafening silence, when —as if by design— Harrison Portier and the Duke began circling around the room, guns pointing firmly at each other.
“Everybody, do not get involved, get to safety if you can" Harrison said loudly, addressing the crowd while sneaking sideway glances at the fallen bodies, to make sure his friends were not among the injured or dead.
“Looking for your friends, Portier? They won’t be able to save you today,” the Duke hissed. His one remaining unburnt eye, whose iris was red-veined but clear instead of milky and clouded like the other, flicked to his side. "Unless you elect to use these as a shield," he laughed, an evil, insane kind of laugh.
Harrison followed his gaze to a small pile of bodies lying on top of each other, loosely tangled, as if they had recognized the coming of death and had chosen —instead of attempting in vain to shield themselves from it— to embrace each other at the dawn of their ultimate hour. Though their bodies were marred with bullet holes and dark red stains, their faces were set in solemn -almost peaceful- expressions, eyes closed as if they were only sleeping.
Harrison felt like somebody had stopped the clock. He swallowed the constricting knot on his throat and pushed back against the punch in his gut. These were his friends, his colleagues, his fellow detectives, sergeants, and constables, some only young rookie cadets barely out of the Academy. Even secretaries and family members -most of them barely armed- had come to the Tower to assist in the fight against the wicked Duke of Riddles and his bloodthirsty cult of Man-Eaters. He couldn't bear to let his mind wonder how many more bodies there could be amidst the crowd.
Instead, Harrison forced himself to fight off the suffocating feeling, to gulp a large shaky breath, before averting his eyes to face the Duke again and not look back.
“Not today. Today it’s just me and you Thomasson. For the very last time,” Harrison said simply.
“Indeed, the very last time for you,” taunted the Duke. “It is because of you that so many people have died, due to your inability to solve my riddles in time, and your failure to apprehend me for seven years while my cult reigned supreme right under your and your precious Inspectors’ noses”.
“There will be no more victims on your blood-soaked hands,” screamed Harrison as he circled the Duke, eyes pining him to the spot. “I have solved all of your riddles; your cult’s blood ritual has failed and I’m still alive. You have failed to kill me. And I will thwart you again, as I’ve done thrice now.”
“You mean how you barely scraped by with the help of greater Detectives who sacrificed everything including their own lives to save yours,” roared the Duke, ejecting spit from the burnt side of his mouth where the cheek had melted off, exposing the insides. The crowd took two steps back in unison and many people held their breath in asphyxiating horror. “There’s no one left to rescue you. Even the great Chief Constable was murdered on my orders,” the Duke continued in a gleeful voice.
“You didn’t have Bumblebee killed,” said Harrison and the crowd gasped.
“Stupid little man!” The Duke shrieked.
“Bumblebee was already dying—cancer, by the time you set up your little plan to have him assassinated by Darius,” Harrison explained, with some satisfaction. “He had known for a while what Darius’ plans were and he chose to let him carry them out anyway. He had it all planned, not you” Harrison finished and for a moment only he thought he saw a flicker of worry passing quickly through the Duke’s eye and then disappearing again.
Despite it, the Duke held himself rather well, managing to calm himself before pompously articulating his next words. “No matter. Bumblebee is dead, and I am in possession of his Colt. The Colt of sacrifice belongs to me.”
“The gun in your hand is not Bumblebees', it is a fake,” said Harrison calmly.
“Impossible!” erupted the Duke.
“Darius stole the gun from Bumblebee, that night atop the Big Clock Tower,” Harrison explained patiently. “We placed a replica on his grave and of course you took the bait like the greedy, power-hungry tyrant that you are.” He saw surprise momentarily shine through the Duke’s eyes, but it wasn’t there the next moment.
“But what does it matter?” The Duke said softly. “Even if you are right, Portier, it makes no difference to you and me. You no longer in possession of your Phoenix revolver. We draw on skill alone… and after I have killed you, I can attend to Darius Malloy …”
“But you’re too late,” said Harrison. “You’ve missed your chance. I got there first. I overpowered Darius weeks ago. I took this revolver from him.” Harrison twitched the revolver in his hand, and he felt everybody’s eyes in the room -including the Duke’s, fall upon it.
“Darius would have never been so stupid, as to let you steal the real Colt —IF he had it, Portier,” the Duke spoke with confidence, although Harrison thought he could discern something underneath it, a note of insecurity perhaps. The Duke was definitely getting less and less cocky as their conversation progressed.
“Oh, but I also think he wasn’t,” Harrison hummed in a low, thoughtful voice. “I think he let me take it because he wanted me to kill you. Whatever reasons for his allegiance to you he might have once had, he’s no longer yours to command.”
“So it all comes down to vengeance then, not that foolish love you always go on about, don’t you see it Harrison. Love is, no more,” said the Duke, voice low and taunting.
“I am doing all this because of love. And that is enough for me,” Harrison highlighted his words with a voice coated thickly with emotion and with eyes burning, for the friends he’d lost, and for the ones he still had to protect.
“It matters not!” raged the Duke again. “After I kill you, everybody including whoever is left of your precious little friends, will be mine to command and you will have failed to save them once more,” he cackled a venomous laugh.
“If you manage to kill me,” Harrison reminded him. “I may only have one bullet left but by my calculations you too are down to your last one,” he continued undeterred, jerking his head towards the pile of bodies which counted five —one less than the six bullets on the barrel of the fake Colt.
“So we each only have one shot. The only thing remaining to be seen is, whether this Colt is indeed the real one.”
The Duke half scoffed half cackled at the same time. “Even with the Colt your powers are no match for mine. Unless you think you are somehow stronger or have more followers than me or perhaps possess some other power I don’t.”
“I believe all of those things are true,” said Harrison and watched as emotions began to flick through the Duke’s face in rapid succession. First his lips parted a little in shock, but it didn’t last long. Then his eye blinked as he gawked at Harrison in disbelief. And finally, his jaw went slack, mouth opening wide, as he exploded into a malicious and psychotic laugh.
"This is the end of the line for you, Thomasson Riddleman.” Harrison raised his voice and said clearly. “I will give you one last chance to surrender, with my word that you will get your day in the courts. You may never have showed my friends mercy, but I am not you. Otherwise I’m pretty sure God will not have mercy on your black soul."
“NEVER,” the Duke’s scream echoed across the quiet room, bounced off the walls and between the pillars, causing them to tremble in place.
At that moment, Harrison saw the Duke’s hand tense and take aim, he heard his voice as it continued to echo, and he too aimed Darius’ Colt at the center of the Duke’s heart and pulled the trigger, praying to God his suspicions were correct.
Both guns fired at the same time with identical thundering bangs and blinding flashes. In slow motion, they watched, as the bullets crossed the distance separating them, meeting in the very middle of the room where they collided with a horrendous crack. Then, one of the bullets ricocheted off of the other and turned in the opposite direction, to whence it came.
Harrison saw the Duke’s remaining eye grow impossibly wide, only for a moment, and in that moment, he recognized an emotion he had never before seen in all his years of pursuit, being reflected in the Duke’s eye. A heavy dose of disbelief with an undeniable undertone of —fear.
The moment passed in an instant and in the next, the bullet punched a hole through the Duke’s chest in such force, he began to topple backwards, gun breaking free off his scarred hand and both hitting the ground with a loud thump and a shrill clang.
He lay on the floor, eye frozen in the very last emotion he ever felt, lips slightly parted in silent terror.
The Duke was dead once and for all, killed by his own rebounding bullet. […]
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Epilogue
The world was finally rid of the Duke of Riddles and his satanic cult of Man-Eaters.
For weeks, and months they mourned their loved ones and held many long funerals.
The remaining cult members were eventually tracked down and most of them were imprisoned for life. A few were even given pardons under conditional paroles, either due to their role as informants or because they had simply turned cowards towards the end and switched sides at the last minute.
The Scotland Yard headquarters were rebuilt, the Tower was reconstructed brick by brick, and, in time, London town began to heal.
As for Harrison, he retired shortly after the trials and the funerals had come to an end. His seven-year hunt for the Duke had ended but he'd not gone through it unscathed. He had enough fight to last him a lifetime.
After all was said and done, he couldn’t find it in his heart to reunite with his ex-girlfriend. And in time, she too would move on.
He kept in touch with Rick and Henrietta, however, who would go on to have a family of their own. One of the few good things that had come out of the whole affair.
Their seven-year hunt was over, and some of its victims lay buried, others were left to tend to their open wounds.
Years passed.
Harrisons' wounds continued to bleed on semi-frequent intervals since they’d never really healed to begin with.
His nightmares continued too, not as they had before, when the threat of the Duke loomed over him and the Cult was still at large, but continued they did.
Now they were less vivid, less urgent, but still as impactful as they’d ever been. They were sleeping faces and accusatory words. They were dark red stains on torn clothes.
Yet, Harrison persevered. A life was better than no life at all he might have said if you asked him.
All was not well.
But it was well enough.