by Matt Rogers
He either knew something, or he didn’t.
Speculating was utterly pointless, and a monumental waste of his life.
The lack of sleep caught up to him. Coming down from the violence, his limbs grew heavy and his mind stuttered, jumping from place to place as if ghosting through an illusion. Maybe it was the dehydration, maybe it was the stress, maybe it was the blood loss — or, more than likely, it was all those things wrapped up in a sinister package.
He barely comprehended the rest of the journey. The mud turned to blacktop and sidewalks formed — he was near the city centre. He aimed for the bright lights and hoped he was trekking in the right direction. He hoped he’d done a respectable job of cleaning himself up with the tap. The last thing he needed was to get turned away by the doorman at what would likely constitute the only luxury hotel in Quibdó.
He found it without much fanfare — a tall, unimpressive building on the outside, but according to his phone a respectable four-star establishment on the inside. A quick Google search revealed it as the only reasonably expensive place in the city.
There wasn’t much going on in the Chocó Department.
Slater powered into the lobby, which sure enough revealed itself as architecturally well-designed and suitably well-furnished. He weaved through an array of chest-high pot plants meant to imitate the wide-ranging biomes of the Colombian jungle. He didn’t spend any time admiring their detail. He shuddered at the thought of any kind of flora. Right now, he wanted a cool climate and an absence of drug traffickers.
But a bed would suffice.
He crossed to the reception desk, manned by a young Afro-Colombian, probably in his early twenties with a thin frame and elegant posture. The guy sat straight up, no hint of a stoop, with his bony shoulders jutting wide on either side of his body. He took his job seriously, despite the late hour. He wanted to impress.
‘After a room, sir?’ he said.
Refusing to acknowledge the slivers of dried blood and dirt and sweat and overall wear and tear dotting Slater’s frame.
A true professional.
Because they were frighteningly obvious.
Slater nodded. ‘Is this the most expensive hotel in Quibdó?’
The guy barely paused.
Once again, a true professional.
‘I assure you, sir, our prices are quite modest for the services we offer. We are quite simply the best.’
‘Good. That’s all I wanted to know. What’s your most expensive room?’
The guy cocked his head.
Maybe not the most professional.
Slightly perturbed by the incessant focus on price.
‘I’m not sure, sir. We have a two-bedroom on the…’
Slater held up a hand. ‘You know what? Doesn’t matter. Put me anywhere nice. I don’t mind the price. But I’m expecting a visitor. Can you show her up to my room when she arrives?’
‘Certainly, sir.’
Now, a sly smile.
Not professional at all.
Showing his age.
Slater smiled back. ‘Make it a good choice, yeah? I’m trying to impress.’
The kid nodded. ‘Yeah.’
Dropping the polite demeanour entirely.
Probably the same age as Ruby.
But a world apart.
That intrigued Slater all the more.
The guy asked for three hundred thousand Colombian pesos. Roughly the equivalent of one hundred U.S. dollars. To Slater, nothing. Out here, enough to support a family for a month. He fished his wallet out of his pocket and handed over the crumpled bills.
‘Good selection?’ he said.
The kid said, ‘Best we have on offer,’ and handed over a key.
43
Slater couldn’t remember the last time he’d been this desperate for a shower.
He burst into the room — nothing special, if he was being honest, but then again he’d tasted the absolute pinnacle of luxury in dozens of countries. Colombia had a beautiful culture, and a cheerful and warm population, but they weren’t a country of interior designers. There was a nice bed and a clean carpet and a couple of polished side tables and a pair of curtains drawn across a window that looked out over Quibdó.
And not much else.
But that was all Slater needed.
He went straight to the bathroom and peeled off his bedraggled clothes, stained dark and deep with sweat and blood and mud and filth. He tossed them on the tiled floor and fired the shower up. The water was hot and clean. It was the little things that mattered in a city like Quibdó. Luxury was state-of-the-art water pipelines, good climate control, and the smaller amenities that people usually didn’t pay attention to.
It all added up to a welcome escape from the humidity, and that felt better than a six-star penthouse in London.
He stood under the powerful jet for an eternity, refusing to get out from under its lure, intoxicated by the cleanliness. The cut on his head proved to be much less of a deal than he initially anticipated. It had already sealed itself shut, the blood clotting and forming a protective layer over the torn skin. He ran the water over his scalp to test it, and came away satisfied, barely in pain.
On a list of the injuries accumulated over a career to be reckoned with, it resided firmly near the bottom.
Out of habit, he yanked the handle to its coldest setting for the last minute of the shower.
Releasing stress chemicals, stimulating blood flow in his muscles, and providing enough of a shock to lend him a burst of energy despite the hurt and the fatigue and the lack of sleep.
He climbed out, cleansed and purified, and killed the water. Dripped dry for a couple of minutes, tasting the air, savouring it. He fetched a clean white towel off the rack and wiped the fog off the mirror. Studied his reflection for a beat. Checked his naked frame for any unseen injuries masked by adrenalin. It wouldn’t surprise him if they were there. He’d once been shot in the upper arm and hadn’t noticed until an hour later when the stress cocktail subsided.
But there was nothing.
No body fat. Just dripping muscle and sinew, tightly packaged, with veins running over his forearms like road maps. Nothing to scoff at. All the self-inflicted pain and discomfort had paid off. He stared at the pile of sweaty clothes he’d came in with and immediately refused to put them back on. He crossed to the wardrobe and fetched a thick robe made of terry cotton. He wrapped it around his body and tightened the knot.
All done.
He stared at the bed, strongly tempted to give up on waiting for Ruby. Fatigue hung heavy over him. He’d flirted with her in the heat of the moment, and it had been based on what he considered mutual respect and admiration. Nothing serious. They were on a level playing field, in some respects. Extreme violence seemed to be a commonality in both their lives.
Whoever she was.
The need for answers gnawed at him, but the need for sleep threatened to overpower it.
Sleep won.
He crossed to the large double bed, almost salivating at the thought of passing out for eight straight hours. He would wake at close to midday the following day, and then he could set to work deducing what to do with the rest of his life. Any attempt to weigh his options now would only lead to falling asleep on the spot.
He peeled back a corner of the duvet.
Someone knocked on the door.
It was a light rap, made with small knuckles, but there was strength behind the gesture. Slater sensed it immediately. For the first time in as long as his memory went back, a tremor of butterflies twisted his gut into a knot. It wasn’t nervous anticipation — he’d lost track of the number of one-night-stands he’d had — and it wasn’t fear of Ruby coming for sinister reasons. He figured he could dismantle her if it came to that.
They were both hardened killers, but he’d been in this business a long time, and probably outweighed her by fifty pounds.
No, it was something else.
It was the awareness that she was different.
There was something terrifying about it.
She stared at him with those tantalising amber eyes.
They didn’t blink.
She wore the same clothes from earlier that night. Still stained with the blood of the cartel narcos. Still dirty from the jungle muck.
Slater said, ‘You need a shower?’
She said, ‘That would be good.’
She tiptoed into the bathroom and shut the door. He stood there, not quite knowing what to do with himself. The sound of running water filtered under the crack in the door frame, and a moment later it ceased, replaced by the faint scuffs and scratches of someone washing themselves hard. He imagined her scrubbing away at the filth of the evening until not a single morsel remained, symbolically shedding her skin. Just as he’d done.
He sat down on the bed.
Ten minutes past and then the door opened. She stood there, completely naked, her frame tanned and supple and lithe, her eyes glowing, her wet brown hair falling in streaks on either side of her face. Her lips were full and moist.
Slater sat still.
He didn’t know what to do.
‘I’m not getting back in those clothes,’ she said.
Slater nodded. ‘There’s no spare robes. Sorry. You can have mine.’
‘Got anything on underneath?’
‘No.’
‘You shy?’
‘No.’
‘I’ll have yours then.’
He didn’t hesitate. He stripped the thick cotton off his body and tossed the whole robe across the room. She caught it, one-handed, and gently lowered it to the floor.
‘Not going to wear it?’ he said.
‘No need.’
‘You sure? I’m quite a bit older.’
‘How much older?’
‘Maybe ten years. Give or take.’
She scoffed. ‘We just slaughtered an encampment of drug traffickers and you’re worried about that?’
He shrugged. ‘Do I look worried?’
She stared. Looked from his face to his chest to … lower.
The corners of her mouth turned upward. Ever so slightly. She couldn’t hide her approval. She might be the best method actress in the world, but this was a different realm altogether.
‘No,’ she said. ‘You look excited.’
He just smiled.
Rolled over and turned the bedside light out.
Plunged the room into darkness.
44
They writhed and jolted and moaned, tangled in the sheets, wrapped in each other’s bodies, savouring every part of it, and when it was over Slater flashed a glance at the clock on the desk, its digits glowing in the gloom.
His eyes widened.
‘Jesus,’ he muttered, coated in a fresh layer of perspiration. ‘That was … longer than expected.’
Ruby half-chuckled, half-smiled, and rested her head on his heaving chest. Also sweating.
‘Time flies when you’re having fun,’ she muttered. ‘What was it? An hour? Two?’
‘Nearly two. How’d I go?’
‘You kidding?’ she said. ‘I’m exhausted.’
‘Is that a good thing?’
‘You bet.’
‘I thought I might be rusty. Haven’t been pursuing much lately.’
‘If that was you rusty, I might need to hang around a bit longer.’
‘You’re not hanging around?’
‘You want me to?’
‘I have questions,’ he muttered. ‘So many questions.’
They lay there in the darkness, fatigued and exhausted and worn down but glowing with invigoration. Cradling each other’s physiques, running hands over flesh, drinking in the hedonism.
It made sense, too.
They both operated in a world that revolved entirely around the physical. And usually the other end of the spectrum. Pain and violence and suffering.
Slater didn’t blame himself for wanting the opposite when he wasn’t clashing heads together.
He ran a hand down her back and it came to rest on her firm rear. He kissed her, hard, warming up for a second round.
She rolled on top of him.
‘Wait,’ he muttered. ‘Let’s talk.’
‘We can do that later.’
‘I don’t think we can. I think you’re using me for a thrill. And then I think you’ll be gone.’
‘Think what you like. I want you.’
She hunched over him, taking his ear in her mouth. Tasting it. Working her way down his neck.
He stifled a moan.
Took her by the hips.
Rolled her over.
Her silhouette reacted accordingly, two slender arms reaching up, fingers digging into his back.
‘Listen,’ she muttered. ‘I’ve had a rough couple of days, and you’re damn good in bed. I want round two. Either give it to me or tell me to leave.’
‘Can you multitask?’ he whispered in her ear.
‘I might be able to oblige.’
They went slow, taking the polar opposite approach to the first time, which had been nothing more than a burst of uncontrolled energy and unbridled pleasure on both sides. Now they gyrated, moving their bodies together in a gentle rhythm, their faces only inches apart in the dark room.
Slater kissed her.
She kissed back.
He said, ‘How do you know Russell Williams?’
In between a pair of gasps, she said, ‘We work together.’
‘Together?’
‘He’s my handler.’
‘Should you be telling me this?’
‘Probably not. But there were more men in that clearing than I was expecting. I probably wouldn’t have been able to kill all of them if you hadn’t picked off most of them first. So I owe you a debt. And you’re doing good now. Really, really good. I’m in a giving mood.’
‘Glad to hear.’
‘But I really shouldn’t be telling you this. Any of this. It’ll get me killed.’
‘You truly think?’
‘I don’t know.’
‘What do you know?’
‘Not much. Trust me. Less than you’d expect.’
‘They keep you in the dark?’
‘It’s better for both of us, I figure.’
‘You’re fast as hell. And I thought you were a terrified hostage in that clearing. I bought it — hook, line, and sinker. And I can read people. Trust me. You said you’re twenty-one?’
‘I’m twenty-two tomorrow.’
‘Happy birthday.’
‘Thanks.’
‘Did you celebrate?’
‘No.’
‘Why not?’
‘Not part of the business.’
‘What’s the business?’
He sensed something building. He knew the underlying truth.
No-one could amass skills like that in three years. She didn’t walk into a recruiting office at eighteen. Even if she was a prodigy, even if she was a stone-cold killer from birth, you couldn’t teach that remorselessness, that lack of hesitation, that primal switch from hostage to hunter in the blink of an eye. Not in a few short years. That was a decade-long project. Just like Slater had been.
He said, ‘When did you find Russell Williams?’
‘I was twelve.’
‘Fuck.’
‘It’s not what you think.’
‘I’m not thinking about you.’
‘Who are you thinking about?’
‘What are you?’ he said. ‘You’re not Black Force. You don’t even know what it is. So you’re something else.’
‘I can’t tell you that.’
‘I’m retired. You don’t have to worry about anything.’
‘You seem angry. Under the surface
. Like Williams took something from you. Some time ago.’
‘I’m retired,’ he said.
‘You didn’t look retired,’ she said. ‘Earlier tonight. You don’t … feel retired.’
He said, ‘I’m retired.’
‘Okay,’ she whispered. ‘I’m a protégé of the Lynx program.’
45
He didn’t respond.
Maybe she was expecting him to. She paused for effect, letting the words sink in, but they meant nothing to Slater. He’d never heard of such a thing. And for good reason, too. For one of the most devastating solo operatives in black-ops history, he knew surprisingly little about the inner workings of the clandestine secret world. There were entire divisions tucked out of sight, shielded from prying eyes for legal and moral reasons. Men and women who had to go into bad places to do bad things for the greater good.
No judge, no jury.
Just a sea of executioners.
So it didn’t surprise him when she mentioned an alternative program. In fact, it was the last thing on his mind. He was connecting other dots, formulating dark theories, hoping none of it was true.
‘You were twelve,’ Slater said.
‘Yes. I’m not anymore, though. If that’s what you’re worried about.’
‘Trust me, I’m aware of that.’
She gyrated underneath him, her hips moving faster. ‘God, this is good.’
‘Where are you from?’
‘New York. Originally.’
‘Originally?’
‘Like I told you — I only lived at home until I was twelve.’
‘And then?’
‘I ran away. That part of my life is a blur. I try not to think about it. I hated my family. Hated them down to the core.’
‘Most twelve-year-olds do.’
‘Not like me.’
‘Were they abusive?’
‘No,’ she said, almost offended. ’Not at all. We were just … different.’
‘Different how?’
‘Do you care about my childhood, or do you care about Russell Williams? Pick one. I can’t tell you my life story.’
‘We could just talk for as long as this lasts.’
‘That might be hours.’
‘Then I deserve the story.’
She shrugged. Pulled him closer. Pressed her lips to his. ‘Suits me.’
