Lynx

by Matt Rogers

  ‘Nobody told me what I’m supposed to do with it,’ he said, right to their faces.

  He kept his voice short and clipped. His eyes bored into them, expectant. He jerked a finger back towards the Tesla. He raised both eyebrows, injecting as much urgency into his nervous tics as he could. Bringing them from a calm observational stance to a panicked response.

  The first guy said, ‘What?’

  He had cheeks riddled with acne and a deep flush to his pale face. Black beady eyes rested in dark sockets. His hairline had started receding up his scalp years ago, even though he couldn’t be far over twenty-five.

  The second guy seemed far more confused. He was more handsome, with smooth skin and a straight hairline and a slightly more frantic nature. His eyes darted from Slater to the car, and from the car back to Slater. He seemed younger than the first guy. Newer. A fresher face. Not quite worn in yet. He’d withdrawn into himself at the first sign of confusion. He’d probably been taught to stand around and look scary and act intimidating if the situation demanded it. Now he didn’t know what the hell to do.

  Slater labelled them Guy One, and Guy Two, in order of the concern they might see through his ruse.

  Guy One — the uglier one — repeated the question. ‘What?’

  Slater deliberately didn’t answer, for the second time.

  He put his hands behind his back, and crossed them together, and stared at the pair like they were the dumbest motherfuckers on the planet.

  He said, ‘You heard me the first time.’

  Guy One said, ‘I don’t know who the fuck you are.’

  But you haven’t pulled a gun on me yet, Slater said. So I’ve got your attention, haven’t I?

  He said, ‘Well, that’s great, because I don’t know who the fuck you are either. Look how much we have in common. It’s a perfect match. Just make sure you take me out to dinner before you fuck me.’

  Guy Two laughed.

  Guy One looked past Slater, to the Tesla. ‘I know the car.’

  Slater threw his hands up in the air, in mock amazement. ‘Holy shit. Incredible. Next you’re gonna tell me you know Mickey.’

  ‘Where’s Mickey?’

  ‘Don’t ask me. Above my pay grade. I’m just the driver.’

  ‘Why the hell did he tell you to bring it back here? It doesn’t belong here. It belongs in the garage.’

  ‘Did you miss the part where I said it’s above my pay grade? All I heard was the job didn’t go so well, so they’re probably licking their wounds somewhere.’

  ‘They’re not supposed to do that.’

  ‘They’re probably not supposed to use cheap hookers either, but you know Mickey.’

  Guy Two laughed again.

  Good.

  Guy One said, ‘Alright, thanks.’

  Slater said, ‘Well?’ and looked at the pair of them expectantly.

  Guy One said, ‘Job done. You brought the car back. Get lost.’

  ‘Oh,’ Slater said, as if realising something. He turned to Guy Two, the more susceptible of the pair. He jerked a thumb at Guy One. ‘He doesn’t know, does he?’

  ‘Know what?’ Guy Two said.

  ‘I’ve got a message for Tommy.’

  ‘Then you give it to me,’ Guy One said.

  Slater kept staring at Guy Two. ‘Did you miss the part where I said the job didn’t go well? Mickey has confidential information for Tommy. I’ve been told to bring it straight to him.’

  ‘They invented phones a couple of decades ago,’ Guy One said.

  Slater turned to him. ‘Alright, fuckface. Here’s an idea. What if the job didn’t go well because someone was lying in wait anticipating their arrival? And what if they’re suspecting the phones are tapped, or something along those lines? It’s a theoretical possibility, isn’t it? I already told you I don’t know the details. I was just given the order. So you can either let me in and I can deliver my message or I can walk away and you can deal with the consequences of that later. I really don’t give a shit either way, so hurry up and make your mind up. I’ve got better places to be. Tick tock.’

  If Slater had started with that particular train of conversation, his chances of success would have rested at close to zero percent. Right now, they weren’t high, but at least he had the convincing act of believability to precede it. Guy One stared at him, a little crazed in the eye, and Slater realised he’d misjudged the man.

  He certainly wasn’t getting in through that avenue.

  ‘I’ve never seen you before,’ Guy One said. ‘You haven’t got that through your thick skull yet? You think we let anyone walk in here? Get the fuck out of here before I send you on your way myself.’

  Slater flashed a glance at the guy’s fists. They were tensed up. Every muscle in his body was probably tensed up. Ready for a fight at any moment. He had big hands, thick fingers, and calloused knuckles. A brawler, through and through. A man with endless experience in street fights. He might pose a considerable problem if it came to blows. Slater would need to get in hard, and get in fast.

  He turned and looked at Guy Two’s hands. Skinnier. Thinner fingers. Unblemished knuckles.

  Again — not worn in.

  Slater stared Guy Two in the eyes and said, ‘Right. What’s your name, kid? I’ll let Taylor know who fucked with the messenger.’

  Guy Two shifted from foot to foot. Glanced right, toward his buddy, but Guy One didn’t return the favour. Guy One’s eyes bored into Slater. Waiting for the first punch. He seemed to know it was coming.

  Guy Two said, ‘Come on, man. Just let him in.’

  Guy One wheeled around, eyes wide. ‘What’d you fuckin’ say?’

  ‘Let him in. I don’t want to get on the wrong end of Mickey.’

  ‘You ever seen this bastard before?’

  ‘No, but—’

  ‘You think he looks like a driver?’

  ‘I don’t fuckin’ know. What’s a driver supposed to—?’

  But he didn’t finish the sentence, because both of them had taken their eyes off Slater for a few seconds. That was all he needed. He had the smartphone out of his pocket and pressed to his ear before either of them could react. When they turned back, he was already deep in conversation.

  ‘Yeah,’ he said. ‘Two redheads.’

  They stared at him.

  He paused, as if receiving bad news.

  He said, ‘I doubt Tommy will shoot them dead for this … you sure?’

  Guy One lunged for Slater.

  Guy Two lunged for the door.

  60

  Time slowed down.

  Well, not exactly.

  It was always a strange dichotomy. It slowed and sped up simultaneously — Slater’s brain flooded with millions and millions of neural reactions, sizing up every angle and analysing every imperceptible movement. But reality played out in a lightning-fast blur, as if he was operating on autopilot. Those same reactions went down familiar pathways, creating solutions to problems in milliseconds, and commanding his limbs to react.

  It went the same way every time.

  A few seconds of shocking violence, and then nothing.

  Guy One charged in with a short, sharp movement. His muscle fibres twitched, exploding into motion. He’d been ready for a fight for close to a minute now. But he didn’t throw a punch with lethal intentions, which is what he should have done. Slater had one hand preoccupied with pressing the phone to his ear, and hadn’t expected a reaction like that. Guy One probably could have hit him square on the chin with a lunging jab. Slater had uncanny reaction speed, but he wasn’t inhuman.

  Instead, Guy One went for a double-handed shove.

  A power move. He probably had ten or twenty pounds on Slater, so he figured he could send him sprawling back into the Tesla, denting the metalwork as the kinetic energy took him off his feet. But this wasn’t a game, and Slater hadn’t taken part in a shoving match since he was a kid.

  It was either all or nothing.

  He dropped the phone and wra
pped both hands around the back of Guy One’s neck as he surged into range, locking the man’s head in place. A standard Muay Thai clinch, infamous for obvious reasons, mostly because there was little the guy could do to break out of the hold apart from ducking face-first toward the ground. Which was exactly what Slater wanted him to do.

  And he did it.

  Still supercharged with adrenalin, the guy instinctively wanted away from Slater’s fingers looping around the back of his neck. It was a strange sensation, especially in the heat of an all-out brawl. So he ducked forward, and Slater brought a knee up and smashed his face to pulp, breaking all manner of bones and rearranging his complexion in the process. He heard the sharp crack and felt the guy slacken in his grip, and then he let go, because there was no fight left in the man whatsoever.

  Guy One went down like he’d been shot.

  Two seconds since the craziness broke out.

  No time at all for Guy Two, who wasn’t used to combat. He’d probably been in a couple of hard sparring sessions at boxing gyms owned by the mob, but this was something completely different. He wanted away. He didn’t understand how Slater slotted into the puzzle, and the outburst of movement had thrown him off his guard.

  Slater waited a second or two, which in the heat of the moment felt like an eternity.

  Just long enough for Guy Two to punch a four-digit code into a keypad and yank the lobby door open.

  Perfect.

  Slater kicked him in the back of the knee, hard.

  The guy’s leg buckled, and he stumbled on his way through the slim gap in the bulletproof glass door. Slater caught the door as it swung outward and kicked Guy Two in the back of the other knee, completely taking him off his feet. He hit the smooth concrete floor of the lobby on both knees, jolting in its intensity, and it took him a moment longer than usual to scrabble back to his feet.

  He spun, wide eyed, reeling backward as if he thought that might enable him to get out of range of a forthcoming attack.

  Slater unleashed a right hook and drilled it into the man’s chin.

  He didn’t hold back.

  Not one bit.

  Jackpot.

  Guy Two’s neck muscles tensed in anticipation, but it was far too late. His chin whipped to the side and his entire body went round like it was on a rotating carnival ride and he splayed flat on the concrete floor on his stomach, unconscious before he hit the floor, which just made it worse when he came crashing down to earth. A grisly result, almost worse than Guy One.

  They would both have headaches for weeks, if not months, to come.

  And right now they were useless.

  Slater stepped over Guy Two and drew both P228s from his waistband. It freed his movement, unclogging the front of his jeans. He’d checked them in the Tesla on the drive from Brooklyn to Manhattan and realised they were both fitted with aftermarket magazines, each holding fifteen rounds.

  He wasn’t planning a massacre, so he had no need for such firepower.

  He just needed to send a message.

  The lobby was entirely empty — a surprise indeed. It had a smooth concrete floor and plenty of natural light coming in through the front wall, which was nothing but a giant sheet of bulletproof glass. The furniture was minimal and modern, all hard edges and severe designs. There were a couple of leather couches bathed in daylight and an enormous statue of a warrior atop a warhorse in the middle of the space. It was a marble destrier, towering above the rest of the room.

  Tommy Whelan was anything but subtle.

  Slater crossed the empty lobby to a bank of elevators on the far wall. He checked every corner, every shadow, for signs of resistance. When he found nothing, it set him on edge. He had to remind himself this was a different world to what he was accustomed to. The cartels in Colombia and the tribesmen in Yemen were a different ball game entirely. This was opulent luxury in the heart of New York City, and you couldn’t fortify the place to the nines without attracting suspicion. And the two sentries manning the door were likely more trained than Slater gave them credit for.

  They were likely consummate professionals by industry standards.

  Slater belonged to a different industry.

  A darker industry.

  Where he came from, the mob constituted a gang of schoolboys.

  He called for an elevator — there was no key code on the controls. Just on the front door. A massive security error, but hubris is the killer of many men.

  An elevator arrived with a gentle ping as soon as he pressed the button.

  Someone was already on the way down.

  Slater darted to the correct door and had both pistols pointed at the empty space before the metal doors whispered open.

  A young guy, probably in his late twenties, almost walked straight into the barrels.

  His eyes went wide and fear creased his face. He intuitively patted himself down for weapons, finding none. Probably a good thing. If he’d tried to pull out a sidearm of his own, Slater would have barely hesitated before shooting him in the forehead.

  The guy had jet black hair — long on the top, shaved short on the sides. It was thick and hung in locks on either side of his face, naturally swept. He was blessed with good genetics. Full lips, a pronounced jawline, swirling green eyes. Pale skin, but that was to be expected if he was Irish. Clearly the son of an Irishman and a beautiful trophy wife.

  ‘Gavin?’ Slater said.

  The kid’s eyes lit up with recognition. ‘Oh, thank God. You work for my dad, do you? I thought you were here to—’

  Slater smashed the butt of the pistol in his right hand into Gavin Whelan’s nose.

  61

  Blood sprayed, and Gavin backed across the elevator, hands flying to his face.

  Slater followed him into the cable car and smacked the “close doors” button on the control panel with the bloody hilt of the P228. They whispered closed, just as quietly as they’d opened. Slater used the same butt to touch the emergency button, and the elevator froze in place.

  They were alone in the small metal box.

  Slater dropped one of the guns and kicked it behind him — he needed a hand free. He seized Gavin by the hair and shoved the barrel of the other Sig Sauer into his mouth. Two crimson streams ran out of the man’s nostrils in equal measure, coating the top of the gun with a thin film. A couple of rivulets ran down either side of the black metal and dripped off the P228.

  A grim sight.

  Slater wasn’t fazed in the slightest.

  ‘You remember a girl named Abigail?’ Slater said.

  Tears in the eyes. Pain in the face. Terror in the expression.

  A silent nod.

  ‘Oh, that’s good,’ Slater said. ‘She sure remembers you.’

  Gavin mumbled something.

  ‘What was that?’ Slater said, and shoved the gun deeper into the guy’s throat.

  Gavin choked and spluttered on the barrel.

  ‘What’d you do to her?’ Slater said.

  Silence.

  ‘Answer me.’

  Gavin started to mumble something, and Slater pushed the barrel deeper still between his teeth.

  Gavin retched.

  Slater said, ‘Sorry. Thought you were insulting me.’

  Slater extracted the barrel from the kid’s mouth. It came out coated in saliva and blood from his nose. Not the prettiest sight in the world. Slater put it away, going so far as to re-engage the safety and tuck the weapon into the rear of his waistband.

  Once again — no holster to satisfy standard safety requirements.

  Slater frisked Gavin quick, but the kid was in shock, and in no way ready to resist. He came away empty-handed. It made sense. The Whelans had the confidence of a mob family ingratiated deep into society. They had connections everywhere. The sentries manning the door were probably just for show. They might as well have left their front door unlocked, inviting anyone to walk in off the street and test their might.

  The warhorse statue seemed to speak for that.

>   Slater almost smiled at his good fortune, standing still in the stationary elevator, but he stifled the expression at risk of making Gavin Whelan relax. He needed the kid in a near-catatonic state for what would come next. The young Whelan panted and wheezed and gasped for air as soon as Slater removed the gun from between his lips. He wasn’t used to resistance. Maybe a dark look in the street every now and then, or a young woman named Abigail Nazarian swatting his advances away. But never would he imagine someone from New York trifling with the Whelans, showing them any resistance whatsoever. The repercussions would be immense.

  Thankfully, Slater wasn’t from New York.

  And a family this confident, and this corrupt, was exactly what he needed to get to Russell Williams.

  He slapped Gavin in the face, open palm, straight to the cheek. It would usually be considered a warning gesture, or an insult, but coming from Slater it was as good as a punch. The resulting crack seemed to echo off all four walls at once, and the roof, and the ceiling. Nerve endings exploded across Gavin’s face, sending him down on all fours, accompanied by the sensation that half his face had burst. His cheek — and probably his eye socket — would swell in the coming hours.

  Slater hauled the kid to his feet. ‘That was fifty percent capacity. You want to test me?’

  Gavin shook his head.

  Paranoid now.

  He couldn’t contain the panic in his eyes.

  He’d probably never even been on the receiving end of a verbal insult. Too much insulation, surrounded by a family that everyone knew ran the underbelly of the city. He probably had his way everywhere he went. Social expectations, and the undercurrent of fear. He’d probably never heard the word “no” until Abigail.

  ‘You want to know who sent me?’ Slater said.

  Gavin shook his head again.

  ‘Wrong answer.’

  Slater slapped him again. Twice as hard. In the enclosed space, the equivalent to a bomb going off. Gavin crumpled, this time completely giving up. Slater could have made him eat a gun right then and there, if that was what he wanted, so shattered was the kid’s morale. But he had other ideas in mind.