by Matt Rogers
‘Is that why you didn’t hit him?’
‘If I’d hit him he’d be dead before he fell.’
14
The man with the mane of black hair wobbled out of the restaurant.
His eyes were hazy and unfocused, his mind suppressed by the effects of booze. He stumbled, righted himself, and skirted around a group of loudmouthed British tourists out on the town. He nodded drunkenly to one of the stragglers at the back, who returned the gesture. Then the group moved past and he was alone again.
As soon as he was clear of Nobu’s entrance, he corrected his posture and wiped the foggy expression off his face.
Killed the performance.
Left it behind.
It had done its job.
Walking away through Caesars Palace with a newly perfect gait, he fished a burner phone out of his pocket and dialled a number. The fact he had to identify himself at the beginning of each call infuriated him, but the anonymity of the contact scrambler was crucial.
‘This is Citrine,’ he said. ‘It’s them.’
‘You sure?’ Onyx asked.
‘Absolutely.’
‘Then get it done.’
‘Tonight?’
‘As soon as they get back home.’
Citrine grinned and swept long locks back off his forehead. ‘The girls, too?’
‘All of them.’
‘Does it matter what happens before they’re neutralised?’
His handler paused. ‘No.’
Onyx understood that the highest tier of operative was barely separated from the primal savage. The places they needed to go to in their heads to compartmentalise their aggression … sometimes, they needed an outlet. Allowances occasionally had to be made, and there was nothing wrong with that. The women had to die, after all.
What Citrine did to them before that was his business.
There had to be incentives to take the hard jobs.
Onyx said, ‘Just make sure you get it done.’
‘They won’t see it coming,’ Citrine said. ‘They’ve got blind spots. Ordinary life has made them soft.’
He clicked off and melted into the anonymity of the crowd.
15
King and Violetta heard the front door open downstairs.
She peeled her naked body off his, catching her breath. He shot her a wry smile as he tossed her her underwear, and she mouthed, They’re early.
He shrugged, unperturbed. What had already unfolded had satisfied him tenfold, and from her vocal enthusiasm he knew she felt the same.
They were dressed in seconds, then left their bedroom and sauntered downstairs like nothing was awry. Slater and Alexis were side-by-side on stools around the kitchen island, smirking up at them as they descended the staircase.
Violetta said, ‘What?’
A few drinks had stripped away Alexis’ usual reservedness. She said, ‘Taking full advantage of the empty house, huh?’
King said, ‘Absolutely no idea what you’re talking about,’ and walked straight past them to run a glass under the sink tap.
Slater said, ‘No idea at all?’
‘None,’ King said, drinking half the glass to rehydrate. ‘I’m a Mormon, remember?’
‘How could I forget?’
‘How was dinner?’
‘Unbelievable,’ Slater said.
King rounded the kitchen island and looked pointedly at Alexis.
She raised an eyebrow. ‘What?’
‘I need you to back him up.’
‘Why?’
‘Because Slater’s eaten nothing but meat, rice and vegetables for months. They could have seasoned a chicken breast and he would have fainted from the pleasure. Was it actually good?’
Slater rolled his eyes.
Alexis said, ‘It was great. You two should go sometime.’
Violetta said, ‘Why the early return?’
Slater said, ‘We’re not early.’
Alexis’ gaze lingered a little too long on Violetta’s ruffled hair. She masked a smirk before she answered. ‘There’s not much to do afterwards besides drink and gamble. Las Vegas is … how should I put it? Let’s go with “lacking culture.”’
King scoffed. ‘You don’t need to be polite to Vegas. Call it how it is.’
Alexis said, ‘For the most part it’s an empty shell of a city designed purely to rob the consumer. How’s that?’
King said, ‘That’s more like it.’
Slater said, ‘But the food’s good.’
Alexis said, ‘The food is very good.’
Violetta watched the conversation play out in bemused silence. When King turned to her, he noticed a different look on her face. ‘What?’
She said, ‘This is nice, you know.’
Slater raised an eyebrow at her. Encouraging her to go on.
She said, ‘There’s a life for us after all this madness. I’m sure of it. I can see it clearly. Eventually we’ll grow old and you two—’ she looked at King and Slater ‘—won’t be able to keep up with the young bulls. Thankfully, Alexis and I partnered up with smart men. Neither of you are stupid. One day you’ll realise you can’t go into hostile situations with arthritic joints and reflexes slowed by old age. On that day you’ll both give it up for good without a second thought. And then … well, we can enjoy the fruits of our labours, can’t we?’
Slater listened to the spiel without reaction. When Violetta finished she focused on him. ‘What is it?’
He said, ‘If I wanted to enjoy the fruits of my labours I would have kept the four hundred million dollars I stole in Macau.’
She said, ‘We still have this house, still have over three and a half million in the bank. We’re nowhere near poor.’
‘You’re missing the point.’
‘And that is?’
‘Being in the fight,’ Slater said. ‘That’s my reward. Not what comes after it. The actual job itself — that’s the fruit, and the labour. Which makes me a lucky man. I get to do what I love and it’s what makes most people sick.’
‘You’re addicted to the adrenaline?’
‘You know I’m not.’
‘Then what is it?’
‘It’s what I was put on this earth to do.’
He didn’t elaborate. Those words said everything.
Violetta looked to Alexis, expecting to see hesitation, or doubt, or disapproval. Instead Violetta saw pride. Alexis was still feeling the effects of multiple drinks, so her feelings were uninhibited. She was practically beaming at Slater.
Alexis turned her attention to Violetta. ‘What?’
‘Didn’t think you’d approve of that.’
‘You think I’d still be with him if I didn’t approve of what he does?’
Violetta nodded, retreating from the debate, conceding.
Slater said, ‘You’re changing.’
Violetta cocked her head. ‘What do you mean?’
‘Soon you’ll be a mother. You don’t want this life for your kid. You’re subconsciously gagging when you reflect on what we’ve done over the last few months. It’s understandable.’
Her instincts told her to argue, but it only took a moment of consideration to realise he was right.
She said, ‘Maybe I am.’
King kissed her on the top of the head. ‘There’s nothing wrong with that.’
Slater said, ‘It would be strange if you weren’t feeling that way.’
She looped her arms around King’s waist, resting her temple against his chest.
Then she felt her phone vibrate in her pocket.
She fished it out.
Alonzo Romero — their point of contact in the clandestine world of government black-ops.
Looming over her, King stared down at the phone screen. ‘What does he want? He’s never the one to call first.’
Violetta said, ‘I don’t know.’
Suddenly there was a chill in the air. The big house felt awfully empty. The ceiling stretched out high overhead, cathedral-esque in its v
astness. Not even King’s warmth could steady her racing pulse. She couldn’t figure out why, then she realised Alonzo was her subconscious connection to her old life, her old role as black-ops handler.
That was a cold, sterile, ruthless world with no room for sentimentality.
It was no world for a new mother.
She answered, but her voice was timid. ‘Hey, Alonzo.’
His voice in turn was loud, sharp, and urgent. ‘They know where you are.’
‘What?’
‘I just saw your address on a call transcription.’
‘A call? Between…?’
The kitchen window facing the front of the estate exploded into shards.
That’s what they sensed first, and they jolted.
Then came the report of the bullet that cracked the pane, blasting through the evening quiet, accompanied by the sound of glass shattering.
A flashbang grenade flew in through the window frame.
16
King moved first.
The specifics of what was happening didn’t matter. Not who, or why. The only important thing was preservation — first Violetta and the baby inside her, then Slater and Alexis, then himself last. As soon as the window exploded he sprinted toward the sound, following his learned instincts instead of his primal ones. His primal ones shouted, Threat! Run!, but the decades of military conditioning calmly instructed, Retaliate.
Within half a second he was off the mark, rounding the kitchen island at a sprint, which put him in the right place at the right time when the flash grenade came flying in.
Or the wrong place at the wrong time, depending on your perspective.
Whoever had thrown the grenade had done so with serious power. It came in like a baseball, fast and hard instead of slow and looping, and its trajectory had it on a collision course with the surface of the kitchen island.
King had two choices.
Dive away, shield his eyes and ears. He and Slater could react to danger in the blink of an eye, so they’d probably make it, but Alexis and Violetta wouldn’t. They’d take the full force of the blast to their faces, maybe blinding or deafening them permanently.
The other choice was to stop in his tracks.
He skidded to a halt.
The flashbang bounced on the hard countertop and spun away at an awkward angle. King snatched it out of the air, drew his arm back, and hurled it like a professional pitcher.
Straight back out the window.
The whole sequence had taken a hair longer than a second.
Window break, grenade in, bounce, catch, throw.
If he’d hesitated for even a moment, it would have gone off in his hand.
Probably fatal.
Those are the risks you take.
King squeezed his eyes shut as he threw and used the momentum of the pitcher’s swing to twist away, turning his back to the window. The grenade went off milliseconds after it passed through the window frame, like a supernova in the subdued gated community. The noise was horrid, the flash even worse. King had his palms clamped to his ears and his eyelids squeezed so tight you couldn’t pry them open if you tried, but he was still knocked to the floor by the concussive blast. He landed on his chest, rolled to his side and levered back to his feet, a headache already splitting to life.
But he was conscious, and superficial discomfort didn’t mean a damn thing.
He assessed the situation. Slater was on his feet. He’d grabbed Alexis, twisted away, shielded her with his own body, then covered his ears and closed his eyes. He was unfazed, further away from the blast than King. Alexis hadn’t covered her ears. She was blinking hard, working her jaw, temporarily deaf.
Violetta.
Our child.
She was nowhere to be seen. He sprinted round the kitchen island and found her taking cover behind the giant slab, blocked from the line of sight. Her hands were still over her ears. She looked up at him. She was safe. Unharmed.
He didn’t have the opportunity to breathe out.
However bad the blast had been in here, outside it would have been far worse. They’d carved out a narrow window of opportunity and to sacrifice it with complacency and hesitation would be to die.
King ran for the broad front door, pumping his arms and legs, putting his all into it. He screeched to a halt in front of the big wooden slab and snatched a SIG Sauer P226 MK25 out of the pot plant in the entranceway. It was already loaded with a full mag, a lifeline for emergencies.
This was an emergency.
He flicked the safety off, threw the door open and saw two silhouettes in full tactical gear maybe a dozen feet from the front porch. They were shaking their heads in unison, trying to clear the cobwebs. They wore matte black combat helmets with tinted visors but the flashbang had still rocked their world.
King noted the Kevlar vests and the bulletproof helmets, identified their exposed necks.
He put a round through each throat, his movements unconscious from daily conditioning, then slammed the door shut before he even caught sight of the bodies falling to the lawn.
It didn’t matter that he’d fired the first kill shots. If mercenaries in full tactical kit were storming the estate, there was no chance their goal was to wound.
They were here to neutralise.
That’s when all hell broke loose.
Bullets shredded through the front door, fired from further down the lawn near the perimeter wall, but King had anticipated that. He was already pressed into the corner of the entranceway, minimising the surface area available to hit. Rounds from automatic rifles blew chunks out of the brick surrounding the door, but none made it through in the initial burst. The gunshots were unsuppressed, like a thunderstorm in the estate, and King knew without a shadow of a doubt their time in Vegas was over if they made it out of here.
He sensed commotion in the kitchen and stuck his head around the corner to assess.
He counted five people and his adrenaline spiked.
Three were brawling with kill-or-be-killed intensity.
17
Slater went from calm to rippling with adrenaline in milliseconds, but he was used to that.
He watched King sprint at the window and catch the grenade on the first bounce. He missed the rest of it because he’d already grabbed Alexis around the waist, hurled her off her stool and covered her with his own body. Then he jammed his hands over his ears and squeezed his eyes shut and—
Bang.
The flashbang erupted, but it mustn’t have happened in the kitchen because he could still hear and see, and he forced Alexis down to the floor for her own safety and spun to see King already at the front door, wrenching it open and firing out through the slit with a SIG Sauer that had somehow materialised in his hand.
Slater thought, They’ll breach from multiple access points.
That’s what he’d do.
He ran past Violetta, took a moment to check she was okay, and made it to the hallway entrance that branched off from the kitchen. It led to a number of spare rooms, including the de facto armoury, and culminated in a side door leading out to the estate grounds. The door was locked, but that wouldn’t stop them from—
Deafening gunfire roared as rounds laced the front of the house. Slater couldn’t hear a thing but he pulled up against the side of the archway and pressed his shoulder to it to hopefully lay low for long enough to tap into the element of surprise. He inwardly cursed the poor positioning — there were backup guns in multiple rooms, but none around the kitchen island.
He sensed the presence of a hostile body, and his vision narrowed to an impenetrable tunnel.
Wait.
Wait.
Now.
The first mercenary stepped through the archway, coming out from the hallway, having breached the side door. He spotted Alexis and Violetta shielding themselves from gunfire behind the kitchen island, and stepped forward into a firing position. He raised his assault rifle. It was a CQBR Carbine, a variant of the M4 with a more compact barrel, de
signed as the name suggested for “Close Quarters Battle.”
Slater grabbed him as he stepped into the kitchen, pinning the rifle to his chest, and heaved him up with the strength of a near-professional powerlifter. The guy came off his feet and Slater pitched his momentum forward and literally hurled him head-first off his feet. The guy managed to stumble once, then lost his balance and fell face-first into the hard edge of the kitchen island. The countertop cracked the visor of his combat helmet, and as he crumpled to the floor blood geysered from underneath the broken face shield.
Slater realised the impact had driven the broken pieces into his face, maiming or killing him. He would be useless.
Another mercenary followed, practically colliding with Slater as he charged into the kitchen. The trajectory meant he hadn’t had time to stop, blindly following his comrade into the fray. It was noble, but Slater grabbed the man’s identical CQBR and simply ripped it out of his hands like the highest-stakes tug-of-war imaginable.
The guy tried to throw a punch but he was clad in bulky Kevlar and his vision was inhibited by the combat helmet he wore, so Slater sidestepped it and thundered an elbow into the gap between the top of his vest and the bottom of his helmet.
He felt the hard point of bone crunch through throat tissue, and the man went down choking and spluttering.
Slater dived onto the first man — the maimed, bleeding one — pinning him to the floor, and ripped the CQBR out of his hands. He rolled off the guy, who he only now realised was unconscious, and spun to meet a new mercenary clambering through the shattered kitchen window.
Slater shot him once in the thigh, and the guy collapsed on top of the sink, all flailing limbs and panic. His leg started fountaining blood, the main artery severed, and as he tumbled off the kitchen counter in his personal world of hell, Slater shot him in the side of the neck.
He glanced sideways and saw King observing proceedings. As soon as King recognised Slater had a handle on the situation, he ducked back to the front entranceway, likely to return suppressing fire at whoever was advancing up the sloping hill that comprised the front lawn.
