by Matt Rogers
Now, Slater massaged his temples as he came slowly back to reality. The escape from the estate had been a bad dream, flashes of still images burning bright in his memory. He hadn’t imagined it. Their home really had been destroyed, their old life razed to the ground.
What’s new? he thought.
King didn’t utter a word of complaint the whole trip. Slater and Violetta knew he was hurting, but he’d never admit it. By his logic, addressing a problem before there’s any practical means to solve it is a waste of time and words. Any complaints would do nothing but draw attention to what was hurting. Instead he focused on his breath. Slater heard the deep six-count inhalations and the identical exhalations.
They reached Mesquite in less than an hour.
Alexis stirred as the Mercedes slowed, blinking and looking around. The desert city was low and sprawling, stretches of it eerily similar to their old suburb of Summerlin. The houses they drove past were sizeable, but spaced out further than those on the outskirts of Vegas, and the isolation outweighed everything else. The Mojave desert stretched in every direction, bleak and dark and hostile. The lights of the multiple casinos stayed on twenty-four hours a day, like seductive beacons on the frontier.
Violetta turned off the boulevard — the main artery of Mesquite — and took the Mercedes down the side streets. The streetlights inched further and further apart until their own white headlights were all that lit the way. It was impossibly barren on the edge of the city, and that was partly why they’d chosen the location.
As they pulled up to a small block of land choked with overgrown grass, sporting a small one-storey weatherboard house in its centre, Alexis said, ‘This is it?’
Violetta nodded. ‘I haven’t seen it before either.’
The safe house was another passion project of King and Slater’s, a shoddy cheap house they’d hastily purchased and converted upon first moving to Vegas. Violetta had quietly understood, and Alexis had scoffed at the idea, considering them paranoid. Slater elected not to rub it in her face now. She’d been through enough this evening.
King said, ‘Who wants to check?’
Slater said, ‘Why not you?’
Violetta hit the button for the interior lights, illuminating King’s face.
Slater winced.
It looked like King had been stung by a dozen bees. His nose and cheeks were painfully swollen and tinged with mottled blue and black bruising. Then Slater saw the concern in King’s eyes through his puffy lids, and realised he probably looked about the same.
King said, ‘I can go.’
Slater shook his head. ‘I’ve got a grip now. I’m fine.’
He had a searing headache, a throbbing nose, and a bruised and aching chest, but those were nothing in comparison to semi-consciousness. At least he could control where his feet and hands went. So he pushed his own door open, stepped out and waded through the long grass to get to the front porch.
It creaked as he stepped up, and he stopped to loiter in the gloom, infinitely patient. His right hand wanted to twitch, wrapped around the SIG, but he didn’t let it. He made himself invisible in the sheer darkness until he was sure no one was lying in wait.
The front door unlocked with the twist of a small key he carried on his regular set.
A paperclip fell from the crack in the door frame as the door swung open and disappeared through the slats in the porch floorboards. It would have gone unnoticed unless you were specifically looking for it, and it had been designed to fall that way. Unable to be retrieved and replaced.
It meant no one had gained entry before them.
He signalled out into the night. Violetta must have caught the gesture, because the faint halo of the Mercedes’ headlights vanished, plunging Slater’s surroundings into black. He pulled out his phone and activated the flashlight feature, secure in the knowledge that no one was waiting for them.
King, Violetta, and Alexis stepped up to the porch.
King said, ‘After you.’
Slater didn’t move. He looked at them all, one by one. ‘Didn’t think we’d be here again so soon.’
He didn’t elaborate, but they knew what he meant.
Hunted.
Cast out.
On the run.
He turned and walked into the dark house containing all of their worldly possessions, and the only family he had left in the world followed close behind.
30
There were enough supplies in the safe house to last them months, if need be.
They had hundreds of military MREs stacked in a supply closet, and dozens of sets of fresh clothes.
Thankfully, this wasn’t that sort of situation.
They’d prepared for the worst case scenario — the government plastering their faces all over social media under the guise of searching for wanted rapists and murderers still at large. The secret world sure had enough photos of King, Slater, and Violetta, and fishing up Alexis’ passport photo would take them seconds. But that would be a desperation play from Uncle Sam, because the group had an ace up their sleeve — going to the media before they were apprehended. They had confidential details on the entire buried clandestine world, details that could be effortlessly cross-checked and confirmed.
So it was still a secret hunt, taking place away from the volatile firecracker that was the public eye.
For now.
Slater hit the light switch for the small kitchen they stepped into and the bulbs overhead flickered to life. He wasn’t sure why it surprised him. They’d diligently paid the infinitesimally small bills ever since they’d purchased the place, but he liked to micromanage, and it made him uneasy that they hadn’t visited since they’d set the safe house up.
He fetched a set of keys from underneath an empty fruit bowl covered in a layer of dust, and opened the padlocked cabinet under the sink. He took out a satellite phone still wrapped in its packaging and tossed it over the countertop to Violetta.
Alexis said, ‘Calling Alonzo?’
Violetta said, ‘Who else?’
She ripped the plastic open and had the phone functioning within a minute. She dialled a number she knew off by heart, and as it rang Slater looked around the house. It was tiny, but felt more hollow than their estate. The furniture was cheap, minimal. The house was cold.
Slater half-smiled.
Alexis noticed. ‘What?’
He gestured around at the relative squalor. ‘Thought I’d be gentrified by now. Used to the life of luxury. But this place still feels more like me.’
Looking at King, he knew the man felt the same.
King made to say something but Violetta cut him off, speaking into the phone. ‘We’re alive.’
A muffled reply came through, clearly elated.
Violetta noticed everyone watching her and hit a button on the side of the sat phone that made the receiving voice erupt from a tinny speaker at its base. She lowered the sat phone to the kitchen countertop, resting it on the dust.
She said, ‘Alonzo, you’re on speaker.’
His voice came back, quiet and composed. ‘You’re all there?’
King said, ‘Yeah.’
‘I’m so sorry.’
‘For what?’
‘I should have been on top of it. I should have given you time to prepare.’
‘We made it out. That’s all that matters.’
‘Are you hurt?’
King said, ‘No.’
Violetta gave him a look and said, ‘Yes. The boys are. Broken noses apiece. Slater got concussed. I think King tore some muscle in his arm. Look, we’re compromised.’
Slater said, ‘We’re fine.’
Violetta said, ‘Alonzo, hold on a moment.’
She muted the call so he couldn’t hear what came next, then turned to them. ‘Look, I get it. The pain isn’t as bad if you pretend it isn’t there. But if we get assaulted like that again, it’s over. You two are at fifty percent or less whether you want to admit it or not. And—’
Alexis said,
‘I think my rib is broken.’
Slater turned and studied her and realised she might be right. His stomach sank, seeing her slightly hunched over, her face creased in an attempt to mask the pain. He admired her beyond description. She’d sensed that he and King were injured worse, and hadn’t uttered a word about it until they were in a safe place. Compartmentalising it. Prioritising what mattered.
He crossed to her and put an arm around her shoulder, taking some of her weight. She breathed out, and her breath came out ragged. She was hurting bad.
He lowered her to an old armchair in the corner of the tiny living space that was connected to the kitchen. He brought his face close to hers and muttered, ‘How bad?’
As soon as she admitted it, it hit her hard. He could tell. She said, ‘I’ve never broken a rib. I don’t know what it feels like. But it’s bad.’
‘Breathe in deep.’
She inhaled fully. Her face was white with pain, but there was no sharp twang, no point at which her breath hit a wall of pure agony.
He said, ‘It might be torn muscles. It might not be a break.’
When he stood up and turned back to King and Violetta, his confidence was blunted, and his own pain levels had crept up.
‘Okay,’ he admitted. ‘Standing our ground isn’t smart.’
Violetta looked pointedly at King.
He paused, then nodded, his arm still pinned to his side.
Violetta killed the mute function on the call. ‘You still there?’
‘Of course.’
‘We’re not in a good place. We need time.’
‘That you don’t have.’
His words filled the safe house, which felt like a chasm. Dread made even the smallest spaces feel vast.
Violetta said, ‘What do you know?’
‘Nothing specific. But I know what this world is capable of. So do you.’
‘Can’t you delay them?’
‘It’s not my division,’ he said.
Silence.
Violetta said, ‘There’s other divisions?’
Alexis cleared her throat from the armchair. Her voice came out timid, but she knew she needed to speak. ‘I talked to that guy who went toe-to-toe with Will. The one who didn’t pull his weapon.’
Slater wheeled. ‘When?’
‘He was alive when we went back into the house.’
Slater remembered the man’s throat erupting. ‘How?’
‘He was hanging by a thread. He told me his name was Spinel. Like the gemstone. It was a callsign. He said he was an operator, like you and Jason. He said he was forced to pivot into a new division when you two “gutted the backbone” of the old one. I could tell he hated you.’
‘Why did he tell you this?’
‘He was dying,’ Alexis said. ‘And I used a trick or two I picked up in Wyoming.’
Maeve, Slater thought. The messiah.
Alexis never failed to impress him with her versatility and composure in the field.
Alonzo’s tinny voice said, ‘They all go by gemstones.’
‘Who are they?’ King said.
‘The new breed.’
31
King made to ask the inevitable follow-up questions, but Alexis’ soft moan cut him off.
He wheeled on the spot. She had her eyes closed, her fists clenched.
He said to Slater, ‘You remember where the first-aid stuff is?’
‘I put it there.’
‘Lie her down,’ King said. ‘She needs rest. And so do you.’
He could see Slater weighing the urge to stick around against the fact he’d reached his limits. Whether it was due to experience or common sense, he nodded his agreement. Then he helped Alexis up out of the armchair and walked her slowly away down the corridor.
It was just King, Violetta, and the phone. King quietly draped an arm around her shoulder and held her close as they hunched over the phone.
King said, ‘They’re the remnants of Black Force?’
‘I wouldn’t go so far as to say remnants,’ Alonzo said. ‘They’re the leftovers, yes. They had to be put to use somewhere. I don’t think the upper echelon liked the way it used to be structured — how it was spread out, how many people were in the know. So they holed up the operatives who showed the most potential and put a blanket over them. I know almost nothing about it, and I’m practically the head of intelligence. Not an official title, obviously, but everyone comes to me for a reason. They became paranoid when they realised the operatives could do what you and Slater did. Wouldn’t surprise me if they’ve brainwashed them into undying loyalty. It’s all run by someone called Onyx.’
‘Who is he?’
‘I don’t know. That’s what the callsigns are for. They use them with us, too. They’re their own separate entity. They do the wet work even I’m not allowed to know about.’
King didn’t respond. He was deep in thought. He didn’t like a single conclusion he came to.
Alonzo said, ‘What are you thinking?’
‘That by Slater and I running, we created something worse.’
‘You did.’
That was Alonzo: straight to the point. Right to the cold, hard truth.
Violetta said, ‘Are there still handlers like me?’
‘Onyx is the only handler.’
‘There were at least a dozen when I was there…’
King raised his eyebrows. He didn’t know that.
Alonzo said, ‘They’re gone, Violetta.’
‘Fired?’ she said, even though she knew the truth.
‘Fired? So they could go off with state secrets in their head like you three did?’
‘Four,’ King corrected. ‘Us four.’
Alonzo said, ‘I haven’t had the pleasure of meeting Alexis, but it’d be foolish to say she knows what you know.’
King thought back to a lifetime of deniable hits he’d carried out for a government that was supposed to be morally pristine. ‘You’re right.’
Violetta said, ‘So what’s all this leading to? Why don’t we have time?’
‘Because now they have their first sniff of you,’ Alonzo said. ‘That’s all they needed, and that’s what I was fighting to keep from them. They hate you with every fibre of their being, so now they’re hounds on your tail. Well, Onyx hates you, and based on what I’ve heard, what Onyx thinks is law.’
‘You must know something about them,’ King said. ‘Anything.’
‘You underestimate how powerful fear and paranoia are. No one knows a thing besides the hunters themselves. They can go places that not even the clandestine world could dream of.’
‘They work with the Presidency?’
‘They are the Presidency.’
King put the knuckles of his good hand on the countertop and rested them there, calloused and tanned. ‘So what do we do?’
Alonzo went quiet as he mentally ran through a list of options. Then he said, ‘I can get you out of the country.’
The ramifications of the position they were in hadn’t hit King until those words. His arm still around Violetta’s shoulders, he looked down and met her eyes. She was just as shaken.
Violetta said, ‘Is that necessary?’
Alonzo said, ‘In my opinion, absolutely. They’ll have every surveillance camera in the U.S. looking for you. If you fled Vegas on a main road they probably already have your scent. And I don’t know how many there are. Most of the troops they sent to hit your estate were from the Special Activities Centre of the CIA, but Onyx will embed hunters in every wave until you’re broken for good. I’m sure of it.’
‘You said you don’t know him.’
‘I don’t know his identity,’ Alonzo clarified. ‘I’ve never met the man personally, or spoken to him. But his actions? His track record? I know what type of man he is. In his eyes you’re a stain on the clandestine community’s reputation. He won’t relent until he has you in his trophy case.’
King said, ‘Drop the rhetoric.’
‘It’s not rhet
oric, Jason. It’s who he is.’
‘Where do you want us to go?’
A long pause. ‘I have a friend in South America. I’ve been in touch with her recently, and I’d trust her with my life. She could help you lay low until the heat is off.’
‘A “friend”?’
‘That’s all it is now,’ Alonzo answered.
King paused. Thought about it. What other options did they have?
He said, ‘Where in South America?’
32
Santa Ana
El Salvador
Fabio Torres was having the time of his life.
He sent a silent prayer of gratitude to the only god he cared about: the god of money. It would be foolish to send his appreciation anywhere else, and if he didn’t admit that he was delusional.
He had to look at it objectively. He was five-foot-six, pale, fat, old, hairy. Genetically unfortunate, cursed with an ugly face. The naked woman on top of him in the bed was thirty years younger, curvy in all the right places, tanned, her skin smooth as butter, her face beautiful, her black hair straight and silky. He’d taken a near-overdose of Viagra just to be able to get the job done, and he could tell she was still forced to fake the enjoyment. He was genetically unfortunate in more ways than one.
But the woman was giving the performance of a lifetime. She’d worked up a sweat gyrating on top of him, and now she moaned as she pretended to approach climax. Torres didn’t care that it was a ruse. It excited him all the same, and he felt himself getting close to the edge.
She felt it too.
‘Yes, baby,’ she said in Spanish. ‘Yes.’
She gripped him tighter with her hips.
He usually kept an unwavering awareness of his surroundings. The ornate four-poster bed, the priceless artwork adorning the walls of his bedchamber, the porte fenétre doors leading to the sweeping balcony overlooking the grounds of his mansion. He kept an exit in his peripheral vision at all times. He stayed vigilant, always on guard, never lazy.
