by Matt Rogers
So he needed rest.
Weeks, maybe even months, of rest.
He didn’t consider that a bad thing.
Through the window he watched Slater, Alonzo, and Alexis stand in a tight semi-circle on the lawn. Besides his broken, swollen nose, Slater showed no sign of the consecutive wars he’d been through over the last three days. There was barely a scratch visible on his body, but that was by careful design. He wore a long sleeved athletic shirt and tracksuit pants that covered up the mottled bruising all over his limbs. His body would be tender and raw, his head fragile from the repeated blows. He’d need the forthcoming rest just as much as King.
Which is why he wore striking pads on his forearms instead of gloves.
He wouldn’t be taking part in the drill he’d devised for Alonzo and Alexis.
He was the coach.
Alexis rippled with tight muscle in her workout kit, her abdomen like a washboard. Alonzo was the odd one out. He wore a baggy white oversized tee and XXL basketball shorts. His hairy calves protruded from the shorts. They were shapeless blobs. King guessed he was thirty pounds overweight, maybe more. Too much indulgence in the good life. A few weeks with Slater would get him on the right path.
At first Slater had been hesitant when Alonzo insisted he wanted to learn how to fight.
‘It’ll take you years,’ Slater had said.
Alonzo had raised an eyebrow. ‘So that means I shouldn’t try?’
That had hit the spot. Slater had shot to his feet and thrown a glance at King. ‘You coming?’
‘No.’
‘Suit yourself.’
Now, King listened to Slater’s instructions through the gap in the window, which he’d inched open so he could hear.
‘You need to open up at the hips when you swing your leg,’ Slater said. ‘Like this—’
Slater clearly couldn’t resist. He’d told King he wouldn’t exert himself after King had warned him about doing too much in the aftermath of a concussion, but now he whipped a kick through the air in front of Alonzo at ludicrous speed. Like a World Series hitter swinging the bat, except the bat was Slater’s shin.
Alonzo’s eyebrows shot upward and he sheepishly lowered his hands to either side of his considerable belly, practically resting his gloves on his stomach fat.
Slater said, ‘What?’
‘I don’t know. Maybe this was stupid. What am I trying to be?’
Slater said, ‘You’re not going to be like us, if that’s what you’re thinking. You won’t be an operative. You don’t want to do what we do.’
‘So then why am I doing this?’
‘You know why. You alluded to it inside. It’s valiant to better yourself. Doesn’t matter where you end up. What matters is that you start. You’re Sisyphus pushing the boulder up the hill, and you’re loving the process.’
Alonzo — ever the philosopher — got the metaphor, and smiled. ‘Okay.’
Slater held the pads at chest height, and Alonzo swung a kick. His shin barely touched the leather, stifled by his horrendous inflexibility. The attempt made him wince as he stretched his groin. His chunky leg slammed back down to earth.
All in all, it seemed pathetic.
Which is good, King thought. Because that’s where everyone starts.
He knew the only thing that was actually pathetic was quitting.
Alexis stepped up next, and slammed eight consecutive kicks into the striking pads, synchronising with Slater in a way that indicated they’d trained together hundreds of times already. It blew King’s mind to think that she’d been a civilian with not a scrap of fighting experience less than a year earlier.
He turned away from the window, leaving them to the work. He wished he could join them, but there was plenty of time for that.
The sofa beckoned.
He dumped himself into it, and Violetta emerged at the noise of his weight lowering to the cushions. She crossed the cosy living room with its dark wooden walls, thick carpeted floor, and lodge-style interior design. It was a homely place. They all liked it. They didn’t know how long they’d be here, but it could be for as long as they pleased.
She sat down next to him, and he lowered himself gently on his back, facing the ceiling. He rested his head in her lap.
She smiled at the sense of déjà vu.
Then she ran a hand through his hair, just as she’d done back in Vegas before their world had turned upside-down.
She said, ‘So, where were we?’
He laughed. ‘I think we were discussing whether I was done.’
‘Guess the last few days answered that.’
‘But now…’
‘It’s different?’
‘We have the choice of whether to fight or not. We won’t be attacked anymore. We have no competition. It’ll take them years to curate a new crop.’
‘So what do you think?’
King could have spent hours answering, dissecting the minutiae of it, but he didn’t.
He said, ‘If I see someone who needs help, I’ll help.’
‘Then that’s settled.’
‘That was easy.’
‘Never had to be difficult.’
She combed his hair for another minute, then he saw a thought come to her. Her eyes clouded as she went deep into introspection.
He said, ‘What?’
‘They mentioned a handler. The top dog. What was his name? Onyx?’
King reflected on their encounters with the hunters, then nodded. ‘That they did.’
‘He’s still out there. We know nothing about him.’
‘Do we need to?’
She stared down into his eyes. ‘I never thought I’d see the day…’
‘And what day might that be?’
‘The day you’re not fixated on vengeance.’
King shrugged.
‘What if his identity is some shocking twist?’ Violetta asked with a hint of sarcasm. ‘What if we’re missing a big reveal?’
King shrugged again. ‘I’m long past giving a shit about that.’
‘You don’t want his head on a stick?’
‘He works for my old employers, and he didn’t do his job. There’ll be a stick in need of a head without my involvement.’
‘But you don’t want to be there to make sure it happens?’
He looked up into her eyes, making sure she saw the sincerity in his. ‘I don’t care about him. He cares about me. I wiped out his troops, his prized possessions. Now he’s leader to no one. I’m sure I’m living rent-free in his head. So, really, does it matter who he is?’
She smiled.
He leaned up to kiss her and said, ‘I have all I need.’
113
Onyx stood with his nose inches from the floor-to-ceiling window overlooking Central Park, hands behind his back.
Staring out at what he used to think was his city.
Yesterday, everything had shattered.
Reflexively he slammed his forehead against the thickened glass, hoping that a jolt of pain would shock him out of his spiralling thoughts.
It didn’t.
He stormed back to his desk, slumped into his chair, put his head in his hands, and tugged at the thick locks that fell over his forehead.
“Onyx,” was obviously a callsign. His real name was Leonard Post. He went by “Onyx” because it meant something. Leonard Post was nobody, because his life outside his work was nothing. He’d been the one to instil stoic philosophy into Diamond and Spinel. He’d tried with the others, but they hadn’t listened. They hadn’t been interested. He considered the hunters he commanded the pinnacle of achievement, the magnum opus of his life.
Commanded, he thought, in the past tense.
Jason King and Will Slater. What made them so fucking special? They were past their prime by now … or were they? Was that concept imagined? Was it just a limitation? Did it even exist?
Post didn’t know.
He paled as his internal dialogue addressed him by his given name. Y
ou don’t deserve a callsign. You’re Leonard, and you’re a dismal failure.
He spun to the crystal decanter half-filled with eighteen-year-old Macallan scotch, usually reserved for celebratory toasts in this very office. He popped the stopper off and took a long swig. His lips hung on the rim, and he almost put the decanter down, then thought twice and downed another gulp.
He slammed the decanter back into place, spun the chair away, and resumed his mental self-flagellation.
An hour passed. His thoughts got darker and darker, as he knew they would, until there was nothing left. Even if he fell back on all that damn philosophy, it wouldn’t help. You are entitled to the work, not its reward.
And look where that got you, he thought.
He left the building two hours early, something he hadn’t done in his entire professional career. If he stayed late, as he always did, they’d come for him. Maybe they wouldn’t physically restrain him, but those in higher places than he could imagine would all come knocking, seeking an explanation as to why their country’s best operatives had been systematically exterminated in a two-day timeframe.
My responsibility, he thought. My failure.
He didn’t think his internal dialogue could get any worse, but it did. His blood alcohol content wouldn’t be helping. The private elevator down to the lobby was a cage of claustrophobia. The lobby itself, with its regal columns and marble flooring, was somehow just as constrictive. He made it out onto the bustling sidewalk and still couldn’t catch his breath, so he hurried for home, which was an apartment in a luxury condo building in Midtown.
He knew his home would feel like a box, which it was. He had enough money for a penthouse overlooking Central Park, but his love of stoicism had stopped him from jumping on the hedonic treadmill. He’d always kept his material possessions sparse so he could channel all his focus into his work.
My work…
The concierge on the ground floor of his building started a pleasant greeting as Post strode across the lobby, but cut it off when he noticed the resident’s bloodshot eyes and clammy face. Post knew it would be concerning. He’d always been a model resident, quiet and polite. Letting his emotions show was the cardinal sin as far as he was concerned, but he no longer gave a shit what was and wasn’t a sin.
He took the elevator up to the twenty-eighth floor, got out, went to his door, and unlocked it.
When he stepped inside, he finally unholstered the Glock at his waist.
He’d been wanting to do it for hours, but he didn’t want to inconvenience whoever they’d replace him with by ruining the carpet in his office and getting it shut down for cleaning. He wasn’t sure why he’d bothered to consider that … then again, he wasn’t sure about anything anymore.
He sat down in the middle of his living room, in front of the view.
It wasn’t as good as his office, but you could still see a sliver of Central Park. Impressive enough, but it wasn’t like he’d ever had visitors to show.
He’d been too busy for that.
Time came to a standstill and he reflected on his options. Without a doubt he’d be fired for incompetence. Usually in his world that meant a bullet in the back of the head, but they’d settle for a demotion, relegating him to menial tasks and duties, never allowing him to work his way back up to his old position.
He couldn’t comprehend the fact they were all dead. All his men, and Sapphire too. He’d spent the last ten years of his life honing them into suitable replacements for top-tier operatives. His methods were unique, and it turned out they were special. Those he took under his wing became prescient hunters, nightmares for America’s enemies, and his hunter force had been gearing up to replace Black Force before that defunct division, headed by King and Slater, fizzled out into nonexistence.
So the hunters had risen to the top.
Post had become wealthy beyond his wildest dreams, which was never the point, but it was a nice silver lining.
And now…
It was funny… all that study of philosophy, all that practice taming his emotions … none of it could have ever prepared him for this. The stoics preached the importance of “hard winter training,” to steel yourself for when the turbulent times come.
And make no mistake, Post remembered reading, they will come.
So here they were, and his life was ruined, and King and Slater were unaware of his very existence.
His hunters became the hunted, and then King and Slater were gone, vanished, like ghosts in the wind.
Post realised they didn’t need to know about him. They’d destroyed him all the same.
By making his mind hunt itself.
He put the gun to his head.
In his final moments, a thought came to him.
Maybe you made the wrong decisions. Maybe you weren’t a good man.
This is your own fault.
He didn’t want to spend another instant considering that, so he didn’t. He forced the thought out and turned his attention to the only positive result he could think of.
When my body is found, it will be the nail in the coffin. My colleagues will think King and Slater got to me, made it look like a suicide. They’ll stop hunting them. They’ll leave them alone, let them fade away. Not worth the trouble…
Well, Post thought, at least I did one good thing for my country.
It would put an indefinite moratorium on Jason King and Will Slater.
It would stop others from making the foolish mistakes he’d made.
He ended all his pain with a quick pull of the trigger.
KING AND SLATER WILL RETURN…
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Books by Matt Rogers
THE JASON KING SERIES
Isolated (Book 1)
Imprisoned (Book 2)
Reloaded (Book 3)
Betrayed (Book 4)
Corrupted (Book 5)
Hunted (Book 6)
THE JASON KING FILES
Cartel (Book 1)
Warrior (Book 2)
Savages (Book 3)
THE WILL SLATER SERIES
Wolf (Book 1)
Lion (Book 2)
Bear (Book 3)
Lynx (Book 4)
Bull (Book 5)
Hawk (Book 6)
THE KING & SLATER SERIES
Weapons (Book 1)
Contracts (Book 2)
Ciphers (Book 3)
Outlaws (Book 4)
Ghosts (Book 5)
Sharks (Book 6)
Messiahs (Book 7)
Hunters (Book 8)
LYNX SHORTS
Blood Money (Book 1)
BLACK FORCE SHORTS
The Victor (Book 1)
The Chimera (Book 2)
The Tribe (Book 3)
The Hidden (Book 4)
The Coast (Book 5)
The Storm (Book 6)
The Wicked (Book 7)
The King (Book 8)
The Joker (Book 9)
The Ruins (Book 10)
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Meet Ruby Nazarian, a government operative for a clandestine initiative known only as Lynx. She’s in Monaco to infiltrate the entourage of Aaron Wayne, a real estate tycoon on the precipice of dipping his hands into blood money. She charms her way aboard the magnate’s superyacht, but everyone seems suspicious of her, and as the party ebbs onward she prepares for war…
Maybe she’s paranoid.
Maybe not.
Just cli
ck here.
About the Author
Matt Rogers grew up in Melbourne, Australia as a voracious reader, relentlessly devouring thrillers and mysteries in his spare time. Now, he writes full-time. His novels are action-packed and fast-paced. Dive into the Jason King Series to get started with his collection.
Visit his website:
www.mattrogersbooks.com
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amazon.com/author/mattrogers23
