The Wicked: A Black Force Thriller (Black Force Shorts Book 7)

by Matt Rogers

  ‘Why me?’ Malvado said, his blue eyes unwavering, boring into Slater, seeing deep into his soul.

  Thankfully, Slater didn’t need to lie. ‘I figure, we both seem like wild souls. Let’s make a night out of this. I’m always looking for friends.’

  Malvado searched their surroundings for any sign of trouble, but the authentic randomness of the interaction sealed the deal. He took the Remy Martin bottle in his long, thin fingers, weighed it gracefully, and let a devilish grin spread across his face. ‘Fuck, why not? Get yourself inside. I want to meet your friends.’

  And just like that, Slater ingratiated himself with a procession of cartel sicarios.

  9

  The largest barrier had been traversed, and yet the real challenge lay ahead.

  Slater realised that as soon as he stepped into the VIP room, its ceiling ominously low and the decor authetically Victorian, with a raging fireplace and high-backed leather armchairs and luscious rugs draped across the floor and people everywhere laughing and drinking and gyrating, some opting to strip their clothes off right out in the open. As soon as Slater laid eyes on the scene he knew he was in for a rough night. The dance floor of the White Phoenix had maintained the common decency of a public setting, but in here Malvado and his sicarios and his buddies he’d brought across the border could make their wildest dreams come true.

  They spared no expense, and for a moment Slater simply stood flabbergasted at the obscenity of it all, the unashamed brashness of the cocaine spread across the glass tabletops and the ecstasy pills scattered across the floor and the half-finished bottles of Dom Perignon distributed at random throughout the room.

  The second he noticed it, he knew he would be forced to partake if he wanted to get anywhere close to Malvado. He prayed his tolerance would hold up to the test.

  Because they would certainly test it tonight.

  Natasha and Lucia and Mia were led away by one of Malvado’s right-hand men, and for a moment a stab of fear sliced its way through Slater’s chest as he considered what could be done to them in a place like this, a place without rules.

  But it seemed they were simply being led to mingle with the crowd, as Malvado guided Slater into one of the private booths with one hand placed firmly on the small of his back. In another setting it might have been misconstrued as overly forward, but Slater was no stranger to the warmness offered by Mexicans when they felt someone had done them a giant favour. Malvado sat Slater down on one of the broad couches, and a member of staff brought two crystal tumblers over. The tall man with the blue eyes cracked open the bottle of Louis XIII and poured a generous serving into each glass. He handed one to Slater. They touched the beautiful tumblers together and drank close to two thousand dollars worth of cognac in twin gulps. The golden liquid warmed its way down Slater’s throat, radiating through his insides, spreading its glow.

  He couldn’t deny it.

  It tasted damn good.

  Malvado poured another serving, this time even more generous, and they tipped that back too.

  ‘To friends,’ Malvado said, saluting with his empty tumbler.

  Slater did the same. ‘To friends.’

  ‘I’ve never seen you in this place before.’

  ‘I’m new in town.’

  ‘What brings you to San Francisco?’

  ‘Work.’

  ‘You must be rather good at your work if it lets you throw around money like this.’

  Slater just smiled. ‘I’m something of a specialist.’

  ‘And what do you do?’

  He did his best to look sheepish. ‘That’s not something I like to discuss very often.’

  ‘How about another drink to loosen your lips?’

  ‘How can I say no?’

  They threw back a third round of the cognac, opting not to savour the horrendously expensive bottle, treating it as if it cost nothing. This was new money. This was unabashed luxury, fast thrills and fast cars and fast everything. Before he could ascertain exactly how much damage the three consecutive gulps had wreaked on his consciousness, one of Malvado’s buddies floated into range with a shiny silver tray laden with thin white lines of cocaine. Slater exchanged a glance with Malvado, shrugged, grinned through a set of brilliant white teeth, surged forward and pressed his pinky finger into the snow and rubbed it into his gums, then snatched up one of the metal straws from the side of the tray and put two lines in a row up his right nostril.

  The drugs hit him like a molten bolt of lava to the pleasure centre of his brain, charging him with enough energy to run a marathon if he wanted, and at that moment he thought he could take the entire room at once, beating down sicarios left and right and finally slitting the throat of the man across from him who had caused such pain, such unimaginable agony to the people he tortured and left to die, all in the name of the profits that could buy scenes like this.

  Pull yourself together, Will. Jesus Christ.

  Slater rocked back on his haunches and let out a yelp of pure, unadulterated energy. Malvado laughed, unable to help himself, and downed a fourth shot of cognac. He helped himself to a pair of the white lines in turn, and his helper shrank into the background.

  Brimming with every sensation at once, Slater hoped like all hell that his recklessness had bought the trust of the man across from him. His senses, assaulted by the barrage of substances, were reeling. He couldn’t take much more in such a short space of time. But hopefully the sheer brazenness of it all had sorted him so far from the category of undercover government agent in Malvado’s mind that he could get away with anything.

  ‘I’m in cybersecurity,’ he said, timing his next move at the moment the cocaine hit Malvado’s brain in all its intensity. ‘But I don’t have a resume, hey? I don’t work for people I can boast about. You understand me? So much money in security, and protection, but you know who wants it? The people who have something to hide. And there’s a whole lot of shit to hide out there, my friend. You wouldn’t believe. I love it. I love everything about it. Fuck the government, right? They’re just as corrupt as the rest of them. Who are they to say what’s legal or not? I mean, fuck me…’

  Malvado listened to the spiel with a broad grin spread across his face, and then he leant forward so the pair were uncomfortably close. ‘What kind of security?’

  ‘Dark net stuff. I take care of the finer details, so people with money to earn can worry about the business.’

  ‘You good?’

  ‘The best.’

  ‘We should be friends. Let’s talk later. In the meantime, let’s get some girls over here. What do you say?’

  What Slater wanted to say was, Oh, Malvado, you dumbass. How easily you bought all that.

  Instead, he said, ‘Sounds like a plan.’

  10

  Fifteen minutes later, Slater spotted her.

  She stood in a tight circle of sicarios and girls, all the way across the room, but her gaze imperceptibly flickered over to Malvado every five or ten seconds, without fail. In Slater’s heightened state of awareness he could make out every feature in a single glance, from her lithe frame to her caramel skin to her piercing eyes, eyes that were trying far too hard to appear relaxed. Slater could see right through it, because he was employing the same facade. A man weighed down by the intoxicating lure of substances whilst trying to keep their eyes on the prize could easily recognise one of their own. She was beautiful, no doubt, but had put less care into her appearance than the rest of the women in this room. She was sporting a natural look, and she pulled it off incredibly well.

  But behind those eyes was smouldering intensity, barely suppressed.

  Slater spotted it, then instantly stopped looking at her in case she saw it in him, too.

  Natasha and Lucia and Mia were somewhere else, wrapped up in a raucous conversation with a bunch of Malvado’s friends. Slater was long forgotten, but he didn’t hold it against them. In fact, he secretly relished it. Mia had proven far more of a distraction than he’d ever intended, and par
t of him stewed at the fact that he would never see her again after tonight. By matter of principle, he couldn’t associate himself with anyone he ran into during this operation. The risks were too great.

  A cluster of women in short skirts and tight tube tops surrounded Slater and Malvado in an instant, and more drinks materialised out of thin air. Slater drank and talked and laughed and edged closer and closer to Malvado, trying his best to highlight the bond between the pair, even though they’d only known each other for a matter of minutes. But when Malvado draped an arm over the back of Slater’s neck, pulled him in tight, and whispered, ‘Any of them are yours,’ Slater sensed the opportunity to impress the man even more.

  ‘They’re hookers?’ Slater mumbled.

  ‘Don’t tell me you’re against that,’ Malvado said.

  ‘Of course not. But I like the … thrill.’

  ‘Of what?’

  ‘You know … doing it myself.’

  ‘Most of these girls are hookers.’

  ‘Who isn’t?’ Slater said, confident with where he was taking the conversation.

  Malvado pointed across the room. ‘There’s a girl over there. Brown hair. Black dress. You see her?’

  ‘I see her.’

  ‘She intrigues me. I can’t break through. I invited her in, and she shrugged me off before. Why don’t you have a try? You’re a wild man, after all.’

  Bingo, Slater thought.

  ‘Watch this,’ he said, and sprang off the couch with renewed vigour.

  Things were unfolding perfectly.

  He crossed the room in a heartbeat, weaving around classic ornaments and turning his eyes away from bodies in various states of undress, some in the middle of coitus. The drink and drugs weighed heavy on his mind, giving his surroundings a dream-like edge, as if he were floating through some kind of hedonistic wonderland. He kept his eyes on the prize and made it to the edge of the social circle only a few seconds after leaving Malvado on the couch. Gently, he floated around to the woman with the brown hair and laid a hand on her forearm without a shred of hostility, seizing her attention. She wheeled around.

  A brief moment of panic in her eyes, and then it was gone.

  Got you, Slater thought.

  He leant in close and muttered, ‘You’re going to come with me.’

  ‘No, I’m not.’

  ‘What’s your name?’

  She hesitated. ‘Alonsa.’

  ‘Alonsa, I’m Will.’

  ‘I don’t care.’

  ‘You should, because if you don’t come with me and do exactly as I say I’ll tell Malvado that you’re here to kill him. And something tells me he won’t be very happy when he hears that. So what’s your decision?’

  She froze on the spot, cold fury burning in her eyes, but nothing that resembled denial.

  He had her.

  ‘What do you want from me?’

  ‘For now, I want you to come with me. And act like you’re all over me.’

  ‘Not a chance.’

  ‘We have similar intentions, Alonsa,’ he said, risking the murmur even though one of Malvado’s sicarios stood only a couple of feet away. ‘Now, there’s no time left. This had to be a quick, reactive thing. Feign attraction. Please. Or we’ll both end up in bodybags.’

  Then he spun away, figuring she didn’t need any more time to think about it. Either she would go with him, and the effortless deception would continue, or she would refuse and suspicion would mount and piece by piece Slater’s attempt to cosy up to Malvado would fall apart. Then he would slip up, at one point or another, and he would be unusually slow to react. Then he would die.

  So his heart hammered against his chest wall as he turned on his heel — mostly because of the cocaine, but also because he’d taken a risk here.

  She had to play along with it, or the exchange of words would be scrutinised and picked apart, and Slater was in no state to defend himself.

  Hands wrapped around his stomach, and he thought, This is it.

  All my career for nothing.

  Here comes the knife.

  Instead, Alonsa’s lips draped their cool touch over his neck, kissing him in an overt display of passion. She giggled with excitement, acting far more intoxicated than she actually was.

  Slater spun, kissed her on the lips, ran a hand gently down her cheek, tasting her energy.

  Two souls risking everything in a hostile environment.

  There was something oddly thrilling about it.

  Then he parted, took her hand, and led her across the room toward Malvado.

  A grin of sheer glee spread across the man’s face as he noted Slater’s supposed conquest.

  So far, so good.

  11

  The next two or three hours passed in a blur. Slater wasn’t keeping track of time — he couldn’t possibly manage that amidst all this madness. He’d foolishly considered himself tolerant to substances before he stepped foot in the White Phoenix. How naive he’d been. Not these kinds of substances. Not the pure stuff that Malvado got his hands on. This threatened to tear the fabric of his reality apart, tugging on his vision and narrowing what he could see to a sickening, pulsating tunnel of lights throbbing in and out, in and out, in and out.

  He eased off the drink and the drugs for a spell, giving himself vital time to breathe. Alonsa stayed by his side, her facade slipping as Slater descended further into total incomprehension. Thankfully, it seemed Malvado wasn’t immune to the effects either. The giant beady-eyed torturer swayed on the couch alongside Slater, gossiping with the prostitutes and exchanging vicious explosions of laughter with his henchmen.

  The breathing room proved effective. A break of twenty minutes from touching anything that could alter his consciousness wound down his senses, the cocaine burning out its short fuse and taking a backseat to the pull of the alcohol. Slater exhaled a sigh of relief through the corner of his lips, disguising it from any curious onlookers.

  He didn’t even know who was watching them.

  There were people all around them, overly friendly and full of smiles, parasites and leeches and hangers-on and various members of Malvado’s entourage. The man attracted vermin like flies to shit, no doubt affiliated in some capacity with the Sinaloa cartel.

  You’re fucked up, Slater told himself as he reached for his whiskey tumbler and completely missed, snatching at thin air. But it’s working. He doesn’t suspect a damn thing.

  Slater glanced sideways and smiled. Malvado was barely paying him any attention, but the man had imperceptibly shifted himself closer and closer as the evening progressed, a subtle gesture of trust. Slater had hit all the right notes, said all the right things at all the right times, and now he would reap the rewards if all went according to plan.

  ‘Kiss me on the neck,’ he muttered in Alonsa’s ear as she sat patiently by his side, probably wondering where the hell his allegiance lay.

  ‘Why?’ she hissed.

  ‘For show. This is the last time. Please.’

  She obliged, touching her lips to the skin just below his jaw, pausing there as Slater tapped Malvado on the shoulder and the cartel interrogator noticed what was happening.

  ‘Let’s get out of here,’ Slater said. ‘I think I might get lucky.’

  Malvado nodded, wrapping one arm around the nearest prostitute. ‘Excellent idea. I’ve got a penthouse for the weekend. Plenty of room. What do you say?’

  Slater slapped him on the shoulder. ‘That’s what I had in mind, brother.’

  Perfect.

  The room stirred as idle members of Malvado’s party shifted into gear, and they bled out of the VIP room in an avalanche of inebriated muscle and bare skin. Slater could barely get a proper look at the public section of the White Phoenix, dealing with such an assault on his senses that the lights and music and darkness blended together in a kaleidoscope of sensation. He kept Alonsa close, ensuring one hand stayed pressed against the small of her back, fearing she might melt away and disappear into the shadows at any momen
t. He figured she might be the only ally he could find in this mad game, a game he feared playing but couldn’t slip out of now.

  When they stepped out of the club, the panic hit him square in the chest.

  For a moment he thought he’d been shot, and then it struck him that he’d never ingested such a copious amount of drugs in such a short space of time before. He was a degenerate, sure, but nothing could have prepared him for this.

  He’d flirted with bad experiences in the past, but this was another level.

  Everyone around him — all the bulky Mexican sicarios squashed up shoulder to shoulder alongside Slater — spent their lives surrounded by blood-soaked violence. They would kill him without a shred of hesitation if they suspected anything. And his lips flapped without control — he found it harder and harder every second to make sure the words coming out of his mouth were inoffensive and careful.

  The drugs heightened his senses, making his emotions skyrocket, compounding the anxiety.

  He grappled with a ball of fear unlike anything he’d ever experienced before as Malvado made a beeline for a Mercedes passenger van with tinted windows that pulled up by the sidewalk, slotting into a pre-arranged parking space especially reserved for the group. Slater and Alonsa shoved their way in through the sliding door and found seats. Shrouded in relative darkness, Slater put his head in his hands, took an enormous breath, and let it out with a rattling exhale.

  Calm.

  You’re in.

  Don’t fuck it up now.

  The van weaved through late-night San Francisco traffic, heading for destinations unknown. Malvado had mentioned a penthouse, but that could mean anywhere. A dark nightmarish vision fell over Slater, and he pictured the van darting for the Mexican border, carrying him and Alonsa to an empty warehouse where Malvado rolled out a collection of torture instruments…