The Will Slater Series Books 1-3

by Matt Rogers

  ‘You keep saying that.’

  ‘I mean it.’

  He thought about leaving then, but something told him to stay another moment longer. He reached down and cupped her face in his hands.

  ‘Listen,’ he said. ‘I just wanted to say … this makes me happy.’

  She raised an eyebrow. ‘You’re not going to get all lovey-dovey on me, are you?’

  He smirked. ‘No, no. I’m not about to propose. But I’m really glad I met you. You don’t know how much I needed it.’

  ‘I think I’m getting an idea.’

  ‘Don’t take it personally that I have to be vague. I’m vague to everyone in my life.’

  ‘Secret business. I get it. I’m glad I met you too.’

  ‘Nice break from the monotony?’

  ‘You have no idea,’ she said. ‘It’s a tough life out here. Sometimes I need to get away from it all.’

  ‘Hopefully I helped.’

  She sat up and whispered in his ear, ‘I never take naps. You definitely helped.’

  He smiled. ‘Glad I could be of service.’

  He dressed, taking care not to present the tiny specks of blood on the front of his shirt to Natasha. Sifting through the clothing he’d stripped off in a hurry earlier that afternoon, a sharp pang of realisation shot through him. There was no sign of the MP-433 Grach. Without an appendix holster on him, he’d opted to tuck the officer’s gun into the back of his waistband on the train. In the carnage, he’d forgotten all about it.

  And now it was gone, lost at some point on his journey, either tumbling out of his jeans or sliding down through his pant leg. It had happened at some point during his mad dash out of the station.

  He grimaced, recognising he was unarmed, and tried to force the thought from his mind.

  If all went peacefully, he wouldn’t need a gun.

  But when has that ever happened?

  He sauntered out of the room and retraced his steps through the warm hallway, down into the bar. At this time of evening the space was livelier, sporting an amalgamation of Vladivostok’s working class cradling beer steins and thin tumblers of vodka between their hands. Chatter filtered through the space, drowning out any silence. Every now and then a drunken uproar permeated through the room — a table of tradesmen piping up, embroiled in passionate conversation.

  Slater met the gaze of the bartender across the room and they exchanged a sly nod.

  The guy obviously realised Slater and Natasha hadn’t been upstairs talking for the last few hours.

  Before he ducked out to load up on supplies, he weaved his way into a gap at the bar and waved the barman over.

  ‘Having fun?’ the guy said, his accent thick, his eyebrows raised.

  ‘Thanks for setting me up before.’

  ‘I didn’t do anything. Seemed like she couldn’t wait to get her hands on you.’

  ‘I’m a lucky guy.’

  ‘You sure are. You should see the number of locals she’s swatted away since she’s been here.’

  ‘She’s popular with the townsfolk?’

  ‘They are all in love. And so are you.’

  ‘I wouldn’t go that far.’

  ‘You need a drink?’

  ‘Thanks. Vodka. Make it heavy.’

  The barman poured out two fingers of the top-shelf liquid and slid it over. ‘Pay in the morning. I assume you’re staying the night.’

  ‘Thanks.’

  ‘You sure can handle your drinks.’

  ‘I’ve had practice.’

  ‘Running away from something?’

  Slater paused. ‘You’re perceptive.’

  ‘We’re all running away from something.’

  ‘Are we?’

  The barman reached across the oak countertop and tapped Slater on top of the head with a meaty finger. ‘You’re just running from something in here.’

  ‘You know people too well.’

  ‘I run a bar. I meet a lot of sorry folk.’

  ‘I can imagine.’

  ‘Enjoy your time with the woman. Make sure you don’t let your demons get her, too.’

  Slater didn’t respond. Transfixed by how effectively the barman had pierced through his defences, he drained the vodka with a wince as the alcohol trickled down his throat, soothing his insides. He laid the empty tumbler down on the countertop, nodded once to the man, and hustled out of the building.

  You should keep walking.

  The insidious thought threatened to consume him as he braced himself against the chill, noting the darkness beginning to leech into the region. Everything outside was cold and grey and foreboding. But that matched perfectly with Slater’s personality, and he found himself more comfortable out here in the chaos than inside in shelter.

  He recalled what Natasha had said.

  Neural pathways.

  He’d conditioned himself over the years to embrace the pain. It had sent him to Yemen, and carnage had found him there as if he were a beacon of destruction. Then what was supposed to be a pleasant recovery in Macau had wound up in a dark place he never wanted to revisit. Both outings had almost destroyed him, but he’d emerged with enough traumatic memories to fill the heads of ten men.

  So if he walked away from Natasha, opting to keep her safe and keep his problems to himself, then he would only be strengthening the neural pathways. He’d do the same thing he always did — run away from happiness, and leap into war with both feet.

  No.

  Forget about Viktor. Forget about Iosif. It’s all in the past.

  Start anew.

  But how many times had he told himself that?

  21

  He found a food cart run by an elderly Russian woman on the nearest street corner, and one whiff of the smells emanating from the cart made him stop well before he located a convenience store. He paused to peruse, and she seemed to sense he didn’t speak Russian. She gave a subtle nod and a warm smile and let him browse. He settled on steamed buns packed with beef and pork and cabbage.

  ‘Pyanse,’ she said, handing over a small plastic container of the buns.

  Slater guessed that was their name.

  He held up two fingers, and she filled another container.

  Leaving her with far more rubles than the meals cost, he set off back in the direction of the tavern. The sun dipped fully behind the horizon and the light began to fade from the sky, plunging murky shadows over the freezing streets. The wind picked up in volume, howling icily across the sidewalks.

  And then Slater saw it.

  Across the road. Two men, both sporting receding hairlines, no older than thirty. Wrapped up in workers’ clothing, gloves on their hands, moving frantically from pedestrian to pedestrian. There was panic in their demeanours — Slater had seen it a thousand times before.

  It almost shocked him how quickly he could recognise the signs of distress. He’d spent his entire life around men and women in similar predicaments. These guys were desperate, and they seemingly had no plan to get what they wanted.

  They approached everyone on the street, one after the other, waving a photo printed on white paper between their gloved hands, passing it back and forth, shoving it in people’s faces. They spoke frantically in Russian, enquiring, interrogating, pleading for help. They probably figured they were doing it subtly, but Slater could see their intentions clear as day.

  They’d lost something.

  Or someone.

  Slater froze on the opposite side of the road, steeling himself against the wind, shielding his face from the biting chill. The weight of the decision rippled through him. He knew genuine distress when he saw it. His whole life had revolved around alleviating that distress, usually by putting himself through the worst situations imaginable.

  Maybe the noble thing to do would be to cross the street and offer his assistance. He had no doubt it would lead him down a dark path. There would be violence, and suffering, and bloodshed. It never seemed to go any other way. But he would suffer at the same time. He would be b
eat to shit — especially if he was chasing down a missing family member, especially if he ran into the types of undesirables he always seemed to cross paths with.

  Neural pathways.

  Every instinct in his body told him to help. He could see the anguish in the men’s eyes, the suffering wracking their bodies, tugging at their souls. He knew no-one would be able to help. Not like he could. If Slater put his full attention to the task at hand, he knew he could disintegrate everything in his path. But that would mean abandoning Natasha, abandoning the brief window of comfort he’d carved out for himself.

  And he wasn’t prepared to do that.

  So, against his better judgment, he turned and walked away from the pair. They didn’t even get the chance to approach him. They didn’t cross the street in time, so he put his head down and hurried forward with the containers of pyanse clutched firmly between his fingers.

  Blissful ignorance.

  It tugged at his conscience.

  He couldn’t deny it.

  Because he knew he could help, and therein lay the dilemma. How could he walk away from suffering and wrongdoing to focus on himself?

  It was selfish, undisciplined, unacceptable.

  But he had spent his whole life in a career that forced him to be selfless.

  Forced him to be disciplined.

  Forced him to accept every burden.

  So he didn’t blame himself when he finally decided to pass the burden to someone else.

  He stepped back into the tavern and crossed quickly to the staircase, taking them three at a time. Glimpsing the two men in their states of distress had made him anxious. His chest tightened and his stomach twisted. Because every part of him wanted to seek them out. Every part of him wanted to help.

  Except a tiny morsel of self-awareness, somewhere deep inside his head, saying, You’ve done enough.

  You’ve fought enough.

  You’ve helped enough.

  Natasha was still in bed, dozing against the headboard, propped up against an array of pillows. Slater stripped out of his heavy winter clothing and dropped onto the mattress alongside her. He breathed her scent, unable to resist smiling.

  She smiled back.

  ‘You’re unusually perky,’ she said.

  ‘Have you known me long enough to know what I’m usually like?’

  ‘When I first met you. In the bar. That’s who you are. Quiet. Withdrawn. You never said anything more than you needed to.’

  ‘And now?’

  ‘Now you seem looser.’

  ‘I feel looser.’

  ‘Is it a good feeling?’

  ‘It is.’

  She kissed him again — he couldn’t get enough of her. She was his one escape from the world he knew he couldn’t avoid forever. It was ingrained in his nature, and she knew it. It was something far deeper than neural pathways. It was in his soul to fight, to attack, to never pause for breath.

  But now, just now, he was learning to take a break.

  And a break felt damn good.

  He parted from her, touching a finger to her lips, resisting the urge to dive under the covers with her and never come out.

  ‘There’s time for that,’ he muttered. ‘We need to eat.’

  They sat up in bed and gorged on the pyanse, savouring every bite, filling their stomachs with the warmth and the satisfaction. Slater couldn’t believe how amazing it tasted, and decided he’d return to the same food cart in the morning if it was still there. The elderly Russian woman needed to be rewarded for her cooking abilities.

  Satiated, they rolled to each other and resumed. Slater could sense the passion in everything Natasha did — the way she ran her fingers down his back, the way she gripped him as she came close to climax, the way her mouth quivered as she pulled him close and they lost themselves in pleasure.

  She needed him too.

  It was a cold, brutal life out here. She had no friends. It seemed she kept her own company, just as Slater did. That was why she came all the way out to this tavern when she had time off the job. To distance herself from her co-workers. Maybe she knew some of them weren’t who they seemed.

  Another kind of blissful ignorance.

  When they fell off each other, panting and short of breath, night had finally fallen outside. Wrapped up in the bedsheets, their naked frames illuminated by the fireplace Natasha had stoked to life against the far wall, Slater figured he could pry for information.

  ‘Why are you here?’ he said, cradling her in his arm.

  ‘I hate the job. I don’t want to be around the shipbuilding plant when I don’t have to be.’

  ‘You could be doing a thousand things stateside more pleasant than this.’

  ‘I was taught at an early age to detach myself from what feels good, and do what’s best for my future.’

  ‘That’s good advice.’

  ‘My mother told me that.’

  ‘Is she around?’

  ‘Not anymore.’

  ‘Mine isn’t either.’

  ‘I’m sorry.’

  ‘Don’t be. It was a long time ago.’

  ‘Do you want to talk about it?’

  Macau.

  He’d put his demons to rest there. Deep in the bowels of Mountain Lion Casino & Resorts. He’d discovered something nightmarish, something raw and primal, something intrinsically connected to his past.

  And he never wanted to think about that again.

  ‘No,’ he said. ‘I really don’t.’

  She laid a hand on his chest. ‘Holy shit.’

  ‘What?’

  ‘Your heart rate.’

  ‘Sorry. I really don’t want to talk about that stuff.’

  She kissed him. ‘We don’t have to. Why don’t you just sit back and let me take care of you?’

  ‘I don’t know if I’ve got the stamina.’

  ‘I’m sure you do.’

  ‘How long can we do this for? Realistically?’

  She furrowed her brow. ‘I have to be back at the plant the day after tomorrow.’

  ‘That’s all the time in the world.’

  ‘You think that’ll be it?’

  He paused, pondering. ‘It has to be, doesn’t it?’

  She nodded. ‘I didn’t want it to be a one-way street. But I hope you know I’m not looking for anything serious.’

  ‘I wanted you to know the same.’

  ‘You sure?’

  ‘My lifestyle wouldn’t survive a committed relationship. At least until I change it.’

  ‘You got plans on changing it?’

  ‘I’m trying.’

  ‘Doesn’t seem like you’re trying too hard. You came all the way out here. You know what happens out here.’

  ‘Do I?’

  ‘I’m sure you have an idea.’

  ‘Do you?’

  ‘I know the shipbuilding plant’s a cesspool of unsavoury types. I’m sure the rest of Vladivostok isn’t much different.’

  ‘When we’re done,’ Slater said, taking a risk, ‘could you point me in the direction of those unsavoury types?’

  ‘And lose my job? I don’t think so.’

  He shrugged and settled back as she worked her way down his mid-section, trailing soft kisses along his abdominals, heading in a certain direction.

  ‘What would you do to those people?’ she mumbled into his flesh. ‘Is that why you came here?’

  ‘I don’t know why I came here.’

  ‘That’s a lie,’ she said, and took him in her mouth.

  Then Slater ceased thinking about the bad, and focused only on the good.

  22

  The next morning, he set out in search of a mixed martial arts gym.

  As he dressed in his clothes from the night before he made a mental note to purchase athletic gear as soon as he could find it. At that point the last thing he wanted to do was venture out into the ice-cold dawn, wrenching himself out of the warm cocoon of the bedroom. Natasha grumbled in her sleep as he slipped out of the covers, and he tu
rned and placed a hand against her cheek.

  ‘Where are you going?’ she mumbled.

  ‘A couple of work things I need to take care of,’ he said.

  ‘Thought you were retired.’

  ‘Sometimes I take on contracts.’

  ‘From who?’

  ‘Whoever needs them.’

  ‘You’re going now? To fulfil a contract? Is that why you came here?’

  He gave a wry smile. ‘No. I’m free now. But I need to do some maintenance work to make sure I’m ready.’

  ‘Maintenance of what?’

  ‘Myself.’

  He slunk downstairs, moving like a ghost through the empty bar. Before he’d closed down for the night, the barman had placed all the stools up on the tables and killed the lights. Pale blue dawn light filtered in through the windows, draping elongated shadows over everything in sight, but Slater didn’t feel the slightest bit perturbed. Exhaling foggy clouds with each breath, he realised the uncertain environment gave him strength.

  He couldn’t stay comfortable for too long.

  It would drive him insane.

  Neural pathways.

  Thankfully, he’d made good choices early in his career, and forged them well.

  Now, it was nothing more than second nature.

  He walked the streets of Vladivostok with his hands in his pockets and his jacket drawn up to his face, shielding his features from view of any prying eyes. He stayed alert the entire time, checking each shadow and each alleyway for any threats. Finding none, he asked a handful of passersby if they could point him in the direction of a gym, and he went door to door interrogating the men and women behind the desks until someone identified a mixed martial arts training facility on the outskirts of the port city.

  It might have been easier if he had a smartphone, but that was the furthest thing from what he needed at this point in his life. An instant connection to every corner of the globe would only exacerbate his issues.

  He needed to unplug.

  Disconnect.

  Detach.

  There was something oddly freeing about it. He would only find out about major news events if they were notable enough for everyone around him to discuss. Otherwise he remained in the dark.

  Blissful ignorance.