by Matt Rogers
He couldn’t quite free himself from the shackles of that phrase. Probably because if he wanted any semblance of a normal life, he would need to ignore those who needed help in future.
Thankfully, he didn’t see himself finding that peace anytime soon.
Jason King had.
But King and Slater were two very different men.
The incident the previous night had set him on edge. Half his conscious awareness was fixated on the two men he’d seen, wondering what their plight might be, speculating whether he could have helped or not. But that was in the past. He couldn’t change what had happened.
So he did the next best thing.
He honed himself for the next one.
He located the grungy warehouse tucked into the industrial district only half an hour after leaving the tavern. Its roller door was up, and heavy thwacks emanated out into the cold morning air.
The sound of flesh detonating off leather, whether they be pads or bags.
The sound of combat.
Slater figured he’d get met with resistance, so he strode into the warehouse with his chin high and his shoulders back, exuding confidence. He surveyed the scene — wrestling mats spread over the concrete, heavy bags suspended from the ceiling, and an assortment of short, squat Russian men built like trucks punishing themselves in the early hours of the morning. Sweat flowed freely from pores, and testosterone hung in the air.
In unison, all the occupants of the gym turned to stare daggers at the newcomer.
A foreign newcomer, to be specific.
Slater walked right up to the guy he figured ran the place, a burly man in his late fifties with greying hair and a face that had seen decades of hardship. Vladivostok seemed like a cruel place to run a business, let alone a mixed martial arts gymnasium.
‘I want to train,’ Slater said, and raised both fists in demonstration in case the language barrier proved too cumbersome.
The guy treated him with the same disdain as the rest of the men in the warehouse. The stench of dried sweat permeated the atmosphere, seeping into Slater’s nostrils, almost making him gag. But he held his ground and tried again.
‘I want to train,’ he said.
The giant Russian man shooed him away, pointing toward the entrance, dismissing him with a single gesture.
Slater pulled two thousand rubles out of the inside of his jacket pocket.
The hand went down, and the owner gave a solemn nod. He held out a hand for the money, transfixed on the crumpled bills.
‘I need gear,’ Slater said.
The guy raised an eyebrow.
Slater pointed to his clothes. ‘Training gear. I only need to borrow it.’
The man nodded, and ushered him deeper into the warehouse, out of the cold.
23
This is what I was born to do.
Slater stepped away from the bag, the sweat already flowing, sucking in lungfuls of the freezing Far East air.
All it took was a single timed round on a heavy bag to silence the entire gym. The odd jeer or dirty look fell away as Slater changed into Muay Thai shorts and a tight compression shirt, then proceeded to unload all the pent-up energy in his system into a heavy bag that weighed well north of two hundred pounds. Packed with grain or sand, the giant man-sized slab of leather jolted back and forth as Slater unleashed right hooks, left hooks, knees, twisting side kicks, scything elbows. It shuddered on its support, threatening to tear free from the chain it hung from.
Suspended in the air, bouncing left and right as Slater transferred kinetic energy with each resonating impact, the bag finally groaned to a halt when he stepped back, completing the round. He assessed the general atmosphere in the air — everyone seemed stunned.
The newcomer who’d seemingly used his daddy’s trust fund money to pay for a workout session in a gruelling Vladivostok facility had proved his worth.
Then the owner, who introduced himself as Nikita, became more welcoming than Slater had ever anticipated.
The giant man rushed forward, slipping pads onto his hands, gesturing for Slater to fire off a series of punches into the leather mitts. Now that his capabilities were revealed, everyone wanted a round with the new guy. Slater pushed forward relentlessly, never resting for a moment, finding the level of exertion that made him uncomfortable and then learning to live there, to embrace it with all his heart.
That was how he achieved so much.
Because he found his breaking point, and then he started to tread water.
The longer you hate your surroundings, the faster you adjust to them.
So, lungs burning, heart racing, sweat pouring, mind sharp, he never let up. He welcomed any challengers, donning head gear and accepting sparring rounds with any of the mixed martial artists who deemed it necessary to test their mettle. The men were hard and tough and cruel, their discipline honed by years of living in such an uncompromising city as Vladivostok. They took him down to the mat, controlling his position, and he relished it.
He bit down on his mouthpiece and fought tooth and nail to secure dominant position on his own, reversing some of the wrestling manoeuvres, implementing his Brazilian jiu-jitsu black belt wherever it seemed relevant. Sparring partner after sparring partner crawled away from the mats having absorbed far more blows than they expected, nothing but cowering shells of their former selves.
When the session drew to a close and Slater collapsed in a sweaty heap by the far wall of the gymnasium, he’d made six of his sparring partners tap out, dominantly controlled another two, and knocked one of them down in an unfortunate well-placed shot. He never wanted to hurt anyone badly in training, and luckily the guy had escaped without a concussion.
As a result, Slater could barely feel his limbs.
His muscles depleted and his energy sapped, he sucked down a couple of bottles of amino acids and electrolytes the gym owner sold at the front desk, and took a few minutes to catch his breath. He picked himself up off the mats, clambering out of a pool of his own sweat. Then he stretched out, showered using the facilities, and changed back into his original clothes, donning the winter gear once more.
A couple of the pro martial artists sauntered up to him as he finalised the payment at the front desk and offered handshakes. The language barrier separated them from an in-depth conversation, but Slater sensed the respect in the atmosphere. He might have lost a few rounds, and he might have collapsed at the end of the session, but he’d more than proved his worth.
Anyone from any corner of the globe respected hard work.
Even in a city as harsh and unforgiving as Vladivostok.
He shook their hands, exchanging knowing nods, and ducked back out into the mid-morning chill with a spring in his step. He hadn’t pushed his limits like that since setting foot in Russia. It would take some practice to return to the physical conditioning of old — at the peak of his career, aided by an arsenal of designer steroids, he’d put himself through three separate training sessions per day, each close to two hours in length. That kind of schedule had wreaked a toll on his body, and retirement had been an important step in saving his joints and preventing any long-term damage.
But the burning desire to outwork anyone on the planet was still there.
It would never go away.
As he hurried away from the grid of warehouses, eager to return to the safe haven above the bar, he realised he hadn’t given Iosif’s fate a moment’s thought the entire morning. The absence of a phone or any kind of electronic device proved paramount now — he had no doubts that the madness at Vladivostok’s train station had made national news considering the public nature of Viktor’s assassination.
But he was oblivious to all of it. Being out of touch made it easier to slip into a new life, even after the traumatic experience the previous day.
That seemed like an eternity ago.
Especially after what he’d been through since. A whirlwind detour with Natasha, and then a gruelling workout that reduced him to a shadow of his for
mer self. But he would rebuild, as he always did.
Stronger than before.
He took his time on the walk back to the tavern, barely fazed from the cold. His muscles were so depleted that every step felt like a drag. It was a long hard slog to put one foot in front of the other. Thankfully, though, it was all he could concentrate on — he paid the turbulent arrival into Vladivostok no attention. He simply focused on the present moment.
It was the best way to live.
By the time he made it back to the bar, the barman had opened the place up for the daytime customers. A few surly individuals sat scattered around the tables, each cradling their beverages like their life depended on it. Slater sensed a different atmosphere to the unruly cheer of the previous night.
The daytime crowd were a sorry bunch.
He scanned the room, looking for the barman, but his search came up empty. A couple of patrons made uncomfortable eye contact as he stared at each of them in turn, but there was no animosity in their expressions. All of them were dull, tuned out, deaf to the world. They’d found the solution to their problems in the bottom of an empty glass. They noted the arrival of the new guy, but didn’t pursue it any further. Most of them lost interest right away.
Slater paused at the foot of the staircase, finding it odd the barman would leave the premises unattended as customers loitered about. It wouldn’t take much effort for one of them to reach over the counter and slip an expensive bottle of top-shelf alcohol under their jackets.
He took the stairs two at a time, disturbed by the odd development.
He reached the top of the staircase and froze.
Oh.
24
The barman sat in a bloody heap, propped up against the wall halfway down the hallway. Purple blotches covered his face. His cheeks were in the process of swelling, and soon the man would be unrecognisable. Slater didn’t need to study him for long to recognise a broken orbital bone. One of his eyes was completely swollen shut, and the other drooped lazily toward the floor. He was semi-conscious — his body had opted to shut down and compartmentalise the pain instead of staying alert and experiencing it in full.
Better to dull the worst of it for now.
Besides, even if he stayed awake and alert, his body understood how inhibited it was. The man was in no state to put up a fight of any kind. If the people who’d beat him half to death wanted to return and finish the job, there was nothing stopping them from doing so.
Slater turned his attention away from the barman and studied the door to Natasha’s room.
It hung ajar.
His stomach twisting and tightening with each breath, he tiptoed silently over the plush carpet, making no noise whatsoever. He could be a ghost when he needed to be. He stepped over the barman, who muttered something indiscernible, and approached the open doorway with more trepidation than he thought possible.
Because a soft voice in the back of his head told him exactly what he would find.
Neural pathways.
Nothing changes.
Same actions, same results.
He stepped into the room. The bedsheets lay on the floor, hurled off the mattress in a panic. The mattress itself had shifted a few inches off its base, signs of a vicious struggle. The fire had died out long ago, reduced to smouldering embers. And, most notably, Slater spotted a dried patch of crimson blood on the headboard, smeared in a jagged pattern from left to right. He thought he could see a fingerprint in the mess. Someone clawing for a handhold as they were dragged from their slumber by hostile intruders.
There was no sign of Natasha.
Slater went through the motions, slipping back out into the hallway as soon as he confirmed the room was empty and checking each room on the second floor, one by one, for signs of a hostile presence.
Nothing.
This place was a crime scene.
The blackness appeared. He sensed it in the pit of his stomach, forming amidst the tight knots compressing his gut. In between the nausea and the anxiety and the impending sense of doom was something else. Something darker. The rage, threatening to bubble its way to the surface.
The rage he’d left behind in Macau.
And every fibre of his being wanted to unleash it.
Not yet.
Not here.
He finished checking the final room and crept back out into the hallway. The barman hadn’t budged an inch — his face continued to swell, turning grotesque before Slater’s eyes. Silence draped the corridor. From downstairs, the soft murmuring of the bar’s handful of patrons filtered up the staircase.
How the hell had this happened with the bar itself populated?
Slater walked over to the barman and crouched down by the man’s pathetic form. He reached out and tilted his head upward by prodding his chin with a single finger.
The guy stirred and returned to consciousness, his head lolling in place. ‘Just finish it.’
‘What?’
‘Wait … you’re the guy.’
‘What happened here?’
‘I tried to stop them.’
‘They got her out of here by turning invisible, it seems.’
‘W-what do you mean?’
A thin line of blood ran out of the corner of the barman’s lips. He coughed and reached up a hand to wipe the smear away. Slater batted it back down, slapping his arm away with an open palm, like a whip cracking, flesh against flesh. The man winced and cowered, dropping his head low.
‘What do you want?’ he moaned, and Slater sensed the desperation in his tone. ‘They already beat me half to death. Are you with them? Is that why you wanted to talk to her?’
Slater paused. He reached out and clasped his fingers around the barman’s throat.
‘I just find it very convenient that you wound up here,’ he said. ‘Hurt, but alive. And it seems like nothing out of the ordinary downstairs. None of the patrons had an inkling that something was afoot. And here you are. It all seems a little contrived, don’t you think? So I’m not going to trust you until you break down exactly what happened, step by step. And you’d better be damn convincing. Because I quite liked that girl.’
‘Is your name Will?’ the man muttered.
‘Yes. It is.’
‘Then she liked you, too. It was the only thing she said when they came for her.’
‘Who came for her?’
‘Just a few guys. I’d never seen them before.’
Slater tightened his grip, restricting the man’s air passage. ‘You’re going to need to be more specific than that.’
‘P-please,’ the man said, choking, gasping.
Slater loosened his fingers from around the man’s throat. ‘I trusted you when I stepped foot in this place. So I’ll give you the benefit of the doubt. Speak.’
‘If I speak, you might not believe me.’
‘I’m not giving you an alternative.’
‘But there is an alternative. And then you’ll believe me.’
‘What?’
The barman lifted a bloody finger to point at the shadowy crevasses over the staircase. Slater spun and followed his gesture, spotting the security camera skewered into the faded plaster. A single red dot blinked in and out of existence underneath the lens.
‘That was rolling the whole time?’ Slater said.
‘Nature of the business,’ the man said. ‘I cannot survive unless I protect myself. The types of people who want to stay here usually aren’t the most noble. Your American friend was the exception. That’s why I was pleasantly surprised at her arrival. And that’s why I fought to protect her.’
‘You’d better be telling the truth.’
‘We’ll check the footage. But—’
Slater raised an eyebrow. ‘This isn’t the time for but’s.’
‘Just don’t take it to the police.’
‘Why on earth would I do that?’
‘I don’t know. I don’t know who you are.’
‘Clearly not. The police are the last thing on my mind
.’
‘So you are a bad man, too?’
‘Bad enough. Why don’t you want the police involved?’
‘I don’t run my bar the most honest way.’
‘You pay taxes?’
‘Nowhere near as much as I should.’
Slater shrugged. ‘Nature of the beast. I don’t blame you, living all the way out here. Thankfully I’m not here to audit you.’
‘So you don’t care.’
‘Why would I care? I care about a friend of mine. That’s all.’
‘Then let’s go to the cameras.’
25
In a small back room tucked into the far end of the hallway, the barman sifted through an assortment of ancient computer hardware that had spent the better part of five years collecting dust, unused and untouched for as long as the man could remember. In his sorry state, snivelling and dishevelled, Slater almost felt sorry for the man.
But he didn’t implicitly trust him.
Not yet.
So he remained vigilant, hovering in the doorway, shooting a glance at the staircase every few seconds to make sure a curious patron didn’t decide to wander upstairs and investigate where the owner had disappeared to. The barman fumbled with a blocky desktop monitor and fired the computer underneath the desk to life. As he set about navigating through loading screens, he winced and bowed his head as a fresh wave of pain coursed through him.
A side effect of the beating he’d taken.
Slater grimaced. This wasn’t like him. He didn’t ordinarily act so cruelly toward common folk, and he had little doubt this man was true to his word. There was no great conspiracy here. There was just chaos and confusion, and deep black rage below the surface of Slater’s mind. All his conscious thought was directed at that particular hurdle, making sure it didn’t explode outward. The last thing he wanted was to draw more attention to himself, especially in a sensitive situation like this.
If he set off on a rampage through the streets of Vladivostok, it wouldn’t take long for the incident on the train to catch up to him. There were dark forces at play here, and he didn’t yet know whether Natasha’s disappearance was connected to any of it.
