The Will Slater Series Books 1-3

by Matt Rogers

  ‘You going to tell me what this is about?’ Slater said.

  ‘A Commander in the Chicago Police Department.’

  ‘Name?’

  ‘Ray D’Agostino.’

  ‘Sounds like a lovely man,’ Slater said, his tone dripping with sarcasm.

  ‘He’s in charge of the Central District. Runs it with an iron fist, by all accounts. Good for the books. His arrest rates are solid. Pulls in all manner of vagrants.’

  ‘Not seeing any red flags so far.’

  ‘Three homeless men he brought into custody for public intoxication have died in their cells in the last two weeks.’

  ‘That happens.’

  ‘Not with that frequency. And not under suspicious circumstances. And not all under the jurisdiction of a single commander. That’s a lot of red flags right there.’

  Slater sensed frustration brewing. He’d been secretly hoping for some downtime, whatever that entailed. His relentless approach to life had served him well for the better part of four years now, but everyone had their limits. Chicago had been an uncharacteristic request, but Lars had granted it, knowing full well what Slater had been through over the course of his first three operations. The fact that he was being yanked back into the line of fire for something like this set his blood boiling.

  ‘This isn’t our fucking problem, Lars,’ he hissed. ‘Isn’t that for internal affairs? Or the FBI? Or whoever the hell runs that kind of thing?’

  ‘We need to employ discretion.’

  ‘But still… how is this my problem? What do you want me to do? Rough him up and get him to confess to being a sociopath who gets off on killing vagrants? Is that what you want?’

  ‘No,’ Lars said.

  Slater grew quiet. He knew when his handler turned to single syllables, shit was milliseconds away from hitting the fan. He reminded himself of the fact that, by all accounts, he was still classified as a reckless youth as far as black operations were considered. He’d only been whisked into the program because of another operative — something Lars had been hesitant to divulge, but had eventually shared with Slater. A man by the name of Jason King, one year younger than Slater, who was shattering the myths that elite operatives needed to be in their thirties.

  The two misfits, Slater thought.

  He wondered if he would ever meet Jason King.

  Then his mind wandered back to the present.

  ‘Look, Lars,’ he said. ‘I just don’t get it. I really needed this time off. Hopefully you can understand.’

  ‘And we equally need you now,’ Lars said. ‘What do you think I do all day? Sit around and masturbate and wait for something to slide across my desk that I can throw to one of my operatives?’

  ‘Uhh…’

  ‘Everything is vetted and analysed and scrutinised and picked apart. You should be aware that if something gets passed onto you, it’s of the utmost importance. You’ve been deemed the best fit for this operation for a number of reasons, and I don’t have time to lay them all out. That’s not my job, and it’s not your job to know. You just need to follow through with it. Okay?’

  ‘Okay.’

  ‘I’m going to give you directions to a construction site. The entire block was abandoned months ago — the building company went into liquidation. The area’s a hotspot for vagrants and squatters, and I need you to go there and make a scene. D’Agostino patrols that area excessively, even though it’s not his job. If it’s not him, then it’s one of his men. They’ll bring you in, and you’ll try your best to figure out what his deal is, or if he’s involved. I don’t want to give you any more than that, because I trust you to improvise and do your job. Got it?’

  ‘Got it.’

  ‘You know any government forces that have the capacity to act like a homeless man, and kill if necessary?’

  ‘No.’

  ‘That’s why we need you. You don’t exist. Remember that.’

  ‘So if it goes belly up in there, I’m on my own?’

  ‘That’s always been the deal. Surely you’re not getting second thoughts about that now.’

  ‘But I have full discretion?’ Slater said. ‘This is an ordinary job in all respects, right?’

  ‘Of course. If D’Agostino tries to kill you, you can fight back. But if you’re going to use physical force, make sure you have a way to get the hell out of there. We can’t come in and save you in a hurry.’

  ‘The three guys. How’d they die?’

  ‘Two from intoxication. There was enough alcohol in their bloodstream to kill a horse. But the autopsies are… sketchy, to say the least. It didn’t help that D’Agostino made it as difficult as he could to properly study the bodies. There’s marks on both their necks. Like they were held down.’

  ‘And the third?’

  ‘Stabbed by a fellow cellmate.’

  ‘Who?’

  ‘No-one knows. Cameras were off at the time.’

  ‘That’s some pretty serious shit to go down in a holding cell. Is the district investigating?’

  ‘D’Agostino doesn’t seem like he’s in a hurry to crack down on it.’

  ‘Sounds like a real slimy piece of shit.’

  ‘Good. Hopefully that motivates you to get the job done.’

  ‘Could be a coincidence.’

  ‘Could be. You’ll find out.’

  ‘This is sketchy, Lars.’

  ‘So is everything you do for us. Since when has that ever stopped you?’

  ‘Get myself arrested. Act suspicious. See if D’Agostino has a crack at me. Find out why. Break out of the station. Anything else?’

  ‘That should just about do it.’

  ‘You owe me.’

  ‘If D’Agostino’s bent, and we find out why, and we nail him for it, I’ll give you a million.’

  ‘You really do have a fat purse, don’t you?’

  ‘I wasn’t lying the first time we met. The best work deserves the best rewards. Especially if you maintain a consistent track record.’

  ‘I don’t exactly have time to spend it,’ Slater said.

  ‘Saving for retirement,’ Lars said, and Slater could sense the sheer sarcasm in his voice.

  ‘Retirement sounds an awful lot like dying in my early twenties in this field.’

  ‘If you make it out the other side,’ Lars said, ‘you’ll have some wild stories to tell.’

  ‘You bet I will.’

  ‘I’ll forward you the address. Good luck, kid. Go to work.’

  The line disconnected and Slater slid the phone back into the pocket of his jeans. He shoved his hands in his pockets and quickened his stride, pounding pavement to mitigate his nerves.

  Twenty-three years old.

  At this pace he wasn’t sure he’d make it to see twenty-four.

  5

  The GPS co-ordinates came through in a text message a couple of minutes later. Slater stared at them, memorised them, burned the numbers and decimals into his mind. Sure enough, a moment later the message vanished off his phone, as if it had never existed at all.

  Which it hadn’t.

  And neither did he.

  He continued along the esplanade for close to a mile before branching off into the central district. At this hour — well past midnight — all the businesses were closed, and the sidewalks were largely devoid of life. Slater passed an assortment of shifty characters as he powered through the streets, but there was enough purpose in his stride and confidence in his demeanour to ward off any potential muggings.

  In fact, he almost welcomed a brazen attack.

  It wouldn’t end well for whoever opted to approach.

  He employed the same detailed strategy as the rest of the operations he’d undertaken for Black Force — he simply forced the finer details from his mind and relied on sheer momentum.

  It had worked well for him so far.

  He hoped it held such unbelievable results in future.

  Although something told him it would put him in a shallow grave.

  T
he construction site was unmistakable — Slater spotted the half-finished skyscraper immediately, awkwardly slotted into an enormous stretch of land between two shiny new buildings. He checked his phone, unsurprised that Lars had made no further attempts to contact him. Over the course of their shaky history, a rapport had been established between the two men that suited Slater just fine. He hadn’t fit into the traditional military structure — in fact, Lars revealed that Slater had been days away from a dishonourable discharge before Black Force made their offer.

  Slater had talent — there was no doubt about that.

  But he worked best when the situation walked the fine line between right and wrong, the morally grey area that black operatives needed to live in. Their work was suppressed, their existence denied, and that suited Slater just fine.

  Grateful that he wasn’t decked out in designer clothing — it would be hard to pass himself off as a vagrant otherwise — Slater stepped up onto the barren sidewalk in front of the construction site and set to work ruining his appearance. He stood in the lee of the enormous building, dwarfed by rusting scaffolding and metal walkways twisting skyward in an urban amalgamation of steel. It seemed like no-one had stepped foot in the structure in years. The entire skyscraper lay shrouded in darkness, its edges barely illuminated by the weak street lights.

  Slater hefted a jagged piece of metal off the ground and stabbed holes in his clothing at random, taking care not to cut himself at risk of succumbing to a cocktail of infectious diseases.

  Then it became a waiting game, something he considered himself adept at. He tossed the piece of metal back to the ground and scooped a heap of gravel and dust into his palm, wiping it over his face to convey a certain look. He always kept his hair in a simple buzzcut, but if it had been grown out he would have tussled it up.

  Many of the details concerning Ray D’Agostino and his involvement in something sinister were a mystery to Slater, but that was the way he preferred it. If Slater was to act like a homeless beggar in the hopes of getting arrested, he would rather be kept in the dark, allowing himself to make things up on the fly. If every part of the operation had been planned in painstaking detail, it wouldn’t have meshed with Slater’s natural tendencies.

  Lars had come to learn that over their brief shared history, so now his handler let him do what he wanted.

  Which, in this case, consisted of planting himself down in the dirt and leaning back against a partly finished brick wall. He let his head fall back against the scratchy surface, and there he waited.

  In full view of pedestrians and passing traffic.

  There wasn’t much to look at.

  The occasional vehicle trundled past, but none seemed to take any interest whatsoever in the vagrant sprawled out across the sidewalk. Slater imagined there were thousands of similar sights across Chicago — homelessness was not a rarity in this city. He kept still and made sure to break out in drunken mumbling whenever a pedestrian ambled by, which didn’t happen often. On the rare occurrences that it did, the passersby made a beeline across the street to avoid him.

  The minutes blurred into hours, and Slater felt right at home. He could wait all night, if that was what it took. In the field an operative sees what he’s truly made of, and Slater had come to learn that he could put himself through almost anything if he had a clear goal in mind.

  Right now, it was to find out whatever the hell D’Agostino’s deal was.

  So when he spotted the first patrol vehicle after at least two hours of inactivity, he made sure to roar an obscenity at the police car and flip two middle fingers in its direction. It crawled slowly past, its windows tinted and its pace measured, sporting the insignia of the Chicago Police Department on the side of the sedan.

  Surprisingly, it didn’t stop.

  Slater settled back into a seated position as the patrol car disappeared into the night.

  Odd, he thought.

  Ninety nine times out of one hundred, that would have kicked up enough of a fuss to warrant an arrest, especially considering the stereotype he was portraying. It didn’t take much in this day and age.

  Slater stewed silently, annoyed that he hadn’t been able to capitalise on such a wide opening. But if he had proven anything to himself over the last six months, it was his unwavering stubbornness. So he stayed sprawled across the sidewalk, overshadowed by the enormous construction site behind him. He would wait days, if that was what it took. Surely another patrol car would approach within the next few hours.

  Then, not twenty minutes later, he heard a screaming siren in the distance, approaching fast.

  Making a beeline toward his position.

  He sat up and realised the initial patrol car hadn’t stopped for a reason.

  6

  This was D’Agostino’s area.

  Whatever that meant.

  Whatever that implied.

  Slater pieced it all together in an instant, even before the Chicago P.D. sedan screamed around the corner, its lights sending blue and red waves across the surrounding buildings. The street was a ghost town — the cops had picked the perfect time to make the arrest if they had sinister intentions. There wasn’t a passing pedestrian or civilian vehicle in sight.

  No witnesses.

  If it was D’Agostino, then all Slater’s suspicious would be confirmed.

  Slater briefly thought about the fact that he still had his phone in his pocket. He had ample opportunity to discard it, simply turning around and throwing it into the bowels of the construction site, but there was nothing damaging on the device. It had been sealed with military-grade encryption, and all the data that Slater processed from Lars was wiped off the phone within two minutes of receiving it. And in this era, it was perfectly acceptable for a homeless man to carry a cellphone. They were considered more important than housing to some.

  So he kept the phone in his pocket and tucked his knees to his chest, waiting for the police sedan to screech to a halt across the sidewalk in front of him.

  Which was exactly what happened.

  A man leapt out of the passenger’s seat even before the vehicle had come to a standstill. His black jacket hung over a muscular frame — the guy had good genetics, but it seemed he’d combined that with a solid workout regime.

  It was D’Agostino, alright.

  The guy was Italian, in his late thirties with a sturdy jawline and short, close-cropped jet black hair. He moved with athleticism as he crossed from the sedan to the pavement in front of Slater. As he moved, Slater realised there was something else there.

  Something more than simple agility.

  This guy was moving like a man possessed.

  Like a man caught in the act.

  But what act?

  Why was he so desperate to yank homeless men off the streets in this exact location?

  Slater figured he’d find out soon enough.

  ‘What’s up, brother?’ Slater said, louder than he should have, taking the time to stumble on his words.

  D’Agostino said nothing. He bent down, wrapped a powerful hand around the back of Slater’s neck, and hauled him to his feet. Slater figured he could have broken twelve bones in the space of three seconds if he so desired, but he had a role to play, and that role involved drunkenness and carelessness.

  So he allowed himself to be manhandled.

  For now.

  D’Agostino shoved him hard in the back, pinning his chest against the brick wall. Slater grunted and played up his outrage. ‘Whoa! What’s this for? Get off me, man. What the hell is this?’

  ‘Shut the fuck up,’ D’Agostino snarled.

  ‘That doesn’t sound like the Miranda rights.’

  Slater had been expecting the use of unnecessary force, but not quite to the extent of what followed. D’Agostino utilised his strength to shove an elbow into the back of Slater’s neck, sending him face first into the wall. The crack that followed sunk through his brain, delivering a staggering bolt of agony along with it. Slater paused in time, making sure t
o keep his feet underneath him even though his knees grew weak. The pain was horrendous, but it peaked at the initial break. When the blood started to flow out of his nose, he brought himself back under control.

  For a terrifying moment, he’d almost lost control of his restraint.

  Then there would have been a body in the street, and an entire district of cops seeking justice for their commander.

  ‘You think any of that matters?’ D’Agostino spat. ‘Look at you.’

  ‘Not cool, man,’ Slater mumbled through bloody lips, even though he wanted to do a whole lot more than talk.

  But the operation trumped everything else. So he stood quiet, shoulders slumped so D’Agostino couldn’t get a proper look at his physique. The big commander yanked Slater’s arms behind his back and fastened them together with steel handcuffs, clamping down a couple of extra notches to cause maximum discomfort.

  Slater squirmed, but said nothing.

  ‘What am I under arrest for?’ he said, trying not to spit blood over D’Agostino as the man turned him around to face him.

  ‘Whatever I say you’re under arrest for.’

  ‘I’m just trying to sleep out here, man.’

  ‘Wrong place to sleep.’

  ‘Why?’

  D’Agostino said nothing. His face had turned to stone. He hauled Slater across the sidewalk and shoved him into the back of the squad car. The passenger — an unimpressive small white man in his early thirties with a badge on his uniform — opened the rear door to receive Slater. As Slater stumbled past him, the guy stared at the ground, refusing to make eye contact.

  Implicit in the abuse, but unwilling to say anything.

  No spine, Slater thought as D’Agostino crammed him into the seat.

  He didn’t need to play along for D’Agostino to haul him around. The commander had serious strength — Slater wondered if he was a recreational powerlifter — and he yanked Slater left and right with ease. The commander slammed the door on Slater and the pair of cops slotted back into their places — D’Agostino in the passenger’s seat, the other guy in the driver’s.