by Matt Rogers
Thankfully, the mercenaries hadn’t taken Alonzo upstairs, so he hadn’t dropped in on their party.
Unfamiliar voices floated up through the house. They were talking at low volumes, asking Alonzo questions. Probably along the lines of, What were you doing driving past, looking at this house?
Slater wondered if they actually knew anything, or Dwayne had just instructed them to pounce on anyone who looked like they might be scoping out the home.
Alonzo’s voice cut through the quiet. ‘Please.’
A beat of stillness, then a discordant laugh from one of the unknown voices. ‘“Please,”’ the voice mimicked in deliberately exaggerated falsetto.
The second voice said, ‘You’re getting cut up, Gary. Unless you work that mouth of yours.’
Slater paused. Gary?
Alonzo had given them a fake name.
And they hadn’t killed him for it, so they didn’t know who he was.
Not yet, anyway.
There was no telling what would happen if they tortured him. Slater didn’t think Alonzo had ever felt significant pain like that. Few could withstand it. Few had enough of a death wish to disobey interrogators.
A switchblade flicked open downstairs.
It barely made a sound, but Slater was zoned into the tunnel of focus, and nothing would escape him.
He bolted out of the room on his tiptoes, making no sound at all, and went down the stairs two at a time. He exaggerated his gait to silence his movements, and leapt out into the hallway with his gun raised. The weapon was a last resort. By some miracle, none of the neighbours had sounded the alarm after his two unsuppressed shots the night before. It meant a life here was still possible. For the first time in a good while, he’d had some luck.
He wasn’t about to try to get away with it twice.
Not unless he had to.
He froze in the hallway, trying to ignore the bodies of the men he’d killed the previous night. The two home invaders he’d beat down in the corridor were right where he’d left them, their brutalised corpses splayed across the carpet. The bloodstains underneath had dried dark brown. Their heads were misshapen, their faces caved in. In the daylight it all seemed starker, the work he’d done on them with the bat. Dwayne mustn’t have tasked a clean-up crew yet.
Slater didn’t look for more than a second. He had other priorities.
The voices were coming from the living room. He could identify their location now.
One of the unknown voices asked, ‘Where is he?’
Alonzo launched into a spiel. ‘Don’t you think I’d help you if I could? I mean, for fuck’s sake guys, this isn’t a movie. I’m terrified. If I knew anything I’d tell you right away. And I don’t want to screw you around by making shit up. So what do you want from me?’
He’s good, Slater thought, quietly impressed.
Almost too good.
Which was a problem. If he was of no use to them, they’d kill him. He’d seen their faces. It wasn’t worth throwing him back out there to run his mouth.
Thankfully, Slater was at home.
He had access to hidden treasures.
He slipped out of the hallway into the master bedroom and crossed delicately to his side of the bed. He lifted the huge mattress and reached into a small hole on the underside that he’d carved from the memory foam. He extracted a SilencerCo 45 Osprey, one of the fattest, bulkiest suppressors on the market. It was longer and larger than the compact Glock itself, but it needed that size for efficient suppression. He’d bought it for precisely the reason he was about to use it for.
Shooting men dead in a leafy suburban neighbourhood without disturbing the neighbours.
He screwed the Osprey onto the Glock until it was seated, opened the clutch lever, rotated the suppressor into place, then re-engaged the clutch.
It morphed the pistol into a huge contraption, but he didn’t exactly care about it being compact anymore.
He turned to head back out.
The toilet flushed in the en suite.
It startled him with such ferocity that all he could do was pivot and lock his aim before the bathroom door swung open and a third mercenary stepped out. He had his pistol in hand, ready for anything.
Almost anything.
The merc was a huge white guy, same as the other two. Looked like a farmhand, but smarter. Intelligence behind the eyes. Clarity, vision, calmness. He looked up and saw Slater and tried to jerk his gun up to get off a Hail Mary shot.
He was incredibly fast but not fast enough.
Slater shot him between the eyes.
The bullet spat from the Osprey, like a pointed punch whipping through the air.
To anyone outside the house, nothing.
But to the mercenaries in the living room…
Slater heard one of them hiss, ‘What?’ and then rapid footsteps thundered toward the bedroom.
53
‘Answer,’ King said.
Rebecca gripped the phone like she was trying to break it, like she might lose her grip on it at any moment. He saw the raw trauma in her eyes, the apprehension. She shook her head, leant away from the screen.
King said, ‘Answer and ask to meet or I’ll walk out of here and you’ll never see me again.’
Again, that impossible choice.
She answered. Lifted the phone to her ear and said, ‘Hey, baby.’
King remembered what she’d said to him, earlier that morning. He just tried to kill me and he’s going to try again.
He wondered how Myles would justify what he’d done. The cop would find a way to sweep it under the rug. Abusers always do.
He didn’t hear what Myles said, but Rebecca did her job well. ‘It’s okay … You’re sick … Let’s not talk about that right now … No, of course not … No … Baby, I’m here … Wha—? Okay … Sure, sure … Where’s that, Myles? … Why didn’t I know about this?’
King shook his head hard, exaggerating the gesture so she was forced to see it. Silently telling her, Whatever he’s saying, go along with it. Don’t question it.
She veered herself onto the path he wanted. ‘No, no, don’t worry … Yes, I trust you … Yes … Of course … Say the address one more time … How do you spell it? … In Waltham? … Okay, baby. I’ll be there … Don’t do anything stupid … I know you won’t … I love you, too.’
End of call.
She lowered the phone to the table, breathed out shakily.
Their coffees finally came amidst the mid-morning rush of commuters, and King downed the double espresso in one gulp. He didn’t even pause to determine whether the barista had done well or not. He just needed the energy.
Rebecca didn’t touch her latte. She had her head in her hands.
King said, ‘Before he told you to meet him, you were being genuine, weren’t you?’
She looked up, ran her fingers through her hair, tugging on knots. ‘What are you talking about?’
‘You thought you could actually save this. Maybe you still do.’
‘I don’t know what to think.’
‘What’s in Waltham? It’s industrial.’
‘He didn’t explain very well. Said it was some sort of safe place he rents with some fellow cops, for meeting discreetly. You know, maybe stashing things they’re not supposed to have. He wants to meet there. I think you’re right. I think he’s in with some bad people, having a place like that he didn’t tell me about.’
King rolled his eyes. ‘That’s well-established. Why doesn’t he want to meet you at home?’
‘He didn’t say.’
‘Let’s go, then.’
‘If he sees you with me…’
‘Rebecca,’ King said, loud enough to risk cutting through the loud mumble of the bustling café’s patrons. Then he lowered his voice again. ‘You’re not getting it. I come with you on this, he’s not getting out alive.’
‘He said he just wanted to talk. I think he realises he fucked up.’
‘He tried to kill you.’
<
br /> ‘He wasn’t thinking—’
‘Make the decision.’
He didn’t tell her that either way, he was following her to Myles. Whether she knew about it or not. The bent cop was a live wire, connected to Dwayne and maybe the rest of the Boston underworld, not to mention the fact he was harbouring a seething vendetta against King for beating the shit out of him.
The cop’s days — no, hours — were numbered.
But she said, ‘Okay. Let’s go.’
They paid and walked out, shouldering through the throngs of civilian suits crowding the servers.
‘Can’t you just rough him up?’ she mumbled. ‘Beat some sense into him? You don’t have to kill him. He made a mistake.’
King didn’t respond.
54
If Slater wanted to minimise risk he would have used his strength to overturn the king-sized bed frame, get behind it, and line up his aim at the bedroom doorway.
But then it’d be a shootout, and he doubted the mercenaries had fat suppressors of their own.
He’d never been much about minimising risk, anyway.
So he threw himself at the doorway just as fast as the mercenaries were barrelling into it, and as he was moving he primed himself for the inevitable clash, braced every muscle and bone and sinew in his frame, and then he unleashed it in an explosive crash-tackle and reached out with his free hand before there was even anyone there. He timed it intuitively and seized at thin air with outstretched fingers, then suddenly it wasn’t empty space anymore. He had his hand wrapped tight around the first mercenary’s wrist as the guy charged into the doorway, and he thrust upward and sent the guy’s pistol up toward the ceiling. The guy went to pull the trigger but Slater squeezed his own one first, and the Osprey spat and the bullet skewered through the merc’s forehead and he went completely limp.
Didn’t pull his own trigger in time.
It was still quiet.
With the corpse’s momentum slackening, Slater bore its weight and pushed hard off the carpet and kept his own momentum up, reversing its trajectory. He carried the body upright out of the doorway and set his feet and heaved with everything he had.
Threw the big dead man into the second charging mercenary.
Whether it was impulse or reflex or that unconscious urge not to shoot a friend — no matter if they were dead or not — the guy didn’t fire into his buddy. If he had, the bullet might have gone through and hit Slater, which would have been his only hope. Instead he took two hundred pounds of deadweight to the chest and it sprawled him backward, throwing him off his feet. He landed on his back and the body came down on top of him, pinning him in place.
Trapping his gun hand.
His feet still set, Slater aimed and fired.
The Osprey spat.
The last guy’s head jerked. He became as motionless as the man lying on top of him. The duo had come to rest stacked next to the home invader whose jaw Slater had eradicated with the bat the night before.
Fresh bloodstains started spreading underneath the newly dead pair.
Slater sighed.
Three more bodies to decorate the house.
That made seven.
The massive blocky suppressor protruded from his gun, still hot from absorbing the gas of the shots. He kept the Glock poised as he stepped over the corpses, keeping as quiet as when he’d entered the house. He thought he heard a whimper from the living room, but he ignored it. Alonzo’s terrified uncertainty was overshadowed by the threat of a fourth man.
Slater sure as hell didn’t want to hear another toilet flush.
He swept the entire ground floor first, leaving the living room for last. He was certain it was empty. But he stepped into it with his gun raised all the same, because in this game those who weren’t cautious were dead.
He found Alonzo tied to one of the dining room chairs in the middle of the giant rug, squirming, struggling.
Alonzo must have noticed the movement out of the corner of his eye because he whipped his head to the side and saw Slater. Veins protruded from his temples as he stiffened at the sight of the barrel aimed his way, then he saw past the gun and recognised the man wielding it.
He exhaled, dropped his chin to his chest, closed his eyes.
Slater lowered his aim, backtracked into the kitchen to fetch a knife. He walked right up behind Alonzo and slashed the restraints. ‘Still think I was being paranoid?’
Alonzo’s hands were free, but he didn’t move them.
He seemed shocked into inactivity. He just sat there, staring out the window, blinking every once in a while. Slater might have been confused if he hadn’t seen shock and dread in all their shapes and forms.
Slater asked, ‘That wasn’t what you were expecting.’
‘I figured,’ Alonzo said, his voice timid, ‘that getting involved with you lot would eventually put me in a precarious position. But … you’re right. I thought I was prepared for something like that. But it takes something … almost inhuman. To stay composed.’
Slater shrugged. ‘You kept your cool. You sold them a cover story and they bought it.’
‘They did? I thought they could see right through it.’
‘No, you did good. So good they were about to kill you.’
‘You said they believed me.’
‘You want them second-guessing themselves. So they see value in keeping you alive, instead of throwing you out with the trash. Remember that for next time.’
‘I’m hoping there won’t be a next time.’
Slater heard Alonzo’s voice shake as he massaged his wrists. Guilt struck him, a certain frustration for involving the man in this whole debacle. During his time in the employ of the U.S. secret world, Alonzo had gone above and beyond for them. Risked life and limb for no reward, only because he’d deemed it the right thing to do.
And this is how you repay him? Slater thought. He deserves life the way he wants it.
Slater said, ‘We’re not waiting until tonight.’
Alonzo stared at him across the living room. ‘What?’
‘Tyrell and I,’ Slater said. ‘We won’t put you in danger any longer.’
‘You think there’s going to be more attacks?’
Slater shook his head. ‘But even if the likelihood is tiny, I won’t risk it. You and Alexis, you don’t deserve this.’
‘Where will you go?’
‘I’ll figure that out.’
‘What will you do?’
‘End it.’
55
The ten-mile drive west to Waltham took forever, only because they had to deal with the gridlock traffic of the city centre.
Once King and Rebecca were clear of Boston’s rush hour, it was relatively smooth sailing through suburbia.
When the buildings morphed from homes to warehouses, signalling they were close to wherever they were going, she worked up the nerve to break the silence. ‘Did you hear what I said before we got in the car? You didn’t answer.’
King sat solemn behind the wheel as he said, ‘I heard you.’
‘Will you take it on board?’
‘Depends.’
‘On what?’
‘What sort of greeting we get.’
‘He won’t be happy when he sees me with you. I can tell you that right now.’
‘He’s not my concern.’
She scrunched up her face at that, unwilling to dive into the implications. Better to be confused. King had seen that reaction in civilians a million times before. It’s not pleasant to face the harsh realities of life.
He pulled into the street harbouring the address Myles had given her.
In different circumstances he would have scoped out the safe house. Started at the perimeter of a ring that was several blocks deep around the destination, then moved concentrically until he’d made sure there weren’t any sentries lying in wait in any of the surrounding streets. But his gut told him what was going to happen, and no amount of surveillance would change the inevitable. Better to
get it over and done with, find out exactly what he was dealing with.
Discover how deep Myles’ ties ran.
So he drove down through the industrial street at the speed limit and only braked when the GPS barked at him that he’d arrived. He stopped the car in front of a low single-storey complex with a couple of janky offices framing a larger central warehouse. Across the street was an auto body shop and a welder’s, but no one was out front. The sidewalks and big sprawling driveways were barren and empty.
The safe house’s roller door was pulled down and the doors to the offices were firmly shut. There was glass in both doors at head height but it was all blurry and milky, designed with anonymity in mind.
The lot rested with inactivity.
Dormant.
Rebecca’s gaze out the window was apprehensive. ‘This is it?’
King said, ‘If I’m right about this, then—’
He twisted the keys in the ignition and killed the engine. He got out of the car, gesturing for Rebecca to follow suit. He rounded the hood, met her on the passenger side, and they stepped up onto the sidewalk. He didn’t move, and she shuffled behind him, clearly nervous.
A beat of quiet…
Their vision burst with red and blue light. The transition was jarring enough for King to suspect multiple units, but when the sole police cruiser shot out from the narrow alley beside the safe house, he relaxed a little. Nothing had caught him by surprise yet. The squad car’s siren was off, which told him everything he needed to know. It had been lying in wait, poised to strike, so it only had to drive forward a couple of dozen feet. It stopped and two officers in uniform got out and walked over to the front of the safe house, positioning themselves like they were simultaneously barring entry and forming a guard of honour to let him through.
They framed the door to the main office.
As if they expected King to stroll right between them.
Except they both drew their service weapons and aimed them squarely at his head. King didn’t bother pulling his own piece. He figured he could have it out before either of them could blink, maybe even aim it at them before they had the chance to fire a reflexive shot, but he left it concealed. These officers, whoever they were, were connected to Myles, so by extension they didn’t know the first thing about King. Sure, they knew he’d thrown Myles around in the hospital like he didn’t weigh a thing, but they didn’t really know…
