Ciphers

by Matt Rogers

  ‘With your athleticism?’

  King shook his head. ‘There’s no shortage of athletes. It was always about reflexes.’

  ‘Reaction speed?’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘I picked that up. I’ve never seen anyone make adjustments in real time like you do. If I’m holding a pad a few inches away from where it should be, it’s like you compute it in a millisecond and land the punch or kick in the right place every single time.’

  ‘Is that why you said I should be a professional fighter?’

  Rory nodded. ‘Those abilities would pay dividends in the cage.’

  ‘But now you understand why I can’t.’

  Another nod.

  King said, ‘They’ve paid dividends throughout my career. Trust me.’

  ‘How so?’

  ‘I should be dead a thousand times over. I’m not.’

  Rory said, ‘When are you going to stop?’

  ‘I tried to stop.’

  ‘What happened?’

  ‘Nothing good.’

  ‘You don’t want to go into it?’

  ‘Not particularly.’

  ‘I thought you said—’

  ‘Certain topics are off-limits.’

  ‘I can respect that.’

  King finished the dregs of beer at the bottom of the glass and folded his giant hands over each other on the tabletop. He sighed and said, ‘Have you ever done anything other than fighting, Rory?’

  Rory said, ‘Of course. I’m training you, aren’t I?’

  ‘But that’s still the business. There’s something raw and primal and animalistic about it. If you were to get a job in retail, it wouldn’t quite have the same … pop. We all like to pretend that we look down on violence, but when you see it up close and personal, it’s something so vastly different to anything else on this planet.’

  Rory nodded.

  King said, ‘It’s not like you enjoy it, so to speak. But you couldn’t see yourself not being involved with it.’

  Another nod.

  Rory said, ‘I’ve spent my life as a kickboxer. I couldn’t stop. Even if I wanted to.’

  ‘Apply the same logic to what I do, and there you have your answer.’

  ‘You don’t like the violence,’ Rory said. ‘But it’s necessary for you to be part of it. Because you’re good at it and you couldn’t see yourself letting your talents go to waste. I’m sure you’ve helped countless people through your feats. I get it.’

  ‘So when you burrow down to the core, we’re in the same game after all.’

  Rory said, ‘People don’t die in my game. Combat sports is not the real world. It’s artificial. Made up for entertainment. When the ref says stop, you stop. I couldn’t imagine translating my skills to the real world. That’s far too messy.’

  ‘All the more reason why I can’t quit. Not many people have been conditioned to do what I do. I try not to be arrogant when I say that. Truth is…’

  He trailed off, but he could feel Rory’s eyes boring into him.

  He’d never told anyone this.

  Not Slater.

  Not a soul.

  Eventually Rory said, ‘What?’

  King lifted his gaze. ‘This stays between us. No matter what.’

  Rory drained his beer and nodded. It wasn’t just any old nod. It conveyed respect and honour. The word of a professional mixed martial artist was as good a guarantee as anything. They knew too much pain and suffering to be superficial.

  King said, ‘I wish I’d never been born with the genetic advantages I have. They make me very adept at not dying, but sometimes I wish it’d all come to an end just for the weight it’d take off my shoulders.’

  ‘That’s a dangerous thing to say.’

  ‘I’m not suicidal. Not even close. But this constant momentum weighs on me. I don’t suppress it like Slater does. I just dwell on it. I have a partner in the same business I’m in, and she keeps me sane. But it’s taking a toll. Not being able to stop. Not wanting to stop. Not taking the foot off the gas even for a moment.’

  Rory said, ‘It’s not a predicament I’d want to be in.’

  ‘So do you have the answers you wanted?’

  ‘I have a million more questions.’

  ‘Maybe another time. I have a date tonight.’

  ‘With this mysterious partner of yours?’

  ‘The one and only.’

  ‘Who is she?’

  ‘Her name’s Violetta,’ King said. ‘She’s probably the one who pays you.’

  Rory raised an eyebrow. ‘She’s your boss?’

  ‘She’s my handler.’

  ‘How’d you two end up together?’

  ‘Unwisely.’

  ‘How do you separate work and your personal lives?’

  ‘It’s difficult.’

  ‘I won’t pry.’

  ‘Appreciate it.’

  ‘Can I ask about Slater?’

  King considered it. But ultimately he reached the right conclusion.

  ‘No,’ he said.

  ‘Why not?’

  ‘I get that you’re interested in our world. But it’s all very secretive. I don’t feel comfortable sharing anything about Will Slater without his permission.’

  ‘He’s like you?’

  ‘In a way.’

  ‘How do you differ?’

  King clasped his hands together. ‘You and I are sitting here making light conversation over a single drink.’

  ‘And Slater?’

  ‘He’s probably up to something a little more … unruly.’

  8

  No one saw a thing.

  The Colt was there, and then it wasn’t.

  If the kid had it in plain sight for any longer than a few seconds, someone in the crowd would notice the neon lights flashing off the gunmetal and react accordingly. As soon as enough people realised what was happening, pandemonium would break out.

  But none of that happened because Slater stripped the guy of the weapon before anyone was the wiser.

  He lunged forward and snatched hold of the kid’s spindly wrist and bent it so hard he nearly broke the ulna and the radius in the same jerk. The guy’s tanned face went pale and his eyes nearly bugged out of his head, and Slater used the sudden change in momentum to wrench the gun out of his grasp like it had never been there at all. Then, in one smooth motion, he tucked it into the back of his own waistband and dropped his leather jacket over it, hiding it from sight in an instant.

  All five of the sicarios saw what happened.

  None of them reacted.

  And Slater understood.

  This little shit is out of control, they were thinking. Please teach him a lesson.

  Slater darted into range and looped a giant arm over the back of the kid’s neck, draping his hand over the opposite shoulder, like an overly macho hug between two best friends.

  He pulled the guy in close and said in his ear, ‘What’s your name?’

  The kid stood there, flabbergasted by the turn of events. He tried to look behind him to see where his bodyguards were, but Slater grabbed the back of his skull as soon as he turned his head and shoved it forward, preventing him from getting a proper look. He pointed to the dance floor.

  ‘Look out there, kid,’ Slater said. ‘What’s your name?’

  ‘Rico.’

  ‘Rico, huh?’

  ‘Get the fuck off me, man.’

  ‘What are you going to do if I don’t?’

  ‘Where are—’

  He tried to turn his head again. Started craning his neck, but Slater used the hand looped over one shoulder to slap Rico in the face. His palm thwacked off the kid’s cheek and his head bounced back into place.

  ‘I took care of your bodyguards,’ Slater said.

  It wasn’t true, but Rico didn’t know that. Everything had happened so fast, and the kid was drunk or high or both, and the darkness was all-encompassing, and the music was pounding. He had no way of knowing whether his men were standing right there beh
ind him, blissfully oblivious to his situation, or laid out on the club floor with broken faces and concussions.

  If Rico gave it a moment’s thought, he’d realise Slater hadn’t had time for any of that.

  But he didn’t give it a moment’s thought, because all he could concentrate on was the fact that a stranger had his gun and was in the process of humiliating him.

  Rico’s eyes flared up with rage. The sting would be creeping its way through his cheek. Adrenaline was now flowing through him, parting the clouds of inebriation. He was sobering up fast, and realising how stupid he looked, and starting to panic.

  Slater said, ‘You going to try and break free?’

  ‘Dude,’ Rico said, squirming in Slater’s iron grip. ‘I told you to get the—’

  Slater slapped him again, but masked it from sight with the bulk of his frame. He made it look like any old drunken friendly hug. ‘You got some nerve pulling a piece in here.’

  ‘Yeah, well, I’ve—’

  ‘Got no spine?’ Slater said.

  ‘What?’

  ‘You’ve got no spine. You haven’t done any of this on your own. You’re using daddy’s credit card.’

  Rico visibly tensed.

  Slater tightened the arm around the back of his neck. Turning it into a half-headlock. Making sure he didn’t go anywhere.

  Slater said, ‘When I let go you might think you should try something. I’m advising you not to. You’ve already fucked up twice. Don’t make the third time the charm.’

  This time, the kid didn’t squirm, and he didn’t respond.

  His shoulders slumped forward.

  He recognised defeat.

  Slater let go of him and shoved him back in the direction of his booth. ‘I don’t know how you got that gun in here, but now it’s mine.’

  Rico sized up his surroundings. Slater watched his gaze sweep over his security, who were all standing there patiently with their hands folded in front of them. Like a procession standing at attention at a funeral.

  Rico stared at them, incredulous, and then pointed a shaking finger at Slater.

  Whether it was shaking from fear or adrenaline — that was hard to discern.

  Maybe both.

  ‘Get my piece back,’ he shouted above the music. ‘Papá gave it to me.’

  None of them moved.

  Slater watched them.

  Put one hand behind his back, just in case.

  Like a Wild West gunslinger ready to draw.

  They looked at him. He knew they wanted to give it a shot. Rico’s father would be none too happy if the kid relayed this story. Slater had reached a mutual understanding with them through implication alone, but there was no guarantee that would last.

  He got ready to shoot five men dead in a Manhattan nightclub.

  9

  A waiter in a tailored suit floated over to King as soon as his glass was empty. ‘A refill, sir?’

  ‘Not tonight, Santino,’ King said. ‘I’ve got places to be.’

  The man nodded and drifted away.

  Rory said, ‘Is that my cue?’

  ‘I’m afraid it has to be.’

  ‘Where are you headed?’

  ‘I told you I have a date. With Violetta.’

  ‘Must be nice.’

  King said, ‘I assume you do an awful lot of travelling if you float between MMA camps.’

  A nod.

  ‘Do you have a significant other?’

  ‘Not currently,’ Rory said. ‘The last one ended badly. That was two years ago. Nothing’s really eventuated since then. Nothing permanent, at least.’

  ‘You’re always on the move?’

  ‘Pretty much. I take it you are, too.’

  ‘Not as much as I was in the past,’ King said. ‘But it’s still brutal.’

  ‘How’d you find a way around it?’

  King thought of his first encounter with Violetta. ‘I found someone crazy enough to work in the same field I’m in. That was enough.’

  ‘Has Slater done the same?’

  King paused. ‘He tried.’

  ‘What happened?’

  ‘What usually happens in our field.’

  Rory bowed his head. ‘Sorry to hear that.’

  ‘You didn’t know her. And you don’t know him. What’s it to you?’

  ‘I know you. Aside from your vices, it sounds like you two are one and the same. Sounds like he would have been happy with her.’

  ‘Yeah,’ King said. ‘He would have.’

  Silence.

  King said, ‘But shit happens.’

  ‘Shit happens,’ Rory repeated.

  He lifted the glass to his lips and finished it.

  ‘I’ll see you next week?’ King said.

  Rory nodded. ‘I’m heading out to Vegas for five days, and then I’ll be back. A fighter’s camp out there needs me.’

  ‘Get ’em ready for war.’

  ‘Always.’

  They stood up. The sun had set long ago, and it was approaching the hour where the night truly came alive. King checked his watch — 10:43. Violetta had made a reservation for seven at their favourite Japanese restaurant on the Upper East Side, but she’d messaged an apology hours earlier, blaming work for unexpected delays. In any other career, he might have suspected she was up to something. But with the business she operated in, news like that worried him for other reasons. Nine times out of ten it meant something real bad was happening somewhere in the world. She probably had skin in the game — a black-ops specialist on foreign soil, deep in enemy territory, suddenly compromised. He’d realised long ago that she might be the only person he knew besides Slater that shared a similar level of job stress.

  Sure, her life wasn’t directly on the line, but the second- and third-order consequences of her actions carried enough weight to traumatise her if she butchered a job. She truly cared about people. King had been with her for long enough to know that. Deep down in her core, she shouldered all the responsibility for the operatives she managed.

  If they died in the field, it was her fault.

  Which also worried King.

  Because if the death of an operative under her supervision crushed her soul, how would she take it if the man she loved died under her watch?

  Then he figured, It’d be worse for me than it would be for her.

  I’d be dead.

  He and Rory snaked their way out of the establishment, past the outdoor heaters and crimson decorative lights and overhanging vines and throngs of tipsy socialites. Then through the bar, where there were a few slightly more unruly characters throwing back neat whiskey and vodka, all of them manicured and moisturised and dressed as expensively as their counterparts out in the beer garden.

  It was the same as every bar on earth.

  The fact that its clientele resided in a different socioeconomic bracket didn’t change a thing about human nature.

  Everyone loves to dull the bad memories.

  King felt a faint twinge of something. Some repressed urge. Right then, he wanted nothing more than another drink. The pull for it tugged at his brain, gnawing at him.

  Wouldn’t you like to forget everything you’ve done?

  Everything that’s been done to you?

  But out of habit he crushed the moment of weakness, and when he stepped outside with Rory into a cool, crisp New York evening, he was back to savouring the time he had available instead of trying to suppress the entirety of his off-duty life.

  He couldn’t say that Slater was doing the same.

  He and Rory put their hands in their coat pockets and watched their breath fog under the streetlights and stared up at the infinite rows of windows in the skyscrapers all around them. There was something magical about New York. It was all concrete and brick and glass, and in the summertime the streets stank of fetid garbage, but at the same time there was a mysticism to it that didn’t gel with the ultra-modern setting. King figured he could spend the rest of his life here. It was chaotic, but he’d always th
rived in chaos.

  He preferred noise and excitement to peace and quiet.

  Always had.

  Always would.

  Still gazing up, Rory said, ‘I don’t know how you do it.’

  ‘What?’

  ‘Live here. You could live anywhere.’

  ‘I take it you plan to retire somewhere else.’

  ‘I’ve spent most of my life fighting,’ Rory said. ‘When I have what I need, I’m out.’

  ‘How long?’

  ‘Maybe a few more years.’

  ‘Then I’d better make the most of you while you’re around,’ King said.

  They both smiled.

  Rory offered a hand.

  King reached out and shook it.

  ‘Be seeing you,’ Rory said.

  King nodded.

  Then, in one all-encompassing moment, every square of light emanating from the windows above them flickered out.

  As did the streetlights.

  Their whole world plunged into darkness.

  10

  The bodyguards noticed Slater was ready to go down in a blaze of glory.

  They must have seen the look in his eyes. They sized him up, alternating their gazes between Slater and Rico, and finally one of them reached out and snatched the kid by the arm and hauled him back into the VIP booth.

  The other four followed.

  A collective decision.

  Not worth the trouble.

  Slater turned back to his own booth. Pat was watching in awe from the corner of his booth. It was awfully difficult to mask emotions when you were drunk. Slater half-smiled at him and shooed him away. Don’t draw attention.

  Pat tipped back the remainder of a vodka shot and shook his head, flabbergasted. He must have been watching the whole time. Understanding the nuance of what was unfolding. Seeing Slater handle it like an artisan as he floated from one confrontation to the next with ease, chaining them together into a perfect sequence. Slater never really considered it from an outsider’s perspective. Most people in modern society were afraid of confrontation to begin with. Not only was he fully comfortable in its grip, it was one of his specialties. He knew how to handle anything thrown his way. That could have escalated into something unstoppable, but he culled it before it got out of control.