by Matt Rogers
Lynx
The Will Slater Series Book Four
Matt Rogers
Copyright © 2018 by Matt Rogers
All rights reserved.
Cover design by Onur Aksoy.
www.liongraphica.com
Contents
Reader’s Group
Books by Matt Rogers
Chapter 1
Chapter 2
Chapter 3
Chapter 4
Chapter 5
Chapter 6
Chapter 7
Chapter 8
Chapter 9
Chapter 10
Chapter 11
Chapter 12
Chapter 13
Chapter 14
Chapter 15
Chapter 16
Chapter 17
Chapter 18
Chapter 19
Chapter 20
Chapter 21
Chapter 22
Chapter 23
Chapter 24
Chapter 25
Chapter 26
Chapter 27
Chapter 28
Chapter 29
Chapter 30
Chapter 31
Chapter 32
Chapter 33
Chapter 34
Chapter 35
Chapter 36
Chapter 37
Chapter 38
Chapter 39
Chapter 40
Chapter 41
Chapter 42
Chapter 43
Chapter 44
Chapter 45
Chapter 46
Chapter 47
Chapter 48
Chapter 49
Chapter 50
Chapter 51
Chapter 52
Chapter 53
Chapter 54
Chapter 55
Chapter 56
Chapter 57
Chapter 58
Chapter 59
Chapter 60
Chapter 61
Chapter 62
Chapter 63
Chapter 64
Chapter 65
Chapter 66
Chapter 67
Chapter 68
Chapter 69
Chapter 70
Chapter 71
Chapter 72
Chapter 73
Chapter 74
Chapter 75
Chapter 76
Chapter 77
Chapter 78
Chapter 79
Chapter 80
Chapter 81
Chapter 82
Chapter 83
Chapter 84
Chapter 85
Chapter 86
Chapter 87
Chapter 88
Chapter 89
Chapter 90
Chapter 91
Chapter 92
Chapter 93
Chapter 94
Chapter 95
Chapter 96
Chapter 97
Chapter 98
Chapter 99
Chapter 100
Chapter 101
Announcement
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Books by Matt Rogers
THE JASON KING SERIES
Isolated (Book 1)
Imprisoned (Book 2)
Reloaded (Book 3)
Betrayed (Book 4)
Corrupted (Book 5)
Hunted (Book 6)
THE JASON KING FILES
Cartel (Book 1)
Warrior (Book 2)
Savages (Book 3)
THE WILL SLATER SERIES
Wolf (Book 1)
Lion (Book 2)
Bear (Book 3)
Lynx (Book 4)
BLACK FORCE SHORTS
The Victor (Book 1)
The Chimera (Book 2)
The Tribe (Book 3)
The Hidden (Book 4)
The Coast (Book 5)
The Storm (Book 6)
The Wicked (Book 7)
The King (Book 8)
The Joker (Book 9)
1
Chocó
Colombia
Lying on his back in a puddle of sweat, Will Slater inhaled lungfuls of the thick jungle air and gave thanks he’d reclaimed his health.
He rolled over, onto his knees. Rivulets of perspiration ran down his forehead, along the bridge of his nose, and dripped to the floor of the training room. He focused all concentration on his breathing, and that took his mind off everything else. The lactic acid burning hot in his limbs began to subside. The aching dulled, second by second. More uncomfortable than he’d been in months, he allowed himself a smile.
Because he hadn’t been certain whether he could work his way up to this level of physical fitness again.
And now he had. Another mental barrier shattered.
Now it was all muscle memory.
The mind body connection.
He was the monster he used to be.
He was sure of it.
He climbed to his feet, sweat glistening along his breastbone. There wasn’t a shred of body fat to be found. Two months ago his physical condition had been a different story entirely, but that was in the past.
He’d suffered a concussion, on the other side of the world, six long months ago.
He’d spent almost four months in bed, doing nothing in particular. Letting his brain recover. Letting his synapses heal. Letting his shattered mind repair itself, piece by miserable piece, willing it back to health with nothing but the strength of his own thoughts.
Four long, agonising months. No exercise. Nothing to do besides lie in bed, or pace around the room, or step outside for a brisk walk every now and then to breathe the winter air.
The Russian Far East hadn’t been kind to him. Not in the slightest.
And then, day by day, he’d gotten better.
For a long time he thought he never would. He thought the headaches would be permanent, removing any hope of returning to the life he knew. Then one day he woke up feeling ever so slightly replenished. Nothing he could put his finger on. Something subtle, buried under the leviathan of his conscious thoughts.
But deep down in there, something had healed.
It probably wouldn’t last forever. He knew that. Sooner or later the violence that had plagued his life for as long as he could remember would catch up to him, and he would succumb to the sinister effects of chronic traumatic encephalopathy. It was becoming a commonplace issue in the media now the medical industry had invented machines to test for it. Most notable in the NFL, popularised by damning reports. You could only take so many knocks to the head before your brain threw in the towel and gave up on any hope of a normal reality.
But so far, he hadn’t experienced anything like that. And the reports didn’t refute it. Everyone’s brain is built differently, they said. Some can take more bumps than others.
Slater was built tough.
He fetched a white exercise towel, neatly folded on top of a pile situated in the far corner of the room. He returned to the stretch of marble floor where he conducted his morning calisthenics regime and wiped with vigour until all the puddles of sweat were absorbed. Then he turned and faced the tropical jungle river flowing past his compound and breathed in the humidity, allowing the stillness to close his pores and stop him perspiring.
It would take time.
It deterred most from venturing this deep into the country, even for a brief day trip. The humidity brought a level of discomfort few were capable of tolerating.
Not to mention the other threats.
Slater had yet to encounter any of the fabled narcotraficantes the region was infamous for. The jungles attracted all kinds of vermin that didn’t want their business visible in the public eye. Slater had to concede he was following the same principles, but he put an imaginary line between his own past misgivings and the horrors associated with the Colombian cartels. They were out here — he knew it. He sensed their presence. There was darkness in the jungle — the canopy of trees hid an amalgamation of filth.
But he hadn’t thrown himself into the line of fire.
Not yet.
So, he left the open-plan training area, his morning work completed. On the way to the bathroom he stepped up to a heavy bag swinging from the ceiling and delivered an earth-shattering uppercut into the damp leather, emitting a crack that spilled out onto the river and disappeared into the tropical air. A move chalked up to muscle memory more than anything else.
Just a nervous tic, to remind himself he was always ready.
At least that’s what he told himself.
He showered fast, keeping the water cold as ice. In fact, he’d paid a handsome fee to install state-of-the-art pipes in the compound, ensuring he didn’t have to wait long, agonising minutes for the temperature to adjust to how he preferred. The downpour, barely above freezing, chilled him to the core. The sweating ceased instantaneously as the sudden change in body temperature delivered a shock to his central nervous system. He shut the water off and towelled himself dry.
Skin tingling.
Brain firing on all cylinders.
Well and truly awake.
The routine had returned. Four months of inactivity had nearly rendered him useless, but he’d found the pain and discomfort of years past and tapped into it. As he dressed in simple chinos and a plain cotton tee, he glanced at himself in the enormous mirror and came away satisfied with what he saw for the first time in nearly half a year. He stood tall, his shoulders back, his chin held high, his body rippling with the kind of musculature that could only be forged after endless gruelling sessions. There were no personal trainers out here. No encouragement from friends or family. Just the heat of the jungle and the solitude of his own mind. He didn’t want it any other way. The isolated compound eliminated excuses, and that was what he needed to return to the Will Slater of the past.
Maybe that’s why he hadn’t ventured out into the jungle yet.
He knew there was evil out there, and he knew it wouldn’t take much effort to find it.
But he needed to bring the old guy back first.
He moved into the living area, another enormous high-ceilinged space resting directly adjacent to the training room. Both spaces had a wall missing, and both faced the river and the tree-lined bank opposite. The hum of insects infiltrated the air, rancid and incessant, but Slater had become so accustomed to the sound that it barely registered.
He started planning the rest of the day. He figured he would head into town for a meal, replenishing his muscles after the gruelling morning session. Then maybe a run in the jungle heat to assault his senses and increase his lung capacity. Then a few drinks. Then…
He didn’t know. And that was the best part. He had no particular rush to get anywhere or do anything. In the port city of Vladivostok he’d sworn to continue confronting the worst of humankind, but he knew that wouldn’t take much effort. They would find him before long. He wouldn’t even have to try.
So he admired the view and soaked in the serenity for a few moments…
…and then a piercing squeal shattered the silence.
The doorbell.
He had an unannounced visitor.
2
Despite not having a clue as to what he might find, Slater knew it was nothing good. He’d yet to receive a visitor during the two months he’d spent in the finished construction, and he hadn't expected to receive one until Colombia grew stale and he disposed of the property as discreetly as possible.
So as he strode down the smooth modern hallway, made of glass and steel and concrete, a certain trepidation washed over him. But at the same time there was something more intoxicating, something primal and animalistic nagging at the recesses of his mind.
Because this might be threatening.
And Slater hadn't been threatened in quite some time.
In truth, he almost hoped he found confrontation. He couldn’t deny the toxicity of the mindset. What if this was just lost travellers? He figured unnecessary hostility wasn’t prudent.
So he opened the giant entrance door with a placid expression on his face.
Keeping things nonchalant. Acting unassuming, as best he could.
Then it all changed.
There were three men. None of them looked pleasant. Each was built like a praying mantis packed with lean, wiry muscle. All three were taller than Slater, ranging from six foot one to six foot six. The tallest of the three happened to be the heaviest, and he carried himself with a suitable confidence. It seeped from his pores, attempting to take command of the atmosphere before anyone had uttered a sentence. They were dressed in simple singlets and cargo shorts to alleviate the overbearing heat.
All three were sweating.
Slater started sweating, too. He tingled with anticipation. He held the giant wooden door in one hand, and kept the other low at his side, his fingers twitching. He assumed at least one of them noticed.
But they didn’t understand what it meant.
He was ready to kill.
The tallest of the three smiled through a mouthful of teeth stained with artificial peroxide and said, ‘No need to look so grumpy, hombré.’
Slater said, ‘I’m fine.’
The shortest said, ‘Nice place you got here.’
Slater said, ‘Thanks.’
An uncomfortable pause. Slater didn’t feel the need to advance the conversation, and he kept his gaze locked on the tallest man. He deduced the guy with the white teeth would be the first to lash out if it came to that. Unbridled tension supercharged the air around their heads.
‘You’re not going to invite us in?’ the tallest man said.
‘Why would I do that?’
‘A friendly gesture, perhaps.’
‘I’m not looking for friends.’
‘How do you know that? The three of us are nice guys.’
‘That’s good to hear.’
‘You don’t even know our names. And we don’t know yours.’
‘Not interested.’
‘Now, that’s not very nice at all, friend.’
‘We’re not friends.’
‘Don’t you want to know my name?’
‘Not particularly.’
‘Usually people want to know my name.’
‘I don’t.’
‘Usually people are nicer to me.’
‘Sorry to disappoint.’
‘If you knew who I was, you might be nicer.’
Slater swung the door a half foot towards the closed position. ‘Do the three of you want anything? Or is this all to puff your chests out?’
‘I am Bautista,’ the tall man said.
‘Good for you.’
He gestured to the shortest and said, ‘This is Vicente.’
Vicente had the rabid energy of a naturally gifted athlete who knew he was fast, and powerful. Slater didn’t find his type often, but when he did it set him on edge. The man didn’t need to overcompensate for his limitations by packing on muscle — his frame was skinny, but noticeably strong. He was a bundle of fast twitch muscle fibres waiting to explode. He kept his sinewy arms crossed over his thin chest, exposing the veins in his biceps. He
shifted back and forth on the balls of his feet, tensing his rippling calf muscles in turn.
The man’s beady eyes drilled into Slater.
Maybe a consumer of the product these men no doubt manufactured and packaged and funnelled through Colombia.
He was too jumpy to be sober.
Bautista gestured to the middle guy and said, ‘This is Iván.’
Iván had little redeeming qualities — at least at surface level. He wasn’t particularly well built and had none of the natural athleticism that Bautista and Vicente possessed. He was wholly unimpressive in Slater’s eyes. It made Slater wonder what his strengths were. He must have an ace up his sleeve to have embedded himself with this ragtag group of undesirables.