Lynx

by Matt Rogers

  It put him on the back step.

  Two to worry about.

  Slater swung an elbow, left to right, with everything in his system. Fast twitch muscle fibres firing, screaming with exertion. He landed. Right on the bridge of the next guy’s nose. Practically punching it across his face.

  Like walking into a buzzsaw.

  Just as described.

  The third guy hesitated, stunned by the devastation dealt out to the men alongside him, and that was all Slater needed. He thundered a boot into his groin, dropping him where he stood, and as he came down Slater brought the knee of the same leg up and smashed it into his jaw.

  One-two.

  Done.

  The third guy crumpled, and Slater turned back to the first and kicked him in the exact same part of his stomach. Accurate to the inch. Bringing a whole new level of pain to the injury site. Now the guy lost his legs, and he went down puking onto the kitchen floor. Slater kicked him in the side of the head, turned back to the second guy, and headbutted him in his already-broken nose.

  The second guy howled, and dropped, joining his friends on the floor.

  Not unconscious.

  But in too much pain to function.

  Slater smirked. ‘Would you look at that? Two left. I’m not counting you, Tommy, you geriatric fuck.’

  That did it.

  The last two Whelans charged.

  64

  Slater feigned an elbow, and this time the pair were expecting it. They were the largest of the seven, opting to wait until last to demonstrate their superior fighting ability. One of them reacted fast, ducking back away from the elbow, but Slater hadn’t even thrown it. By the time the guy realised what was happening, Slater wasn’t there anymore.

  He changed levels, ducking low and powering off both legs. With thighs like tree trunks, he had all the explosive athleticism he needed. He caught the first guy around the mid-section and heaved him off the floor, taking all his balance away, levering him into thin air and dumping him straight into his friend.

  All three of them went to ground.

  Slater thrived in controlled chaos.

  Amidst scrabbling limbs and grunts of exertion, he found an unprotected face and smashed the same elbow three consecutive times into soft flesh. He broke a nose, an orbital bone, and a jaw on the same face. He rolled off that body and caught the last guy around the ankle as he attempted to surge to his feet. By that point the morale was shattered, and the last man seemed to be trying to make a beeline for the P228 sidearms Slater had discarded on the other side of the room.

  Fat chance of—

  The ankle whisked out of Slater’s grasp, fast as a whip.

  Too late, he realised his mistake.

  He’d ended up on the far side of the room, close to the glass windows. The last Whelan had somehow, some way, managed to break free. Now he sprinted flat out for the bank of elevators, where the P228s lay on the floor.

  Jesus Christ, Slater thought. This can’t be how it ends.

  He scrabbled to his feet and broke into an all-out sprint, almost turning his ankle twice in a row as he vaulted over unconscious Whelans en route to the elevators.

  The last conscious Whelan made it there first, obviously.

  He bent down to snatch up one of the Sig Sauers.

  He got his hand on it.

  He slipped a finger inside the trigger guard.

  He brought it up level with…

  Slater hit him with two hundred pounds of lean muscle in uncontrolled motion, a frantic football-esque crash tackle that sent them both careening into the wall between two elevator doors. They hit the plaster so hard that it caved in, spilling them both into the framework of the wall. Chunks of dust rained down on their heads.

  Slater wrenched himself free of the debris, seized the gun with two hands, and hauled it away. He was operating on instinct now — the calm, calculated demeanour had gone out the window.

  Reeling, battered and bruised from the impact, he waited for the last guy to peel himself out of the wall. His breath heaved in his chest. Pain wracked his insides. The mad tackle might have done more damage to Slater than his foe.

  But it got the weapon out of the equation, which was all that mattered.

  The last man somehow got his legs underneath him and levered himself out of the wall, tearing another chunk of plaster away from the crater. Slater let fly with another stabbing front kick, repeating the same action he’d thrown at half the Whelans, but this time he put his all into it. He needed to destroy the guy’s face, preventing him from managing any kind of retaliation.

  He missed.

  He could chalk it up to the change of circumstances throwing him off his game, or the exertion he’d spent sprinting across the room tiring his limbs out, or the injuries sustained during the tackle, but no amount of excuses would change the reality of the situation, so he forgot about them.

  His foot sailed past the last Whelan’s face as the guy jerked to the right, missing his left cheek by inches. If it connected, it probably would have killed him right then and there, given the ferocity Slater threw it with. But it went spearing into the empty space through the plaster wall, throwing him off-balance. He stumbled and planted the foot down somewhere inside the wall, balancing on even ground. He wrenched it free.

  The last Whelan went for a body shot.

  Thank God.

  He was trying to be smart about it. Trying to employ some kind of tactical prowess by targeting Slater’s ribcage as he stood with one foot in the wall and one foot out. He’d probably seen all kinds of tapes — old boxers wearing their opponents out with perfectly timed jabs to the torso, taking their breath away piece by piece. Maybe he expected to dance around Slater like a court jester, demonstrating his superior fighting ability in the presence of Tommy Whelan. He might expect to earn a promotion while he was at it, and, of course, to be added to the folklore of this day that would go down in Whelan history.

  But this wasn’t boxing.

  Slater stepped out of the wall as the jab landed against his obliques. He took it in stride, feeling the stabbing pain of aggravated muscle, mentally checking if the strike had impeded his movement. The last Whelan had thrown it with pinpoint accuracy and a fair amount of precision. Slater grimaced, but that was about it. It didn’t break a rib. It didn’t do anything to prevent him throwing everything but the kitchen sink at this poor hapless man.

  And Slater could handle a bit of superficial pain.

  So he allowed the punch to ricochet off his torso, tightening every muscle in his abdominal wall at once to absorb the force. Then he fired back with a giant looping haymaker of a right hand, sensing an opportunity he likely wouldn’t have a second chance at. His fist whistled and arced and came down and landed.

  This time, Slater couldn’t miss.

  He might as well have hit the guy with a brick. Everything shut down at once and the young man’s eyes glazed over. Unconscious, not dead. Slater didn’t care either way. The guy had gone for the gun, and that meant he didn’t need to hold back, or show mercy. Not that he would have in the first place.

  He stood still, breathing hard, soaking up the burning pain in his shoulders as the lactic acid built up. He’d thrown over a dozen kicks and punches like his life depended on it, full power, draining the central nervous system like nothing else. He was familiar with the feeling. It wasn’t pleasant. But he was feeling a whole lot better than the six Whelans sprawled across the loft, either flat out unconscious or in a weeping, moaning state of semi-consciousness.

  Tommy Whelan stood frozen in place, white as a sheet.

  Slater smiled. ‘You’re going to remember this, aren’t you?’

  65

  A poignant silence hung over the space. Slater retrieved the P228s, double-checked to make sure there were no firearms in sight, and commanded the eldest Whelan to sit back down at the head of the table.

  Tommy Whelan shuffled over to the chair and lowered himself into it.

  Tentative.<
br />
  Withdrawn.

  Awfully meek for a mob boss.

  Slater sat down at the other end, over a dozen feet away from the old man, but it provided him with a sweeping view of the loft, and a direct line of sight to the elevators. If anyone arrived, he’d be ready. But he didn’t figure that was likely. He assumed he’d dismantled most of the family on the Upper East Side. These men weren’t all Whelans. Some were either hired muscle or, more likely, the upper management in charge of certain jurisdictions. Not related by blood, but close enough. He figured he’d flatlined half the command.

  At least, judging by the look on Tommy Whelan’s face.

  Slater said, ‘I’ve been sent by a covert division deep in the government. You’ve never heard of it. We’re not very happy with you.’

  ‘Why’s that?’

  ‘The men and women you pay off in law enforcement, and in the courts, and in low-level government. You’re overstepping your boundaries.’

  ‘We do everything the right way. We honour all the traditions. We’ve never skimped or saved on anything. We are very generous to the right parties. Isn’t that the way it’s always worked?’

  ‘Not anymore.’

  ‘Well you could have fucking told me like a man. Instead of coming here and kicking the shit out of anyone and everyone just to send a message. Man, who the hell are you anyway? Some kind of executioner?’

  ‘Something like that,’ Slater said. ‘I’m here to tell you how it’s going to work in future.’

  ‘Like hell you are.’

  ‘Watch your tongue. Or I’ll do to you what I did to these boys.’

  ‘I’d rather you just put a bullet in my head and get it over with.’

  ‘No. You’re my bitch now. You’re the property of my division. And my boss is going to be more than happy to get his fingers in all your pies.’

  ‘This is the man that sent you?’

  Slater almost smirked. It’s all too easy.

  ‘Sure is,’ he said.

  ‘I take it you’re not going to tell me his name.’

  ‘Why wouldn’t I?’

  ‘To protect him.’

  Slater laughed, harsh and guttural. It rang through the cavernous space. ‘You think we’re afraid of an operation as shit as yours? His name is Russell Williams. Remember it. He owns you now.’

  ‘Does he?’

  ‘Yes, and as a matter of fact, as soon as I’m out of here you’re going to go to every contact you have in law enforcement and tell them they no longer serve you, by order of the same Russell Williams. Or I’ll come back here and use bullets instead of my fists. Understood?’

  ‘You’ve got a big mouth for someone who hasn’t killed any of us yet.’

  ‘Don’t get confident in front of me. You’ll be mopping up parts of your family for the next few hours. This is a warning. A demonstration, if you will.’

  ‘It almost didn’t work,’ Tommy Whelan said with the hint of a smirk.

  Good, Slater thought. Get that confidence back, old man. You’ll need it.

  Slater nodded, shrugging, raising his open arms on either side in a platonic gesture. ‘Fair. That guy almost had me. Who is he?’

  ‘My son.’

  ‘And how’d that end up working out for him?’

  They both turned their heads to check on the wellbeing of the last Whelan standing.

  Slater had left him in a motionless crumpled heap on the kitchen tile, but now the scene was even worse. The man had reared out of unconsciousness with the energy of a crazed bull, but his brain hadn’t yet begun to function at the same level as his body. He ended up twitching and drooling on his side, eyes wide and rabid, swimming through air in an attempt to reconnect vital synapses between his temples. Slater knew from experience the guy would be fine in roughly ten to twenty minutes, and the headache would dissipate after a few weeks of rest, but to Tommy Whelan, it must have looked like his son was in the process of succumbing to a gruesome death.

  As Slater suspected, the old man sent his grunts out to do the dirty work on the streets. To intimidate and blackmail and exploit. He sat up here in his bulletproof townhouse, planning his every move. He didn’t see the grisly details.

  Maybe he’d been privy to beatings and rapes and killings up close in the past.

  But that was a long, long time ago.

  So the violence all around him started to seep in. Slater saw the shock setting in, taking over his every movement. His gaze flicked from man to man, reeling at the physical consequences, lingering on the blood dripping from nostrils and lips, coating the floor in crimson.

  Tommy Whelan flapped his own lips like a dying fish.

  Slater slammed his elbows down on the table, seizing the old man’s attention once more.

  ‘I told you this was a warning,’ Slater said. ‘Next time I’ll keep you all alive again, but the trauma will be even worse. I’ll pick my shots selectively. Third time I’ll use a gun.’

  Tommy nodded, white as a sheet, and for a moment Slater feared he’d gone too far.

  He needed that spark back.

  He said, ‘How does it feel to bend over backwards for us?’

  Tommy shrugged.

  ‘Because that’s what you’ll be doing. Crawling around on all fours, looking over your shoulder for who Russell Williams is going to send next. All your manpower in the force and in office is going to be useless. Understand?’

  A gentle nod.

  More resistance.

  Ideas forming.

  There we go.

  Slater got to his feet, strode along the length of the table, and put a hand on Tommy’s shoulder.

  ‘You going to be a good boy?’ Slater said.

  A vein protruded from the side of Tommy’s temple. He probably hadn’t been insulted or degraded in three decades. He didn’t know how to handle it.

  Slater knew how he would handle it. And it would sure get the attention of the man he was looking for.

  Slater said, ‘Was I too quiet?’

  ‘I heard you.’

  ‘You going to be a good boy?’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘Good. Now, just to make sure…’

  Slater took Tommy Whelan’s old craggy nose between two of his fingers, in a pincer-like grip, and snapped it to the left.

  66

  He stepped back out into the crisp afternoon air with a fresh lease on life.

  He made sure to have the P228s at the ready in case either of the sentries had recovered their senses enough to mount resistance. But he found them sitting idle in the corner of the lobby, tucked away in the shadows, unarmed, with their knees brought up to their chests and their eyes directed at the floor.

  When the elevator arrived, they lifted their gazes, exposing bloodied swollen faces, and Slater had one of his barrels aimed at them before they could blink.

  He’d been around hundreds of set-ups in the past.

  At this point, nothing would surprise him.

  But they weren’t faking their dejection. They turned their gazes straight back to the floor, averting their eyes from Slater. It gave him a near-mythical aura. Right then and there he knew he wouldn’t have any issues staying in New York for a few days. They wouldn’t put out a direct hit on him. The morale was shattered, and they had very little information to work with.

  The whole compound lay in a shroud of misery, opened up and rattled and torn apart by a lone individual.

  If they talked about it in public too often, the more embarrassing details would come to the surface.

  Slater walked straight past the broken sentries and breathed in the scent of the Upper East Side. It didn’t have the usual stink of rotting trash and open sewers that a large portion of New York City sported these days. He kept both guns hidden from any passing civilians by tucking them under his T-shirt, and he dropped one of them in a trash can almost immediately. A single Sig Sauer would suffice, and he didn’t expect to meet much resistance in the next few days.

  Now, the waiting gam
e began.

  And he certainly needed it.

  His muscles began to cramp. Every second that passed brought new knots, new bruises and bumps and disrupted fascia. He could knock a man dead with a barrage of punches, no thanks to a decade of relentlessly honing his ability, but he wasn’t Superman. That kind of exertion — especially at the level he’d dished out — wasn’t sustainable. He needed a shower and a bed and a long rest.

  He found the Four Seasons only a few blocks over and paid mid-five figures for a five-night stay in the Royal Suite, which the concierge confirmed as available after a few minutes of tapping away at his keyboard. Slater barely glanced at the price before handing over a credit card. They must have assumed he was either a New Age tech billionaire or an oil tycoon from a more traditional region of the world.

  Either way, they didn’t seem to care in the slightest.

  The direct opposite of a low profile.

  Exactly what he was going for.

  ‘Will Slater,’ he said when they asked for his name.

  He made sure they entered it in the system.

  Then he made them check again.

  He confirmed the spelling.

  They handed over his room key and he headed for the elevators.

  The rest of the afternoon was a blur. He went through the same familiar routine he’d seen a thousand times over — elevator, carpeted hallway, dark brown door, lavish suite. The views over Central Park from the suite were astonishing, breathtaking, captivating — and he barely looked. He’d seen it all before. A career like his had tasted the highest of highs and the lowest of lows. He’d dropped the inordinate sum of cash more to attract attention than to purchase luxury. He needed his location easily identifiable.

  He stripped off his clothes — stained with sweat, but no dirt or blood — and showered for close to an hour. He needed it. His body was already starting to shut down on itself, his arms growing heavy and his knees growing weak.

  Only in the movies could a hero brutalise his enemies with his bare hands without slowing down for days on end. Slater had dumped his energy reserves, used up every ounce of adrenalin in his body, and burnt out his entire central nervous system over the course of the day.