by Matt Rogers
‘Huh?’
‘I’d be careful how you answer.’
‘I’m the one with the gun.’
‘And we’re the ones working for Gloria,’ King said. ‘Bowman and the others never met her at the top of the road. That’s why she’s not here yet. Where’d they go?’
‘What are you talking about?’
‘Did you see Bowman leave the complex?’
‘Yeah,’ the guy said. ‘Just before. He said the boss had a task for him.’
‘He’s lying. He got spooked and disappeared. Why?’
‘You’re asking me?’
‘How do you know the feds aren’t on their way? How do you know Bowman wasn’t an undercover? It’s not that much of a stretch.’
The bald guy didn’t answer. He hunched over slightly, overwhelmed, trying to process. King didn’t blame him. It was an age-old principle used by dictators to distribute propaganda. Throw as much false information as you can out there and make sure no one has any idea what the truth actually is.
The bald guy said, ‘I don’t know, man. Isn’t Kerr supposed to be here?’
‘You’re slow, aren’t you?’ King said. ‘We’re Kerr’s right-hand men. We’re here to clear the place, make sure nothing’s amiss. Where’s Icke?’
‘Inside.’
‘Then let’s go. You want a ride back there?’
The bald guy looked out over the property. It was maybe a hundred feet to the front of the complex, but he was already up on the side step, and it’d be an inconvenience to get down. It was a harmless offering.
The guy said, ‘Sure.’
Slater touched the accelerator and crawled the Rezvani down the unpaved driveway. The second thug had heard the entire conversation, and he walked fast alongside the truck, his guard down.
It was a strange scene. Two of Icke’s men had gone out to intercept a potentially hostile arrival, and now one guy was riding the side step and gripping the windowsill and the other was striding alongside it.
Like a guard of honour.
It had its intended effect. Three more men spilled out of the doorway, practically tripping over themselves to get outside.
One of them waved their arms like the first guy had: No, wait there!
The bald guy waved his arms back: Relax, it’s fine!
The other two stood around clutching carbine rifles, unsure of themselves. Heavy duty firepower. If King or Slater were off by inches or seconds, they’d die in a blaze of fury.
Tension mounted.
Five men outside.
No more barriers between them and the complex.
Slater looked over.
King nodded.
He rolled the bulletproof window up before the bald guy could reach in and stop him and said, ‘Go.’
72
Slater didn’t need to be told twice.
There were teenage slaves in this building.
He unleashed.
Adrenaline spelled it all out, clear and simple, and he followed what his brain told him to do. He stamped the pedal to the floor, tapping into all one thousand horsepower, and the Tank lurched forward, wheels gripping the dirt and biting. The bald guy on the side step didn’t leap off, but held on tighter, clutching an indent on the roof to avoid spilling under the wheels.
Slater jerked the wheel all the way to the right, as the truck was still taking off.
The back end slid out, and the B6-armour-coated chassis hit the guy who was walking beside the truck at considerable speed. He crumpled and went under the wheels.
Paralysed or dead.
No need to check which.
Slater corrected course, ignoring the bald guy shouting and the three men ahead panicking.
One of the newcomers raised his carbine and sent a brief burst at the windshield.
He missed most of them. He was stressed to the eyeballs.
One thwacked off the windshield but the pane held. Bulletproof glass, doing its job.
Slater picked up serious speed, bearing down right on top of the trio. Two dove away, abandoning their firing positions, but the one with the raised carbine didn’t. He was brave.
Slater rewarded his bravery by stamping the brakes and throwing the wheel hard to the right.
By then he’d picked up more speed, and the bald guy flew off the side step, carried by gravity and momentum.
A human-sized projectile.
The bald guy collided with the guy brandishing the carbine and both went down in a tangle of broken bones.
The Tank had slowed enough to safely disembark.
Well, maybe not “safely.”
But doable.
Slater’s ankle prevented him from any radical movements so King took the initiative, hurling the passenger door open and flinging himself out of the truck. He landed on his feet, stumbled briefly as Slater roared the truck past, and a picture-perfect window opened.
The two guys who’d leapt out of the way were sprawled on the ground, picking themselves up, unable to believe what was happening.
King thought he’d end their confusion.
He shot them once each in the head.
They went straight back down to earth.
Five men were down in a handful of seconds, but Slater wasn’t done.
King watched the Tank roar away from him.
He said, ‘Oh, shit.’
He ran after it.
Slater picked up as much speed as he could and simply rammed it through the front wall.
73
Fabian listened hard.
His surroundings fell away. He’d spent long enough in this windowless box to know what every inch of it looked like. He could tune it out when he pleased, and he did so now. Gunshots could be good, or gunshots could be bad. They could mean the police, or they could mean a rival gang. Fabian wasn’t even sure if the police would be a good thing. He knew little about America, but he was old enough and smart enough to know his family hadn’t brought him here legally. He’d never seen paperwork or forms or been asked questions by strange men and women in suits.
And a rival gang would be worse than bad.
He’d glimpsed enough big scary soldiers who’d brought him food over the past months to know there were at least a dozen guys on rotation in this place — whatever it was, whoever they were. And if these people were brave enough to snatch two kids with no fear of repercussions … well, then it was a whole different ball game to what Fabian was used to.
Before this, Calle 18 had been the overlords. The cruelest people he knew, the most menacing, the most dangerous. His brother — and Omar’s brother — had joined out of necessity. They’d tried to do things the right way, but the shot callers for 18 in Nevada had come calling, and they’d explained that as the older brothers they were the men of the family, and the men of the family had to provide. If they didn’t come and work for them, they’d be killed. Slowly and painfully. To set an example for the rest of the Guatemalans in Vegas.
But Calle 18 was amateur hour compared to this operation. It was foolproof, everything timed to perfection to prevent any thought of escaping. No sloppiness, no hedonism, nothing like the handful of times Fabian had met his brother’s fellow gang members in shoddy tenement buildings, pumping music and drinking and drugging.
So if it was a rival gang, then they were just as airtight, and it wouldn’t be in their best interests to let a pair of teenage witnesses live to tell the tale.
Fabian’s hands shook as he listened.
Then the building exploded.
Well, that’s what he first thought, and he dove for his mattress as the walls rumbled and the earth shook and a hideous noise blasted his eardrums. He landed on the thin foam on his stomach and pressed his face into the pillow and put his hands over his ears.
Seconds later, when he realised he was still alive, he rolled over.
Omar hadn’t moved. The small boy was cowering on his own mattress, eyes wide in terror, staring at the closed door like it could answer all their quest
ions.
A serious weight slammed against the door.
It rattled in its frame.
Omar screamed.
Fabian heard the sounds of struggling, of fists being thrown, of bodies clashing.
Then a couple of clearly audible strikes, then silence, followed by muffled English he couldn’t understand.
A thought struck him.
The door had rattled hard.
Maybe…?
He got to his feet.
Omar hissed, ‘What are you doing?’
‘Shut up.’
He tiptoed over and tried the handle.
It was unlocked.
74
Slater aimed for the open doorway, but the Tank was massive, and the ram bumper caught a couple of feet of the walls on either side.
Supports groaned and metal screeched and plasterboard broke like thunderclaps.
The truck came to rest half inside the building, half out. It gave Slater an unobstructed view of the internal corridor, spilling away in either direction. He didn’t rush to throw a door open. He stayed put behind the bulletproof glass and surveyed the scene.
No one downstairs, unless they’d managed to hide in connecting offices within the half-second they’d heard the Rezvani gunning for the wall.
Unlikely.
Smooth and controlled, he buzzed the driver’s window down a crack and shouted, ‘Clear,’ into the night.
King burst into the hallway, having leapfrogged the rubble and debris littered around the Tank. There was a couple of feet of space on either side, allowing him easy access to the complex. He swept every corner and shadow with his SIG, finding nothing.
Until he did.
Slater spotted the hint of a shadow in the doorway of a connecting room and thought, What the hell?
He shouted, ‘Left!’
King would have got the jump on the guy on his own, but it was better to be safe than sorry. He spun, carrying the barrel’s trajectory with his pivot, and intercepted a guy in tactical military getup brandishing a semi-automatic pistol of his own. King put two shots into him, reached out with an open palm and shoved his face backward, toppling him over in the doorway.
A second shape appeared, leaping over the first, and crash-tackled King. They fell back into a door set into the opposite wall, rattling it in place.
Then they rebounded off.
A pair made more sense. Two mercenaries slacking on the job, aware of the fact they’d been defending the complex from non-existent invasions for the better part of a year, maybe more. Probably playing cards in an empty office when they should have been out patrolling the perimeter. A simple mistake, but an understandable one.
It meant King and Slater hadn’t cleaned them up in the first wave.
It gave them the slightest advantage.
King spilled to the ground with the guy, who was almost as big as he was. They were clawing for control of the SIG. With the Tank’s headlights pressed into the far wall it was dark and chaotic as they jerked and writhed around in the halo of rubble. The Tank’s windows were tinted — Slater couldn’t see much other than two spasming silhouettes.
The rest of the adrenaline hit him.
He got a tight grip on his own SIG and heaved the driver’s door open. The Tank was between him and King, obstructing his view, ruining any aim he could get from inside the car.
He leapt down.
Landed on a twisted chunk of rubble and the tape around his ankle tore at the same time that the joint popped.
He didn’t make a sound, but his world lit on fire.
He went down uncontrollably, but he followed it through. King was more important than a broken ankle and the associated agony. He landed on his stomach, flattening prone on the rubble, and it offered him a perfect line of sight underneath the truck. The Tank’s body was jacked up on modified suspension, so there was more than enough room for a clear shot.
Slater lined up his aim.
Took a deep breath.
Then watched King smack an open palm into the bridge of the attacker’s nose from the bottom, sending his head snapping back like it was on tracks. The guy spilled off him and King scrambled on top, dropped a staggering elbow that resonated through the hallway, then collected his weapon from the rubble and shot the man once in the head.
Slater said, ‘Shit.’
King looked over, underneath the truck. ‘You good?’
‘No.’
‘Ankle?’
‘Yeah.’
King looked around, eyes wide with energy. He said, ‘Stay there. Prop yourself up in case Bowman comes back. I’ll go get Elsa.’
‘You need me.’
King looked under the truck at Slater, stretched out on his side, a hideous wince on his face.
‘Not like that I don’t,’ King said.
Slater relented and gave a nod. ‘Don’t be long. We’re running out the clock.’
King counted out loud. ‘Two here. Five out there. Four sent out to North Racetrack Road.’
Slater nodded again.
King said, ‘What’d Kerr say? Roughly a dozen?’
‘Roughly.’
‘Then Icke’s all mine. Wait here.’
‘I’m not going anywhere,’ Slater sighed.
King ran off and disappeared into a stairwell.
In the newfound silence, Slater’s condition caught up to him. He was only now able to register the rapid heart rate, the sweat dripping off his face, the horrible pain shooting up his leg. In the grand scheme of things he was fine. No long-term damage, no gunshot wounds, not even a single knock to the head. His brain was running smooth as clockwork, which made it infinitely more frustrating. He’d understand if an accumulation of beatdowns kept him out of the fight. If he was staggering left and right, head swimming from the disorientation, there’d be no chance of taking part.
But here he was, head clear, mind sharp, held back by an ankle.
He swore to himself as he felt the joint inflaming in real time.
Should have stayed put, he thought. Should have let King take care of it.
But the day would come when King couldn’t take care of it, and Slater would be damned if he held back and let his closest friend and ally die while he watched.
Not a chance in hell.
He held his weapon tight and crab-crawled underneath the Tank, worming his way through the rubble to the other side. He set up position against the wall, inching his way to a seated position, so he could see out the newly created hole in the front of the building. The lot was dark and unpopulated. He eyed bodies scattered across the dirt, mirroring the eternal path of destruction he and King seemed to carve wherever they went.
It was a good thing, then, that they spent most of their time on the job around bad people.
A door opened nearby.
75
It was the door King had rebounded off a minute earlier, previously sealed shut.
Slater angled his SIG up and sideways, planning to intercept whoever stepped out.
Lucky he gave the new arrival a chance.
It was a kid.
A Hispanic teenager, tall for his age, incredibly skinny. The tattered singlet and khaki shorts he wore looked like they’d fall apart under the pressure of a gust of wind. He was barefoot. He had a handsome face, with high cheekbones and thick black hair that hung in locks over narrow eyes with long lashes. In another life he might have adorned magazine covers as a model.
He looked like a prisoner of war.
He was.
Slater said, ‘What’s up?’
The kid stared at him, perplexed but not scared. It was like he’d seen everything a boy could possibly see. There was nothing left to fear. He was hollow to it all.
Slater said, ‘English?’
The kid shook his head.
‘Spanish?’
A nod.
Slater switched to Spanish. He had a rudimentary grasp of the language. ‘What’s your name?’
‘Fabian.’
/> ‘Fabian, I’m Will.’
‘Hi.’
‘You got a friend in there, Fabian?’
A nod. ‘Omar.’
‘How long have you two been here?’
A shrug. ‘Months, I think. Could be years. Time has been … weird.’
‘Do you know Alastair Icke?’
‘Who’s that?’
Slater nodded. ‘Thought as much.’
He wasn’t sure why he wanted it to mean something. Like Icke had a personal grudge against these two kids, or a grudge against their families. Maybe that’d make it make sense. It’d be poetic that way. In reality the old judge was just vermin who preyed on anyone he thought he could take advantage of. If the kids had been sold to overseas buyers, they’d have wasted away in a fate worse than death. Vanished, like they’d never existed at all.
Just like Slater’s mother had.
The pain had taken the wind out of his sails. He didn’t even try getting to his feet. He saw Fabian shifting from foot to foot, uncomfortable with being out of his room. Stockholm syndrome in full effect.
The kid eyed the hole in the wall, and the night beyond.
Slater said, ‘You got family out there? In Vegas?’
Fabian nodded.
Slater said, ‘You want to talk to the cops?’
Fabian shook his head.
Slater understood why.
He said, ‘Go. Take Omar and go. Don’t come back. Pretend it never happened.’
‘How?’
A poignant question that Slater didn’t have an answer to. He couldn’t even take his own advice. If he was able to, he never would have had a drinking problem. He’d have thought, Yeah, okay, that stuff happened. Forget about it. Move on. But you can’t forget about the shit he’d seen, the shit that had happened to Fabian and Omar. Even if they hadn’t been touched, physically or sexually, they’d still spent months as captives in a room. That was enough to break the toughest souls.
Slater said, ‘You’ll figure it out. I know you will. Go.’
Fabian turned in the doorway and hissed rapid-fire Spanish back into the room. He was met with hesitant protests. Fabian urged Omar out, and the boy followed meekly. Slater nodded to him, too. Omar was shorter, and even skinnier.