The Will Slater Series Books 1-3

by Matt Rogers

  ‘How did they die?’

  ‘A combination of methods. It seems a handful were beaten into submission in a rundown apartment building in the centre of the town, then the rest were picked off with their own weapons.’

  ‘Consistent with a single hostile?’

  ‘At this point, yes.’

  ‘Jesus Christ.’

  ‘We can’t find Slater. The SEALs will keep looking, but they can’t be around for long. I’m sure you can understand that our time in-country has to be kept to a minimum. We’re not supposed to be there.’

  ‘Pull them out,’ Williams said.

  ‘Sir?’

  ‘Extract them. You won’t find Slater. I don’t know why I expected you to in the first place.’

  ‘Sir, if he’s there…’

  ‘He won’t be. I don’t think you people understand what you’re dealing with here. He’s been in service to our government for the last ten years. He’s killed hundreds — thousands, even — of our enemies. If you didn’t find his body, you won’t find him.’

  ‘Why is he no longer in service?’

  ‘That’s above your pay grade. And it’s the reason you haven’t heard of him.’

  ‘I’ll give the orders,’ the man said, exiting the room with a quick nod.

  Williams slumped back against the couch, a wry smile spreading over his face. He had heard something in Slater’s voice during their brief conversation that had convinced him that the man could be found. He quickly realised how foolish of a thought that had been. Perhaps a brief moment of hesitation on Slater’s part, but nothing permanent. That iron will that had become the stuff of legend throughout the halls of the White House must have come roaring back.

  As it had for years.

  Williams rose off the couch and crossed to the nearest window as darkness fell over the grounds of the White House. He stared out over the Ellipse, fifty acres of well-maintained grounds to the rear of the massive building in which he stood.

  He wondered if it was beneficial to the world to have a man as talented and relentlessly driven as Will Slater out there, roaming the globe.

  He wondered where Slater was now.

  Then he gave up on that train of thought and turned back to face the room, crossing to the doors that led through to the interior of the White House. There was work to be done.

  He would leave Slater to his personal crusade.

  Employed or not, Slater would carry on.

  As he always had.

  As he always would.

  Lion

  Book 2

  “Bad company corrupts good character.”

  Menander

  1

  Peter Forrest gazed out over his empire, all forged from nothing, and wondered just how the hell he’d managed to slip so far down the rabbit hole.

  Corruption never begins with a raging fire. It trickles into your life with an insipid flicker, so small you barely notice, and the effect of its power compounds until you’re swimming in shit so thick it becomes impossible to crawl out. Forrest started on that path long ago, and its hold hadn’t properly seized him until weeks previously.

  By then, it was far too late.

  He stood on a wide steel walkway, staring out over an emporium the size of five plane hangars laid end to end, walled off at the distant edges but sporting a glass-domed ceiling worth tens of millions. The rectangular expanse rested atop two of the largest skyscrapers in Macau, connecting the two structures together to form an upside-down U.

  The entire complex had come with a construction cost of more than five billion USD, a fortune that Forrest had spent his entire life amassing in mostly legitimate ways. Of course, no businessman is truly noble in the sense that at some point ethics have to be thrown out the window in favour of cost-effectiveness, but until his venture into Macau he’d considered himself a good man.

  Funny how debt repayments can waste away any shred of morality, he thought.

  Mountain Lion Casino & Resorts had culminated with a final bill — including construction, labour, government taxes, and a million unexpected costs that came along with a project of this size — of close to six billion dollars. Everything was calculated in USD, which added a further blow to his Australian fortune. Converted to his native currency, he was looking at eight billion.

  The project had been a dream since his early childhood, and he’d been relentless over the last thirty years amassing his fortune.

  Mining ventures in Western Australia had paid off and he’d funnelled the obscene profits into real estate, capitalising on the booming Australian market. It had left him with enough wiggle room to green-light the construction of what would amount to his magnum opus.

  But nothing ever unfolds the way it’s supposed to.

  A cluster of movement from the edge of the walkway tore Forrest from his thoughts. He flicked his gaze away from the magnificent view and turned to observe the grim procession heading straight for him.

  Three triad thugs, each of them in their late twenties with a decade of experience causing unimaginable pain under their belts, hauling a baccarat dealer from one of Forrest’s VIP rooms in their wake. The young kid’s lip was bloody and his right cheek had already begun to swell. Forrest briefly considered grimacing but squashed it down. The injuries were nothing in comparison to what might come next.

  From underneath the walkway, a throaty growl resonated up through the cavernous space.

  He shivered in anticipation.

  The trio of triad goons deposited the dealer in a pathetic heap at Forrest’s feet. The kid spat a mouthful of blood onto the steel walkway and slumped over, shoulders hunched. Forrest knew exactly what this side of the business called for. He wouldn’t allow a shred of remorse to infiltrate his demeanour.

  He crouched by the young guy’s panting frame and slid a thin smartphone out of his pocket. He navigated wordlessly to a cropped portion of surveillance footage and thumbed the play button, allowing a bird’s-eye-view of a red-carpeted VIP room to play on the screen. It focused on a young Filipino man — the same man lying dejectedly before Forrest — making random bouts of eye contact with a pair of high roller gamblers on either side of a luxurious baccarat table. Forrest sped up the footage, allowing the guy to see the extent of his deception.

  Over and over again, the twin parties placed the same bet on opposite sides of the game, ensuring that their total combined bankroll remained even. The dealer did his best to shield the proceedings from the security cameras dotted around the room, but nothing got past Forrest.

  ‘You see what you’re doing?’ Forrest said — the first words he’d uttered in hours. Despite having lived in Macau for years now, he still sported a thick Australian accent. ‘I see what you’re doing.’

  The Filipino guy spoke rudimentary English. It was a requirement for the job. ‘I don’t know what this is…’

  ‘Of course you do, buddy. We run this same system in ninety percent of our VIP rooms. And you fucking know that. It’s basic goddamn money laundering 101. Bet the opposite sides of the table so it looks like you’ve had a crack, then make off with millions in supposed “gambling winnings”. You want to know how many times I’ve seen it? Hundreds, mate. Maybe thousands. But the dealers declare when the members of their VIP room wish to partake in this little racket. They take commission for allowing these wealthy men and women to launder their dirty money on our premises, which gets passed up the food chain. You know this. But you tried to act like it wasn’t happening in your room, and you kept the profits for yourself. Admit it and I might take it easy on you.’

  ‘Yes,’ the man said, staring at the floor.

  ‘Well, that didn’t take much persuasion. Why’d you do it?’

  ‘I thought I could get away with it. Money for family.’

  ‘You thought you deserved it more than me?’

  The Filipino guy shrugged, refusing to make eye contact. ‘You have a lot of money, sir.’

  ‘I owe a lot of money,’ Forrest said. �
�You have no idea what my financial situation’s like. Look around you, for fuck’s sake. Any idea how much a place like this costs?’

  ‘A lot, sir.’

  ‘Spot on. You know what happens if money launderers get the idea that they can get away with leaving me out of the cut? One of my cash flow systems gets cut off. I can’t make repayments. This whole empire goes tits-up. You want that to happen?’

  ‘No.’

  ‘It looks like you do.’

  ‘I’m sorry. I didn’t think.’

  ‘No you didn’t. Because you didn’t consider the consequences if I found out. What kind of precedent do you expect me to set?’

  ‘What?’

  The Filipino could only manage single syllables now, his face paling and his hands shaking. He was scared shitless. As he should be. Forrest didn’t look forward to what he had to do next, but he was left with no other choice.

  ‘This is business,’ he said. ‘I have to look at the big picture. If I give you a slap on the wrist and let you get back to your job, do you think that’ll scare these gambling sharks into obeying me? Power’s everything out here, champ. You should have thought that through before you messed with a system as new as mine.’

  ‘New?’ the kid said. ‘W-what does that have to do with it?’

  ‘I need to establish myself in this market. I’m the new kid on the block. Sure, my casino’s the biggest, and my profits are obscene, but if I show myself as a pushover I’ll get run out of here as fast as possible. Got it?’

  ‘Why are you telling me all this?’

  ‘Because I want you to know this isn’t personal.’

  Even though he was approaching fifty, Peter Forrest had the strength of a man twenty years younger. He sported little muscle or fat on his frame, but there was uncanny power in his wiry physique. He had grown up on a farm in the Australian outback, and that strength had remained in his bones. He clamped a hand down on the back of the young dealer’s neck and hauled him over to the side of the railing.

  The guy began to struggle. He squirmed restlessly under Forrest’s grip, and a battle of willpower seeped across the walkway with toxic intensity. The atmosphere tightened, as if every ounce of nicety had been sucked from the air all at once. Perhaps the man knew what was coming.

  Forrest doubted it. He kept this section of Mountain Lion off-limits for good reason. Only the triad knew about it. They’d been the first to suggest using it as a form of punishment. Eventually, Forrest had conceded.

  ‘You know how this place got its name?’ he muttered in the dealer’s ear, keeping his voice low for no good reason other than to appear menacing.

  ‘You have lions, don’t you?’

  Forrest flashed a glance at the triad thugs waiting patiently behind them in a tight semi-circle. ‘Rumours must spread.’

  ‘They up here?’

  ‘Down there,’ Forrest said, jerking a thumb at the strange open-topped enclosure below the walkway.

  The lush jungle had grown thick across the cylindrical space, providing a sanctuary of sorts for its two occupants. Below the enclosure, the rest of the complex’s upper level spread out in an amalgamation of amusement parks, restaurants, atriums, walkways, and shops all open during daytime hours to the general public. This section of the resort had been elevated and cordoned off in such a way to provide Forrest a sweeping view of his work while obscuring the sensitive details from the general public.

  Of course, at this hour of the night the cavernous space was a ghost town, devoid of any living creatures except the two beasts underneath them.

  ‘They’re Tsavo lions,’ Forrest explained, leaning over the railing to catch a glimpse of the darkened artificial jungle below. He knew the Filipino dealer couldn’t care less — and was likely trying not to faint or shit his pants — but he didn’t often get the opportunity to tell the story. ‘I’ve had a fascination with lions ever since I was young. I dreamed of owning a place like this, looking out over my empire. And then slimy fucks like you try to strip me of my fortune.’

  ‘Man, I was just—’

  ‘You know why I got Tsavo lions?’

  The dealer didn’t respond. Beads of sweat had broken out across his forehead, and his cheeks had reddened as he strained against Forrest’s vice-like grip on the back of his neck. He clutched the railing with white knuckles, terrified of the possibilities.

  ‘They’re a rare breed. From Kenya. They’ve got no mane. Only a couple of thousand of them in existence. Goddamn expensive. But I wanted the most vicious lions I could get my hands on, and after I heard the story of the Tsavo Man-Eaters I couldn’t pass up the opportunity to throw a couple million in the direction of whoever was willing to sell me one. You heard that story, champ?’

  Silence. Lips pursed.

  Forrest squirmed, frustrated, and continued.

  ‘Back in the 1800s. A pair of the devils set to work mauling workers along a railway line in Kenya. Killed one hundred and thirty-five of the poor bastards before they were finally shot. What a story, hey? Vicious motherfuckers. No-one knows why they’re so aggressive, but I had to have them. It’s kinda symbolic, you know? I had to be aggressive with my businesses to get where I am. I just had to have them. No matter the cost.’

  He realised he was ranting, sharing information he would never ordinarily disclose due to the knowledge that the poor dealer in his grasp wouldn’t be around to hear it for much longer.

  He composed himself and settled into a steely mood.

  ‘Anyway, sorry about this, buddy. Hopefully it’s over quickly.’

  The Filipino opened his mouth but no words came out. Mortal fear had seized him in its icy grasp — Forrest was ashamed to admit that he had seen such terror many times before. He hadn’t always been like this, but when you reach this level of the game, drastic measures are a necessity.

  So he elbowed down hard on one of the Filipino’s flimsy wrists, causing enough shock for the guy to release his iron grip on the railing. Forrest levered down with his other hand — still wrapped around the back of the man’s neck — and forced him stomach-first into the steel bar. It knocked the breath from his lungs, allowing Forrest to manhandle him over the edge of the walkway.

  Old man strength, he thought as the kid toppled ten feet, arms flailing.

  A distinct thump resonated up through the grated flooring as the dealer hit the dirt. He might have broken a couple of bones in the fall, but those were the least of his worries.

  Forrest leant over the railing so he had a clear view of the proceedings. As much as he would have preferred to look away, there were still unpleasant necessities to deal with.

  The Tsavo lions materialised silently from the darkness, pumped full of testosterone, almost entirely hairless. Their rippled bodies dripped with muscle and sinew. Their eyes were savage. Primal. Focused.

  Powerful goddamn beasts, Forrest thought.

  Still craned halfway over the steel railing, he navigated to the camera on his smartphone, pointed it straight down at the jungle floor below, and hit record.

  The lions fell on their prey. It was over in moments. Covered in blood and gore, the pair of carnivores dragged the fresh corpse into the tree line, the brunt of their work done.

  It was time to feast.

  Now, Forrest allowed himself a grimace.

  Sometimes, a man has to stomp all over people so the world doesn’t stomp all over him.

  2

  Will Slater was up five hundred and fifty thousand dollars for the night when he watched a little girl get snatched and bundled into a limousine.

  The night was warm and humid, as most nights were in Macau. He had abandoned professionalism in favour of comfort and lost the jacket and tie, opening his dress shirt at the neck in a feeble attempt to cool down.

  The suit had been custom-fit to his frame by an exclusive tailor in Zurich, but he had spent much of his time in Switzerland recuperating from a laundry list of horrific injuries, and as a result he’d lost a considerable amount of mu
scle mass during the stay. Now three weeks healthy, he’d packed the weight back on with a rigorous fitness routine. It meant the suit was now close to bursting at the seams. He’d need a new one. As he rummaged around in his pocket for the collection of hundred thousand dollar chips he’d left the VIP room with, he realised that wouldn’t be much of a problem.

  He took a long drag on the Cuaba Colección cigar gifted to him from the VIP room’s staff as a congratulatory departing present. He knew they intended to shower him with gifts in an attempt to entice him back to the tables, but he didn’t mind. He would happily partake in any form of flattery Mountain Lion Casino & Resorts felt necessary to provide.

  Standing motionless on the sidewalk, observing the proceedings around the base of the gargantuan towers on either side of him, Slater took a deep breath and internally searched for any twinge of phantom pain that felt the need to arise. Most of the gruelling recovery period had faded from his immediate memory, but every now and then he found himself doubled over, wracked by the traumatic memories of a stretch of time he’d spent in Yemen.

  He never wanted to think about what had happened there again.

  It had tested limits Slater didn’t think a human body could go through. When he’d stumbled out of the war-torn country with his life hanging by a thread, he’d understood the nature of his injuries and recognised the need for a specialised kind of recovery.

  Which had led to Zurich.

  For two reasons.

  Firstly, Slater had a lifetime’s worth of government black operations money sitting in accounts with little protection from his old employers. Because they hadn’t exactly parted amicably, and also because Slater didn’t feel inclined to give up everything he’d made over the years in service of his country, he’d turned to the murky dealings of Swiss bankers to help funnel his millions into offshore accounts. Sure enough, just a couple of days after he’d dealt with the brunt of the problem, his private banker had informed him that there’d been an attempt to drain all his old accounts at once.