The Will Slater Series Books 1-3

by Matt Rogers

  Jang had found him, cornered him, eliminated his forces, and pinned him down.

  On top of that, from the dark look in the man’s glare, Forrest knew the Hong Kong businessman knew the truth.

  Forrest was the reason his daughter had been missing for more than two weeks.

  Forrest gulped back apprehension as two of the suit-clad mercenaries held him firmly against the jagged chassis of the overturned limousine. Even worse than the fact that Jang knew was the reality that he himself had no idea where Shien was.

  Jang wouldn’t believe it for an instant.

  Forrest was doomed.

  ‘Jang,’ he gasped as one of the mercenaries slammed a fist into his gut, almost bringing up the meagre meal he’d forced down his throat earlier that morning. ‘I swear, man, I can explain.’

  Jang said nothing, steadily advancing down the slope. Forrest knew that meant the worst — based on the businessman’s track record, he knew the next portion of his life would involve greater pain than he’d ever experienced.

  Jang wasn’t a man of words.

  He was a man of action.

  Forrest watched in abject horror as the businessman reached into his jacket pocket and withdrew a serrated switchblade, flipping the blade itself into sight with a simple press of a button.

  ‘No!’ Forrest screamed.

  He bucked and writhed, to no avail. The mercenaries kept him pinned helplessly in place, and one of them rammed a follow-up punch into his exposed neck for the trouble of being made to work to keep him in position.

  Forrest’s breath caught in his throat and he sucked in air, spluttering and wheezing and wondering what he’d done to get himself into this kind of situation.

  About a hundred things, his brain told him.

  Before he had time to compose himself — in reality, there was no way to prepare for what was about to happen — Jang seized hold of Forrest’s bloody wrist and forced it flat against the limousine’s chassis like a makeshift chopping block. Forrest stifled a squeal of protest — then, almost in fast motion, Jang lashed out with the switchblade and severed his pinky finger with a single attack.

  The finger fell into the dirt amidst a spray of blood and Forrest roared, his nerve endings firing and sweat pouring off his frame uncontrollably. As soon as he opened his mouth to yell, Jang backhanded him across the face, knocking a tooth loose.

  Forrest lost all resistance, and couldn’t help himself when his natural instincts kicked in. Tears sprung out of their ducts — he was helpless to prevent it.

  He hunched over, a snivelling cowering mess, and waited for more trauma that he knew would soon follow.

  But Jang’s destructive outburst ceased instantly, and the man simply stood and stared at Forrest in the ditch. The only sound came from the heavy breathing of all the men involved in the confrontation, Forrest included.

  Adrenalin leeched from every pore in the vicinity.

  When Jang finally spoke, enough silence had built up to turn the tension in the air palpable.

  ‘I will ask you where my daughter is,’ he said, his English perfect. ‘I will give you three seconds to answer and then I will cut off another finger. We’ll repeat this until I get what I want, and then I’ll start with toes. Then other, more unpleasant areas.’

  Forrest flapped his lips like a dying fish, struggling to find the necessary words in the face of unrivalled terror.

  ‘Look, Jang—’

  ‘Where is my daughter?’

  ‘Can we discuss this like men instead of resorting to some kind of sick and twisted—’

  ‘That’s three seconds.’

  As lackadaisically as if he were simply taking out the trash, Jang wrapped the same vice-like grip around Forrest’s crimson wrist and forced it back to the same surface area on the limousine. It triggered a fresh wave of terror. Forrest writhed on the spot, moaning and pleading and…

  Jang smashed the point of the knife into the base of Forrest’s fourth finger.

  It separated from his hand just as the previous digit had.

  Forrest let out a blood-curdling scream, and for a moment his vision faltered, his consciousness threatening to leave him in the face of abject horror. He couldn’t see a way out of the situation, and it crippled him inwardly. Things were only going to get worse from here — he had underestimated the determination and sheer passion of a man who had lost his daughter and would go to the ends of the earth to get her back.

  All because Forrest got greedy and wanted to add her to his bottom line of revenue…

  He whimpered, starting to double over in pain before the two henchmen thrust him upright again, keeping him clamped in place as effectively as if he were bound with rope. A long string of saliva dangled from his lips, tinged with the blood flowing from his now-empty gum where Jang had dislodged his tooth.

  He wished to the heavens for Jang to overcommit on one of his attacks and accidentally sever an artery.

  That way, Forrest could depart this planet as quickly as possible.

  Anything else would only prolong the suffering…

  Then the world went utterly mad.

  Automatic gunfire blared from everywhere at once and Jang’s henchmen dropped like flies. One after the other they contorted and twisted on their feet, locked in the macabre dance of death, before face planting the mud at the bottom of the ditch and lying still, their arterial blood mixing with the mud.

  Jang wheeled on the spot, horrified, searching for the source of the fresh commotion.

  A heavy bullet caught him full in the face, and suddenly Jang ceased to exist.

  His half-headless corpse dropped to the dirt at Forrest’s feet, and the two henchmen — previously holding Forrest with fervour against the side of the limousine — slackened their grip out of panic.

  Forrest didn’t take the opportunity lightly.

  He’d been in shootouts before. Long, long ago.

  He knew what to do.

  He clasped one hand to either side of his head, dropped to the mud, and curled into a ball. He squeezed his eyes shut — ignoring the pain creasing across his face and the blood pumping out of the two stumps on his right hand where his fingers used to sit — and simply waited for the carnage to reach its conclusion.

  It didn’t take long. Three or four seconds after Forrest cowered away from the action, the gunfire ceased and the high-pitched whining of tinnitus settled over his hearing. Gunshots were horrifying sounds in person — Forrest had slowly come to understand real life wasn’t similar to the movies.

  He wouldn’t forget what had just unfolded for the rest of his life.

  However long that lasted.

  When a strange kind of silence descended over the ditch — the kind of silence that signalled everyone nearby was dead — Forrest lifted his head out of the mud and stared through swimming vision at the top of the slope.

  A figure had materialised against the grimy horizon.

  No, multiple figures.

  Advancing steadily toward him.

  The only survivors of the firefight.

  He whimpered again, succumbing to instinct, unable to save face. It didn’t matter who would find him like this — whether they wanted to help or wanted him dead, they would find a broken man.

  When Forrest tentatively sat up and squinted in an attempt to make out who was descending toward him, he realised in that moment he almost didn’t care whether he lived or died.

  But the middle-aged Asian man with the strong build and the expensive suit descending toward him was a familiar face.

  Forrest didn’t know whether to sigh with relief, or curse his luck.

  Maybe he would have been better in the hands of Jang.

  Now he would have to explain to the most dangerous triad in Macau that he suspected three of their men of stealing from him.

  All while thanking them for saving his life.

  The middle-aged guy crouched down by Forrest’s pathetic form, studying him with the patient reservedness of a confident ma
n.

  ‘Mr. Forrest,’ he said. ‘Seems you ran into trouble on your way to us.’

  ‘Uh, yes,’ Forrest stammered. ‘Yes, I did.’

  ‘Unfortunately for these men, they decided to confront you on our territory. Glad we were here to take care of it.’

  ‘So am I.’

  ‘Will these men pose a problem for us?’ the man said, gesturing to the graveyard all around them.

  Through a mask of blood, Forrest shook his head. ‘No, sir. They’re from Hong Kong. They know nothing about Macau.’

  ‘Of course they know nothing. They tried to jump you on triad grounds.’

  Forrest made to respond but nothing came out of his mouth. A searing burst of pain ran through his hand and he drew the mangled limb to his chest, unable to prevent himself from breaking down in tears.

  It was all too much.

  Despite everything, the triad member grunted in frustration. ‘You would do good not to show weakness around these men, Mr. Forrest. They are hungry, and they feed on weakness.’

  ‘Sorry,’ Forrest said. ‘Thank you for saving me.’

  ‘Of course. It’s our own reputation we need to uphold. Now why don’t we get you fixed up and have a chat about why you came here today?’

  That did nothing to quash any of the tension in Forrest’s gut — in fact, it only made things worse. He had been saved before long-term damage had been inflicted, but the pain was dulling his senses and making him woozy with unease. On top of that, he was on his own, in the possession of a triad he knew very little about.

  Soon, he would have to justify his reason for the visit.

  As the middle-aged man helped him steadily to his feet, he battled down all kinds of hesitation and elected to simply press on for as long as he could.

  He wasn’t sure how long it would last.

  28

  Slater stepped off the road, up onto the sidewalk, moving into the vast shadow that the Mountain Lion complex cast over everything in sight. The enormous towers dwarfed him, stirring a sense of insignificance in his gut. There were thousands and thousands of customers between the two skyscrapers, but that played directly to his advantage.

  There was only so many people a security team could keep track of.

  Besides, he imagined he wasn’t the only black guy staying at Mountain Lion.

  If they suspected him as Shien’s rescuer, it would take them some time to piece it together, rallying any of the injured staff who were battered down by Slater and lived to tell the tale. They would identify him as the man who saved Shien, but by then Slater expected to be deep in the maze of Mountain Lion’s underbelly.

  One way or another, he was going to have to force his way out.

  It would simply depend on what level of resistance he faced when he had to burst out of the belly of the beast.

  Worming his way into a sex slavery ring only left one option when they realised he wasn’t actually interested in the product — confrontation. As Slater realised its inevitability, a fresh burst of energy surged through him. He strode straight through to the grand lobby of the left-hand tower — which compromised most of the VIP rooms running out of the Mountain Lion complex — and a beaming concierge instantly greeted him by name.

  Slater had left Shien back in the hotel suite — between the options of leaving her there or bringing her with him, the choice had become obvious. He’d instructed her to answer the door for no-one and, if need be, to hide underneath one of the beds in the rare event of someone forcing their way in.

  That would have to be enough.

  She couldn’t see what was about to transpire.

  The concierge was short and rotund but painfully welcoming — Slater imagined he would follow through with any request one could think of. His dark black hair had been slicked back with gel, and he stood patiently by the entrance with his hands clasped behind his back, scanning each fresh arrival for any sign of wealth.

  Slater decided to test his luck.

  ‘Welcome back, William,’ the concierge said, flashing a pristine row of bright white teeth.

  ‘Good to see you again,’ Slater said, lacing his tone with warmth.

  He loitered by the entrance, signalling that he had some kind of intention in mind with his visit. He wasn’t simply here to pick up some designer clothing or a gourmet meal.

  ‘Are you interested in returning to the same room you were using previously?’ the man said.

  Slater nodded slowly. ‘Thought I’d try my luck one more time. Your casino has been good to me so far.’

  The concierge beamed — Slater wondered if he received kickbacks for feeding whales to the high-stakes gambling rooms. ‘Of course, sir. We’re happy to help you. Let me make the call and once you’re approved you can head right on up. It should only take a moment.’

  Slater nodded, acting mightily satisfied, and clasped his hands behind his back while the concierge skirted around a small desk and raised a landline phone to his ear.

  While he waited, he took the time to assess how he was feeling. He’d been involved in multiple fights to the death earlier that day, and with that knowledge in the back of his mind he found himself pleasantly surprised by his condition. Upon further assessment he didn’t think the ligaments in his knee were damaged too badly — he could walk, and apply pressure on it to an extent. Squatting or levering it in any way spelled trouble, but as long as Slater could move freely he could ignore the injury until chaos broke out and the comfortable flood of adrenalin suppressed anything he might be feeling.

  The concierge spent a moment listening patiently to a spiel on the other end of the line. He lifted the receiver away from his ear and stared at Slater with his head cocked to one side.

  He wanted to know something.

  ‘Yes?’ Slater said.

  ‘May I ask if you’re still in possession of the bankroll you left here with? Have you gambled any of the money away at other locations? Macau can be awfully luring, after all…’

  Slater paused for just a moment. He weighed up the risks associated with both forging an explanation for the missing fifth or simply stating that he still had the full amount. In all likelihood they would ask for visual proof of the five-hundred thousand, so there was no use lying.

  ‘I lost a hundred thousand at the Parisian,’ Slater said, grimacing as if he were embarrassed to disclose the information. ‘Hope that’s alright.’

  The concierge muttered something into the phone, listened for a beat, then nodded in turn. He returned the receiver to its cradle and turned to Slater with a reassuring smile.

  ‘You’ve been accepted again,’ the man said. ‘As I said, much faster than the first time, yes?’

  Slater had to concur. His first trip into the VIP rooms had taken some time to burst through the initial period of resistance — he was an unknown stranger with an undisclosed net worth, whereas the usual whales Mountain Lion targeted were well-known local businessmen or titans from nearby Hong Kong or China. His sudden appearance and insistence to be allowed to gamble on the high-stakes table had taken some time to grow accustomed to, but after a few days of spending his money lavishly in the resort and retail sections of the complex, they had deduced he had the funds to back up his talk and let him through to the VIP rooms.

  The initial waiting period had long since been taken care of.

  So the concierge gestured for Slater to follow his lead, and he led the way through a marble lobby that stretched dozens of feet above their heads, complete with ornate jungle decor and a statue of a puma erected in the centre of the sweeping floor. Its lips were curved into a snarl and it sat surrounded by riches — chests of gold, fat diamonds, ancient artefacts. There was nothing to denote what the time or date was — time didn’t exist in these establishments. One could gamble for days on end — weeks even.

  The VIP rooms encouraged it.

  The concierge led Slater past hordes of tourists from mainland China and almost every other continent on the planet, through to a narrow pa
ssageway that curved between two marble walls, deceptively hidden from public view. He swiped a keycard against a broad set of oak doors and pushed them inward when a sharp beeping authenticated his safe passage through.

  In any other situation, Slater would have remained wary.

  But there was four-hundred thousand dollars in his pocket and fresh clothes on his frame and significant progress being made with tracing Shien’s footsteps through the dark underbelly. He realised he hadn’t felt like this in quite some time — and he realised why.

  He had a purpose.

  Aimless wandering and gambling and chasing cheap thrills did nothing for him. He was in a hostile environment where one of Forrest’s thugs could identify him on the cameras at any moment, surrounded by men who would happily murder him without giving it a second thought, searching for a dark truth in a complex larger than he could possibly fathom.

  And he was loving every second of it.

  As the concierge ushered him into a private elevator with thick carpet flooring and a gold-plated interface, he took a deep breath and released every ounce of tension in his bones. He could calm himself in almost any situation where he wasn’t fighting for his life — and this, thankfully, was one of those times.

  The concierge nodded farewell, and the doors whispered closed.

  A floor had already been preset into the digital interface — level 22, the same floor he’d been visiting for the last two weeks. As the numbers ticked by and the elevator pressed up into the heart of the skyscraper, he composed himself for the hours ahead.

  It would take a marathon of gambling and subtle conversational cues to imbue the notion in the staff’s heads that he wanted more than just a high-stakes betting streak. He would have to hint at a darker side, a side that didn’t exist, and all the while cover his true intentions.

  If they offered him a trip into the seedier, off-limits areas of Mountain Lion — which, by this point, he was almost certain existed — he would run with it. He would follow the trail into the bowels of the casino, until he stumbled across whatever it was Peter Forrest had intended to use Shien for.