The Will Slater Series Books 1-3

by Matt Rogers

  For Will Slater, it was a good day.

  The opportunity had presented itself, and he’d seized it. It hadn’t taken much critical thinking to recognise that everyone involved in Peter Forrest’s dirty profits had swiftly departed from the land of the living a couple of weeks earlier. The triad had been thrust into tatters, and the culprits of the brazen theft attempt had been left with bullets in their heads in the sub-level of a casino complex. Forrest himself had died a gruesome death — a fact that had been confirmed to Slater on the evening news some time ago.

  Mountain Lion had burst at the seams as a horrific list of illegal operations had been uncovered by a Macau task force. Hundreds of arrests had been made. Affirmative action had been taken without hesitation, and the Macau casino industry had gone into panic mode.

  But none of that really mattered to Slater. He’d pulled a certain child out of the depths of hell, and that gave him all the satisfaction he was looking for.

  He glanced one final time at his accounts, now crammed with money that had been resting in limbo for weeks.

  No-one would miss it.

  And Slater would put it to better use than the authorities. He still had a lot of living to do, and a lot of justice to dish out.

  Sometimes it paid to habitually memorise crucial information.

  Like account numbers, and confirmation codes, and triad bank details.

  Four-hundred and thirty-five million dollars richer, he strode off down the street, wondering where the next chaotic sequence of events would occur.

  He couldn’t wait.

  Bear

  Book 3

  1

  Khabarovsk

  Russia

  Of all the dark and traumatic memories Will Slater had collected over the course of his life, none sent more chills down his spine than the recollection of an all-out war in the depths of an abandoned gold mine on the Kamchatka Peninsula.

  The Russian Far East hadn’t broken him, but it came close. He couldn’t remember a time he’d experienced such unbelievable panic — standing in that freezing elevator as it ascended from the bowels of the earth, his stomach tumbling over and over, dwelling on the ballistic missile bearing down from above.

  He’d sworn off ever returning.

  Some experiences stick with you, no matter how tough you are.

  And now, here you are…

  The city of Khabarovsk rested at the tip of a narrow stretch of the Russian Far East, flanked on either side by the vast landmass of China and the Sea of Japan. In fact, the ground underfoot rested only a couple of dozen miles from China’s border.

  If he wanted to, he could abandon everything he’d come to the region to accomplish and disappear into the wilderness — given his skill set and experience, it wouldn’t be hard to cross the border undetected.

  Then he could vanish.

  Like the ghost he was.

  It hadn’t been easy to return to Russia.

  Wryly, he noted the cinematic nature of his stance. He stood atop a precipice looking out over the Amur River, in a small unpopulated courtyard resting a few miles from the train he’d arrived on. The wind howled icily against his frame, battering the heavy overcoat draped over his shoulders. He hunched a little lower and adjusted the rusting payphone receiver in his hand, sliding a gloved finger around it to prevent it being blown away in the gale.

  He shielded his mouth with the other hand to prevent interference.

  ‘Not long to go,’ he said. ‘Almost the end of the line.’

  ‘Okay.’ The deep voice on the other end crackled in his ear.

  ‘You don’t seem interested.’

  ‘I’m not.’

  ‘I’m here to put my demons to rest.’

  ‘Be careful. Russia’s not a kind place.’

  ‘I haven’t spent much of my life in kind places. Consider what we discussed.’

  ‘I’m not interested.’

  ‘Sit on it. I’ll be in touch.’

  ‘I’d prefer you didn’t call me again.’

  ‘Sit on it,’ Slater repeated. ‘Take care.’

  He slammed the receiver back into its cradle and set off through the dreary streets of Khabarovsk, retracing his footsteps back to the unimpressive railway station they’d arrived at only a couple of hours earlier. It hadn’t been recommended that they venture far out into the city — Khabarovsk, he’d been told, had an unsurprising lack of tourist appeal, and there wasn’t much at all to see or do.

  But that suited Slater just find.

  He didn’t want to see or do anything.

  He just wanted to think.

  The freezing winter air chilled his bare scalp, and he caught a series of suspicious glances from locals surprised to see an African-American in these parts. It mirrored the same reactions he’d received on his initial trek to the Amur River.

  The Trans-Siberian Railway attracted tourists of all kinds, but Slater assumed none of them chose to stray far from the railway station at this particular destination, which probably made the locals curious whenever a bold soul decided to venture out into the cold.

  There was nothing remarkable about the city, but Slater wasn’t paying attention to it in any case. He trudged through narrow streets, dwarfed on either side by nondescript blocks of grey residential apartments, as if giant indistinguishable slabs had been tossed into a 3D printer and distributed throughout the city at random. There was no particular order to things — not that Slater cared, anyway.

  His mind was consumed by memories of the Russian Far East, and what he expected to find at the end of the line.

  Truth was, he didn’t know. He’d never received counselling or therapy of any kind — he figured if he’d achieved the feats of the past on his own, he could deal with them on his own, too.

  Besides, he didn’t want to talk about his problems.

  Not to a soul.

  He wasn’t sure if he was legally allowed to anyway.

  Any therapist up to the task of tackling the mind of Will Slater would need all sorts of high-level clearances to even make an attempt.

  But, contrary to his natural tendencies, the journey across Russia had been entirely without incident. He’d lost count of the days — they’d all blurred together as he withdrew into himself over the course of the train trip, taking a much-needed break from life, not bothering to interact with any of the other passengers on board.

  He would have all the time in the world to socialise later.

  All things considered, he was a young man.

  But it sure didn’t feel that way.

  Physically, he was as good as new. A solo career in black operations of the highest importance had all manner of downsides, but the one positive benefit it instilled was the self-discipline to simply do whatever one put their mind to.

  That had never left.

  Slater didn’t think it ever would.

  So, despite the fact that his mind had been through enough struggle and pain and unrest and stress for over a decade to mentally ruin a weaker man, he’d kept himself in the condition of an Olympic athlete. By this point it came naturally to him — he didn’t see it as an option. He simply pushed his body to its limits in any way he could — powerlifting, running, periodic visits to mixed martial arts gyms around the world.

  His exterior was unblemished. Good genetics must have favoured his bone structure, because all the injuries he’d sustained over his career had never resulted in permanent disability. He’d always healed, always returned to full health given enough time.

  The inside of him was what he’d come to Russia to tackle…

  He made it back to the railway station with eight minutes to spare, barely paying any attention to his drab surroundings. He shuffled through a cold dull terminal and scanned the same ticket he’d used all the way along the Trans-Siberian Railway. Then it was back on board the luxury private train he’d spent the past week of his life on.

  He stepped into the familiar air-conditioned communal passenger carriage he’d
chosen as his favourite only a few short hours into the trip, and slotted straight back into the same four seat booth on the left-hand side of the carriage. Right now the view was dismal. The giant spotless windows faced a railway platform that looked like its caretakers had abandoned it a decade ago.

  Sharp contrast to where you’re sitting, he thought.

  But that was another aspect of Slater’s new life — he’d come into the possession of hundreds of millions of dollars a few months earlier. An explosive stint in Macau had changed his life in several ways, namely the digits in his bank account and the revelation that he was no longer being hunted by the United States government. The new information relaxed him somewhat, but he’d never been checking over his shoulder in the first place.

  Even when he was being hunted, he’d never expected them to catch him.

  And he’d already been rich. A successful career at the highest level of secret military operations paid beyond well, so money had never been a significant factor in his life. He’d always had enough of it to do anything he wanted.

  So really, nothing had changed.

  Back to the road.

  Back to solitude.

  Back to observing the world.

  Then, as the train pulled away from Khabarovsk’s railway station and set off on the first steps of its final leg to the port city of Vladivostok, Slater began paying attention to the passengers around him, including a couple of fresh faces he hadn’t seen before.

  And suddenly everything changed.

  2

  Slater had spent most of his life in situations that people preferred to avoid, which meant he knew exactly how to pick up on the subtle cues that meant someone was scared for their life.

  Across the aisle, seated in the other four-person booth, was a party of three men. Slater wouldn’t have paid them any attention had he not made brief eye contact with the guy furthest away from him, a guy he’d never seen before, which drew his attention for the couple of seconds necessary to deduce that all was not well.

  The guy was dressed in an expensive business suit tailored perfectly to his frame — nothing out of the ordinary on this train. Slater’s deluxe suite for the journey across Russia had cost him the equivalent of twenty thousand U.S. dollars to acquire, so the fact that the man was obviously wealthy did little to surprise him.

  But it was hard not to linger on the sight of the blood draining from the man’s cheeks. His eyes were wide and unblinking. He was doing everything in his power not to appear terrified — and Slater had to admit the man was a good actor. If he’d made eye contact for a second less he might have shrugged it off as nothing and turned his gaze back to the city of Khabarovsk passing them by.

  But he realised the underlying tension at play, and from that point onward everything became clear.

  The other two men in the booth — seated opposite each other on the aisle seats — were dressed in identical attire and sported identical demeanours. They wore cheap suits, not tailored, workmanlike and utilitarian. They both sported pronounced jawlines and the same shaved heads. It was as if they were deliberately trying to look like twins.

  Slater recognised the cruelness in their faces, even though they were doing nothing but sitting rigid in their seats. He didn’t spend long glancing across at the party, but a few seconds was all it took to understand what was going on.

  The man in the expensive suit was there against his will.

  As soon as the dynamic became apparent, Slater honed in on the finer details. There were a couple of wet spots dotted along the guy’s collar, which ordinarily he would have chalked up as nothing but now recognised as nervous perspiration. The guy was trying a little too hard to seem nonchalant. Anyone who studied him for any significant amount of time would see the rigidity of his posture before long.

  The men in the cheap suits were hired muscle, positioned across from each other to form an imperceptible barricade. They were there to ensure the guy in the expensive suit didn’t try anything funny, like making a break for it or calling for help. The fact that Slater hadn’t seen them before raised questions — had these men been on the train since Moscow, or were they fresh arrivals?

  Slater hadn’t bothered to check whether the train accepted new passengers or not. He’d assumed the stopovers at various cities and towns were simple pit stops.

  Now that he thought about it, he seemed to recall people showing up who hadn’t been there before. He hadn’t paid attention to it at the time. Usually his situational awareness was unparalleled, but he’d allowed himself to slip on the luxury train.

  He’d considered it a safe haven.

  He shouldn’t have.

  The guy in the expensive suit glanced across the aisle again, and Slater made eye contact with him for a second time.

  As soon as the man recognised Slater’s glare he averted his gaze, staring sheepishly at his feet.

  So you don’t want to be helped, either, Slater thought.

  Slater couldn’t put it together. Not yet. In all likelihood the man in the expensive suit was being forced along this journey — whether a loved one was being held hostage or his finances were at risk, it didn’t make a difference.

  Slater began to sort through a wide range of reasons, compiling a mental list, but then a fresh sight tore his attention away from everything he’d just seen.

  He caught a glimpse of another passenger further along the carriage. The man had a booth all to himself. He wore dirty tan khakis and an oversized blue jumper that hung strangely over his frame. He was skinny, but Slater could tell from the veins and knots in his hands that there was strength in his physique. He was wiry, but athletic. His hair was jet black, but despite the fact it had lost none of its colour it was receding all the same, creeping back across his scalp to inevitable doom. He looked to be in his forties.

  And he was sweating like hell.

  Slater couldn’t believe what he was seeing. The new guy was just as jumpy as the suit-clad man, but positioned a couple of booths down the carriage. Slater had only managed the briefest of glances — to get a proper look, he would need to lean into the aisle and reveal the fact that he was interested.

  Slater had seen none of the four suspicious men before, which set off a long list of possibilities in his mind.

  Now firing on all cylinders, he rattled through some reasons.

  They could all be connected, having spent most of the last seven days holed up in their private cabins to prevent suspicion. Now that the luxury train was on the last leg of its journey, they might have decided to take a risk and spend some time in one of the shared commuter carriages. But the positioning was odd. Slater would have put one of the hired brutes in each of the booths, to prevent anyone causing a scene.

  So maybe this new guy had nothing to do with the other three.

  Slater figured there was no point shying away from what could be a potentially disastrous situation, so he leant across the empty aisle seat beside him, as nonchalant as possible. All the warning signs fired away, hinting that all was not as it seemed.

  He stared straight into the eyes of the man with the receding hairline, and the guy visibly reacted, shrinking away from the sudden scrutiny, wiping a bead of sweat from the side of his forehead despite the chill in the air.

  Then the man shot to his feet and hustled for the other end of the carriage, moving with enough restraint to minimise attention, but hurrying all the same.

  Slater ignored the three men across the aisle, and slid quietly out of his seat to follow.

  3

  Positioned at one end of the train carriage, tucked away in the furthest corner, shielded from prying eyes, Misha Bessonov noticed the two men hurry past him.

  He reached for the MP-443 Grach pistol in the leather holster at his waist.

  He’d been working for the Federal Security Service of the Russian Federation for the last five years, each of which he had spent as a highly devoted and respected employee. Most of his time had been spent in the field, adaptin
g the old-school methods of the Russian military to the new world. There had been plenty of opportunities to demonstrate his counter-terrorism skills over the years, one of which was presenting themselves right now.

  Because there was some shady shit going down in Vladivostok.

  And this train seemed to be a hotspot for undesirables.

  He’d been keeping tabs on Viktor Gribkov for the seven days he’d spent on the train. According to all the intelligence files he’d been able to gather, the man was forty-three years old and had been working at a shipbuilding plant in Vladivostok for the better part of three years now.

  What couldn’t be explained were his reasons for fleeing to Moscow two weeks earlier, abandoning his position in the plant with enough haste to draw attention. The Federal Security Service had noticed the ruckus Viktor had stirred, and instructed Bessonov to keep tabs on the man in Moscow to see what he did next.

  Then it had all changed.

  Almost as quickly as he’d hurried away from the shipbuilding plant, Viktor suddenly felt the need to return. He’d booked a last minute ticket on board this private train and made the journey across the Trans-Siberian Railway, heading straight back as if nothing had happened at all.

  But Bessonov had been silently observing the port worker for the entire duration of the trip — civilians weren’t very good at noticing surveillance — and had concluded that the man was terrified for his life.

  And then there was the matter of the businessman and the two thugs…

  Bessonov had only noticed that party a couple of days earlier, but it hadn’t been his main priority. His attention was consumed by Viktor, and the other three could wait, but Bessonov certainly suspected they were up to something.

  What is it about Vladivostok that attracts scum?

  And now, a whole new realm of possibilities had opened up, because of the African-American man trailing a couple of feet behind Viktor with intent in his stride.