by Matt Rogers
‘You got no gun.’
‘Yeah. And you got clocked so hard it gave you a concussion. So it’s both our heads on the chopping block.’
The swollen face lowered, eyes meeting concrete. ‘Shoulda walked away a while ago. Like you said.’
‘But we didn’t,’ the first man said. ‘So we ain’t never gonna. People do the same shit until the day they die and we ain’t no different.’
A nod from Dominic and his crooked jaw.
His little brother, Zach, pulled out his phone and dialled a number.
It was answered on the first ring.
Zach said, ‘Ronan? Hey, listen, we fucked up.’
18
King sat cloaked in the night, positioned so he could catch a full view of the street outside through a sliver of a gap in the blinds.
He rested a Glock on his knee, one finger against the trigger guard, tapping rhythmically.
Slater watched him from the sofa, his own profile backlit by a log fire in the living room’s wood burner. They both had decades of experience anticipating attacks. In their old lives, their old professions, defending themselves was as regular as the sun rising each morning, and it ended up being almost as prevalent after they’d got out, leaving their gigs with the secret world of U.S. black operations and venturing into the world of vigilante justice. Even if Slater didn’t have the experience, he’d still feel safe with King guarding the premises. The man’s mountainous back was hunched in the gloom, watching and waiting.
Slater almost felt sorry for whoever was coming after them.
He dialled Alonzo. It rang and rang, and for a moment Slater considered the possibility that the tech wizard had put a moratorium on helping them. Slater certainly wouldn’t blame the man. Sure, they’d saved his life in New York, but Alonzo had only been in danger in the first place because he’d helped them carry out unofficial operations simply because he thought it was the right thing to do. He was their knight in shining armour, and if he didn’t want to do it anymore, then they’d wish him godspeed…
But he answered.
‘Shoot,’ he said. ‘I’m already at my computer.’
Slater smiled as dim orange firelight played across his face. ‘You’re our saviour.’
‘It’s nothing, really. I owe you.’
‘You absolutely don’t.’
‘Yeah,’ Alonzo said. ‘You’re right, now that I think about it. But, hell, I’m already sitting here. So what do you need?’
‘I’d kiss you if you were here in front of me.’
‘Thank God I’m not.’
‘Three guys in a van tried to kidnap Tyrell on Massachusetts Avenue today. And another pair tried to grab Violetta in Ingleside Park.’
A pause. Then, ‘Shit.’
‘Yeah, shit.’
‘That’s…not possible. That they’d know where you are. My digital blanket…’
‘Fuck the blanket,’ Slater said. ‘They found us somehow. Doesn’t mean it’s your fault because there’s a ninety-nine percent chance it’s not—’
‘You don’t understand. Doesn’t matter who it is, or which way they found you. I wiped every trace of you from every system that exists. Not even your own government can find you. So this team of, what, five men? You think they’ve managed?’
‘I don’t think anything. They have managed.’
‘It’s not random?’
‘Definitely not random. They called Violetta by name. They told Tyrell they wanted to speak to his dad — they meant me. And they timed the routes. Went after each of them thirty minutes apart. They knew precisely when they’d be there.’
‘If they have that, they’ve got your home addresses.’
‘We figured.’
‘Wait—’
The call went dead.
Slater gripped the phone tight between his fingers. He could feel his pulse thrumming steadily in his own neck. He took the phone away and looked at the black screen, like he couldn’t quite believe what he was hearing and seeing.
King noticed something was off and glanced over his shoulder. ‘What?’
‘I, uh…’ Slater trailed off. ‘I think they might’ve gotten to Alonzo.’
Tension hummed in the air.
Then the phone rang in his hand.
An anonymous number.
19
Slater answered tentatively, unsure what to say.
But it was Alonzo’s voice again. ‘Okay. I reset the encryption. There isn’t a soul alive who’d be able to listen in on this. I didn’t trust the last line.’
Slater exhaled his relief. ‘Next time give me warning before you do something like that.’
‘There won’t be a next time because I’m tightening everything up after this shit is over. Can’t believe I let you down like that.’
‘You haven’t. But, just then…I thought they’d grabbed you.’
Alonzo snorted. ‘In your dreams. They should never have been able to find you but they sure as hell aren’t finding me. You don’t need to worry about that.’
‘You’re just down the road.’
‘But digitally I may as well be in Mogadishu. And in the world of today, that’s all that matters.’
‘How is Winthrop treating you?’ Slater said. ‘I haven’t spoken to you in weeks. Actually, it’s got to have been, what, a couple of months?’
‘Two months, maybe. You didn’t need me in California, evidently. Maybe you should have thought of asking for my help. I probably could’ve kept your little adventure from making nationwide headlines for six, seven weeks.’
‘That was a hot scoop,’ Slater said. ‘Nothing you could’ve done to prevent that getting out. Heidi was in Forbes. 30 Under 30. You see it?’
‘I remember reading up on her before everything imploded. I thought she was a genius.’
‘So did a lot of people.’
Alonzo seemed to snap out of it. ‘What the hell are we talking about? Let’s track these bastards who tried to snatch your families. Plenty of time later to gossip. Christ. What did you say before? Massachusetts Avenue and Ingleside Park?’
‘Your memory’s on point. As always.’
‘Can you give me exact coordinates?’
‘I can try.’
King gave Slater the rough location where Violetta had been approached, approximated as a couple hundred feet west of Walden Street, halfway across the park itself. Then Slater remembered Tyrell’s words — “Think the street was called Haskell.” He fed both sets of information to Alonzo, who then said, ‘Leave it with me.’
An ominous message, given the nature of Alonzo’s mind. If he wanted to find you, you were found. Cover your tracks all you want, use burner phones, keep to the shadows…he’ll still get you.
Sure enough, within ten minutes, the same anonymous number came up on the screen.
Slater answered with, ‘That was quick.’
‘It was simple enough,’ Alonzo said. ‘I just wasn’t expecting it to go the way it did.’
‘What do you mean?’
‘I got it the wrong way round. I thought Massachusetts Avenue was a lock. Where it intersects with Haskell Street, in Cambridge, there’s a 7-Eleven and a 3-star motel and a realty place and a church and a couple of big grocery stores. I thought there was bound to be a CCTV camera pointing right at the place they tried to do the snatch-and-grab. But there isn’t. It’s a total blind spot. Whoever went after Tyrell did their due diligence. The other guys…not so much.’
‘You’re kidding,’ Slater said, incredulous. ‘There was a camera in the middle of Ingleside Park?’
‘No. Not even close. So I’m guessing those guys did their research too. But they must’ve been rattled after they fucked the job up, because they walked straight down to the cluster of shops around Harold French Square. Guessing they weren’t even thinking about cameras. One guy was holding his jaw the whole time. I got them on three separate CCTV feeds. Hard to make out what they were doing on the first two that I pulled up, but the third caught them red-han
ded. They hustled behind some pizza place, down a side alley. Exactly fifty minutes ago. I pulled up a satellite feed of the area and it’s a dead end behind that joint. Only one way in or out, and they haven’t emerged yet. They’re hiding back there.’
‘What the fuck?’ Slater said. ‘Why?’
‘Scared of you, maybe.’
‘If they were scared of us they’d be as far from Winthrop as humanly possible.’
‘Then maybe going back empty-handed is more terrifying.’
Slater thought it through. ‘They’re scared of repercussions because they butchered the job?’
‘So did the other guys, though. The ones with the van.’
‘Maybe the other three are the ringleaders,’ Slater posited. ‘That way they could escape blame. Take out their frustration on the underlings.’
‘Yeah. Maybe.’
‘It backs our theory.’
‘Which is?’
‘That they’re hotheads. That they have good intel but they didn’t think this through and they’re trying to do it all on their own. That it’s personal.’
‘Why would it be personal?’
‘Why do you think, Alonzo?’
Slater doubted it was necessary to run through the history of his life. Where he’d been, what he’d done, how many evil and cruel men he’d enraged in the process. Same went for King. Together they’d probably made more enemies than some small nations. But nothing about these guys rang any bells, not even the distinctive scar on the one man’s cheek, his empty eye socket. Slater had wracked his brain for any familiar memory, and he knew King had done the same. They’d both come up empty-handed, which made it highly unlikely that they’d encountered these men, because between them their recall was otherworldly. A benefit of the brains they’d been born with.
Then Alonzo said, ‘I’ve got a screenshot of the feed at its clearest. I’ll send it through. But they’re still there.’
‘We’re going now.’
King’s ears pricked up from the window.
Alonzo said, ‘It could be a trap.’
Slater said, ‘I couldn’t give a shit.’
‘I don’t think it’s a good idea to—’ Alonzo paused mid-sentence, cutting himself off. ‘You know what? Forget it. Go. I’m watching the feed. I’ll tell you if anything changes.’
He’d remembered what these men had tried to do that very afternoon.
They’d crossed a line you’d have to be clinically insane to cross.
Alonzo hung up so he could send the photo through, and Slater pulled it up and scrutinised it. It showed the two men side-by-side, just before stepping into the alleyway, illuminated by the light glowing through the pizza joint’s front windows. One guy clutched his jaw. They were exactly as Violetta had described, but a picture shows a thousand tiny details that vague descriptions can’t bring to life. It’s why sketch artists exist.
Slater held the phone screen a couple of inches from his eyes, scouring their faces for anything that might jog his memory.
He tossed the phone across the room. King saw it coming and caught it, stared down at the photo.
Slater said, ‘Ring any bells?’
King shook his head.
Slater said, ‘They’re still here in Winthrop. Behind the pizza place near Harold French Square. They’ve been there for nearly an hour. Alonzo thinks it’s a trap.’
King smirked. ‘Good.’
He tossed the phone back and made for the front door.
Slater was already on his way across the room.
20
Dirty sweat clung to the back of Ronan’s neck.
His face was a mass of oily pores surrounding the scar, but showering was the last thing on his mind.
He listened with silent stoicism to what Zach had to say, then lit a cigarette and took a deep, intoxicating pull. Exhaled smoke into the dark room and pressed the phone tighter against his ear. ‘So King was with them?’
Zach’s voice was meek, ashamed. ‘No. Some other guy. A civilian.’
‘A civilian clocked Dom in the mouth? Made you walk away?’
‘She…’ A pause, then a deep breath for composure. ‘She got my gun. There weren’t many options. We figured, best wait until the odds are in our favour. No point taking senseless risk. Right? We got ’em where we want ’em.’
‘“We got ’em where we want ’em,”’ Ronan parroted in a falsetto voice. ‘You ever hear yourself speak?’
‘I’m sorry. We’re sorry.’
Another couple of long pulls on the cigarette. Ronan washed the smoke down with bourbon. ‘Where are you?’
‘Still in the area. Thought you might want us to hit the house.’
That’s not why you stayed, Ronan thought. You’re scared.
Of me.
It wasn’t the right time to let on that he knew. They could still very well disappear, and that would be a problem, only because it’d make Ronan so angry that he might temporarily change the target of his wrath.
Ronan said, ‘One of us will come get you. Text me a pin-drop on Maps.’
Zach said, ‘I promise, man. That’s why we stayed back.’
Ronan hadn’t said anything to prompt the elaboration.
He drew on his cigarette, sipped from the bourbon flask, let the silence drag out. He wanted Zach tearing his hair out in discomfort.
Finally Zach broke the tension with a pleading, ‘Come on, Ronan. Why don’t you believe us?’
‘I never said I don’t believe you.’
‘Right. Okay.’
‘Sit tight. Someone will be there soon.’
‘Okay.’
‘Are you hurt?’
‘Dom’s jaw’s banged up. He can still talk, though. I don’t think it’s broken.’
‘Well, what a relief.’
Ronan hung up.
Across the room, Otis managed a smirk. He sat hunched on his stool, sharpening the tactical knife he’d carried with him since they got back from Afghanistan. All Ronan could see was Otis’s shining forehead, and the pinpricks of pupils underneath, two black points in the dark. Grossly sinister to the common man, but Ronan found it reassuring.
Otis said, ‘Permission to do it my way?’
‘Not yet.’
‘Don’t tease me, baby.’
‘I don’t like mess.’
Otis skewered the knife’s sharpened point into the table beside him. ‘God, we’re just polar opposites, aren’t we?’
‘Troy,’ Ronan barked.
Troy leapt off the sofa like a dog in a shock collar. Which, Ronan admitted, was all he was. Korangal was fourteen years ago now but Ronan still thought of Troy as “the kid,” young and righteous and inflamed with passion. The spark in his eyes had gone out so long ago it was hard to ever remember it being there in the first place, but it’s hard to let go of the past. Troy was past forty now, hairline back past the top of his head, face puffy. He’d talked a while back about maybe getting work done. That’s where they were at.
Fucking Botox.
‘Go get Dom and Zach,’ Ronan said. ‘They think the place they parked their ride might be compromised, might be watched. I’ll forward you coordinates. Get in and out fast.’
Troy eyed him from a distance. ‘You mad at them?’
‘What is this?’ Ronan said. ‘Grade school? You think they’re getting detention?’
‘I don’t know.’
There was a little snark in Troy’s tone. It made Otis’ head snap over. Otis snatched his knife up by the hilt and rose off the stool. Troy put his head down, obedient once more, and hustled for the door.
When they heard the front door slam, Otis said, ‘I’m gonna make a project outta that boy when we’re done here. Make him scream.’
Ronan shrugged. He was about done with protecting Troy. ‘Yeah. Whatever. But we’re not done here. And nothing matters until we are.’
Those beady pupils started blazing with something fierce.
Otis, remembering things.
T
he man lowered his oily forehead again. ‘Yeah. Gonna make them scream first for what they did.’
Ronan said, ‘We all are.’
21
On the other side of Boston, along Marlborough Street just south of the Charles River, a party of four strode through the evening gloom.
Tyrell followed in Alexis’ footsteps, and Violetta walked as fast as she could with Junior slumped against her shoulder.
All the tall buildings were squashed together in one giant chain of ochre, their black tiled roofs hipped. It was Federal-style architecture from the late 1800s. Stone steps ran up to front doors at regular intervals, rising almost a full storey off the sidewalk. The area reeked of old money and refurbishment. There were Audis and Mercs and BMWs cast outside the townhouses like decorative ornaments, lining the streets.
Alexis kept striding until she found the place she was looking for, then ducked between two of the staircases, taking a set of twisting steps down to a lower basement-level landing, out of sight of passersby at street level. Tyrell and Violetta followed her down.
They didn’t speak until they were inside. It was too much of a risk. Alexis produced a key and twisted it in the lock, shouldering the heavy metal door open. The space within was cold and disused. She ushered Tyrell and Violetta into the dark, stroking Junior’s cheek on the way past, then shut the door behind them.
Only then did she switch on a light.
The rental was one long room, an open-plan area that was probably usually marketed toward college-age students on a budget who still wanted to live somewhere hip. The only partitions were Japanese-style divider screens, comprising six or eight panels. They separated sleeping quarters up the back from a living room and kitchen and dining room in the centre of the space. The floor was all concrete, and the walls exposed brick.
It had previously been the basement of the wealthy elderly couple who lived in the townhouse above, but they’d converted it into a functional space and put it up for rent a couple of months ago. When the Vitality+ headlines had reached a fever pitch, Slater had snatched up the space, to be used as a safe house. The rent was no problem. It was worth having a place to fall back on in the event they were tracked to Winthrop.