Rogues: A King & Slater Thriller

by Matt Rogers

  ‘Only two, but they have the detonator. We can’t give them even the slightest chance to use it. They won’t blow the bomb if they think there’s a chance they can still make it, but if they sense it’s the end they’ll do it just to spite us.’

  ‘So what’s the answer? I’m just the tech guy.’

  Slater paused for thought. ‘Overwhelming offence. We need reinforcements. It’s just a hunch, but I don’t think the two of us are going to cut it. Not when the stakes are this high. If this is a prolonged battle, we lose, even if we win.’

  He waited for King to interject, but there was only silence from the passenger seat, transmitting agreement.

  Alonzo said, ‘You don’t have any friends in Boston.’

  ‘We don’t have any friends in America,’ Slater clarified. ‘But we don’t need friends.’

  ‘You got something in mind?’

  ‘I do.’

  ‘Right. You work on that, and I’ll do whatever I can from the sidelines. I’m confident I can reverse at least some of this.’

  ‘Talk soon.’

  Slater ended the call, and immediately King said, ‘What do you have in mind?’

  Slater told him.

  50

  There was no reason for Sergeant Dominique Newton of the Boston Police Department to be parked just off the Northern Expressway, on highway patrol, hunting for traffic stops.

  He had a couple dozen subordinate officers in his department that were better suited to the gig, but there were perks to being a sergeant. As a backbone of the station-house, he could justify anything with a couple of schlocky mantras about “leading from the front.” If he demanded that he pull a highway patrol shift, it could be interpreted as a stellar demonstration of not allowing yourself to get too far removed from the field, even in a leadership role. And it was interpreted that way, because he was a great actor and an even greater orator. He could put a positive spin on anything. By this point he could probably walk out of the station, shoot a civilian in the face, and somehow twist it to be seen as a noble and selfless deed.

  An old Toyota RAV4 screamed past on the expressway, at least ten miles over the speed limit.

  Newton wouldn’t have lifted a finger if he hadn’t registered the mop of long red hair in the driver’s seat, and the fact the woman had no passengers.

  He hit the lights and sirens and pulled out behind the Toyota. The gap widened with each passing second, her rear bumper contracting to a point in the distance. He made up ground by accelerating to nearly eighty. He’d cut off a Subaru when he first pulled out but it hadn’t honked its horn, tyres screeching as it decelerated.

  Its driver knew better.

  Newton gained on the Toyota and it slowed as soon as the woman registered the red-and-blue in the rear view. She pulled to the shoulder and came to a stop. He eased his patrol cruiser in behind her, killing the siren but leaving the lights flashing. Protocol dictated that he announce the licence plate and pullover location to dispatch, but he left the radio mike alone. No one needed to know about this.

  He checked the way he looked in the rear view mirror.

  It was a way to reassure himself, convince himself that the power dynamic didn’t exist. It always made everything a lot easier. He was pushing fifty, but he’d never looked his age and clearly wasn’t about to start. Both his Bostoner parents had immigrated from France, and they’d blessed him with their genetics. His thick black hair was flecked with grey but showed no signs of receding. He’d always been wiry, slim and straight-backed, but kept his musculature toned with weekly century rides (100 miles or more) on his ten-thousand dollar carbon fibre bike, either west to Wachusett Reservoir or north to Rockport and back. Ice blue eyes topped off his appearance. Thanks to the genes and the exercise, he was unburdened by the physical decline that most men face as they age — losing their hair, gaining a belly, becoming sedentary and pudgy and ugly. He used this as a justification for the pleasures he used his power to acquire. He told himself they enjoyed it because he was attractive. He was doing them a favour, really.

  He left the front-facing floodlights and high-beams on. Cars whipped past along I-3 as he got out and walked up to the Toyota. She’d already buzzed her window down and placed both her hands on the steering wheel. Clever girl.

  He said, ‘Evening, ma’am,’ as he pulled up alongside the window. ‘My name’s Sergeant Newton.’

  She turned to face him, the expressway’s tall floodlights accentuating the sharp features of her face. He almost let his gratitude show with a smile, but reined it in at the last second. Wild red hair framed her severe jawline and pale, freckled cheeks. Her eyes were green, the lashes thick and long. She was gorgeous, and he didn’t often get so lucky. He brought his guard up, though, made sure he was on his A game. The plainer girls were easier to convince. They had less going for them. Humanity’s biases had worn them down over time, like rock eroding over the years, making them desperate to please.

  The redhead would be different.

  She mumbled, ‘Hi.’

  He couldn’t pinpoint whether she was generally shy, or nervous about something in particular. ‘In a hurry tonight?’

  ‘Yes,’ she said, lips slightly open in a way that stirred his loins. ‘I mean, n-no. I meant that I know I was speeding. I know there’s no excuse. I’m sorry.’

  ‘Can I see your driver’s licence and proof of insurance?’

  ‘Yeah,’ she said with a sigh. ‘Sure.’

  She reached across the passenger seat and opened the glove box, fishing around in it for a moment before coming back with her licence and an insurance card. She gripped them tight and seemed reluctant to hand them over. Suddenly, seemingly out of nowhere, she choked back a sob.

  He didn’t react, just hovered by the window.

  She cleared her throat, still clutching the licence. ‘Listen, I, uh … oh, God. Doesn’t matter. Sorry.’

  She held out the licence and insurance card, passing them out the open window. He didn’t take them. He watched her quietly. ‘It’s okay. You’re free to speak.’

  She took a deep breath. ‘I was going to tell you I don’t have any demerit points left. But, that doesn’t matter, of course. You … can’t play favourites.’

  Her arm began to tremble, still extended.

  Sometimes things just fall into your lap.

  He reached out and tapped her wrist with two fingers, encouraging her elbow to bend, allowing the documents he’d requested to drift back inside the car. ‘Yes I can.’

  She looked relieved, but not as much as he might have hoped. ‘Are you sure? I don’t want to … get in trouble for this.’

  ‘You won’t. Did you hear me before? I’m a sergeant.’

  ‘Oh. Right. Okay. I’m very sorry for speeding. I was distracted. I promise it won’t happen again.’ A pause, then, ‘Thank you.’

  ‘No problem,’ he said, but the way she now faced forward and refused to look at him rubbed him the wrong way. ‘I did you a favour.’

  She kept facing forward.

  Didn’t respond.

  He hovered over the open window. ‘Weren’t you taught to return a favour?’

  She snapped out of her trance, fumbling into action. Her face wore a grimace as she offered the licence and insurance card again, practically shaking them at him. ‘Yeah, um, look … I had a hunch this is the way you were taking it. I’d much prefer the citation, thank you. I, uh, have a boyfriend.’

  He didn’t move a muscle. ‘That’s okay. He doesn’t have to know.’

  ‘Please just write me the ticket.’

  ‘No,’ he said. ‘And I’d appreciate it if you dropped the attitude. A tone like that could be interpreted as hostile. I could haul you in for resisting arrest.’

  Her eyes flared. ‘In what world—?’

  ‘Be very careful what you say next.’

  She didn’t continue the sentence. She returned the ID and the insurance card to her lap, eyes glassy, processing her options.

  Not
the way he wanted it to go, but getting a little something out of fear is better than not getting it at all. Mutual satisfaction was always the goal, but when that wasn’t possible, it’s not like he would just give up. No one likes a quitter. That’s what his old man used to say.

  She finally looked over and stared at his chest. He thought she was getting the right idea, but she said, ‘Aren’t cops supposed to wear body cameras?’

  ‘Don’t you read the news?’ he said. ‘It’s all the rage in the headlines lately. We’re notoriously slow to change our ways and deploy new tech here in good ol’ Massachusetts, at least compared to the rest of the country. Well, they say “notoriously,” I say “blissfully.” Anyway, I’m ranting…’

  She stared up at him, gobsmacked, pale with fear. ‘I can’t believe this.’

  ‘Oh,’ he crooned. ‘It’s not so bad. Hell, you could do a lot worse.’

  She froze up again. He didn’t like that. He was done talking. ‘I’ve got a place near here. Follow me there. I’ve got your plates so don’t think about trying anything stupid.’

  He walked back to his cruiser.

  He didn’t see her shoulders heaving.

  51

  Forty minutes later, the woman — whose name he’d come to learn was Rooney — finished reapplying her makeup and slipped quietly out the door, hunched in shame.

  Newton reclined in the La-Z-Boy and folded his hands behind his head. Only when the door shut behind her did he allow the smile to spread across his face. For all her initial reluctance, she’d given him some of the best action he’d received. He’d been meaning to ask her about that trick she did with her tongue, but she was gone before he could inquire. At least she’d come round, her attitude undergoing a 180 the moment he led her inside. He’d told her in no uncertain terms that he needed impressing after all the resistance she’d given him on the expressway, and she’d obliged. The threat of jail on top of the loss of her licence had kicked her motivation into gear.

  The apartment was in Winchester, near Wildwood Cemetery. He figured he’d snatch a couple of hours sleep before heading back to the station. The only other cops who used this crash pad were the Task Force boys, and they reported to him anyway, so they wouldn’t say anything if they burst in and found him stretched out on the recliner, away with the fairies in post-orgasm unconsciousness.

  They’d understand.

  They’d been there, done that.

  A successful conquest never failed to empty his mind, so it only took him a minute or so after he closed his eyes to drift away. If there was such a thing as heaven, he didn’t need to actually make it there, because he was in it.

  Ten minutes into his nap, the front door crashed in.

  He sat bolt upright in the La-Z-Boy, already starting to shout, ‘What the fuck’s your problem?’ but he cut himself off when he saw it wasn’t Drew or any of the other task force guys.

  It was two strangers, forming a veritable wall of muscle as they surged into the apartment, each of them north of two hundred pounds. One was Newton’s height, six foot even, and the other was three or four inches taller. The former black, the latter white. They looked like bodybuilders but they didn’t seem like bodybuilders. They sported none of those crippling insecurities that caused meatheads to pack on the vanity muscle in artificially-cooled gyms, all of it for show and ego. No, these boys were mean, and meant business.

  Newton went for his gun but his belt was nowhere to be found. He’d taken it off when Rooney began her performance, and it still rested on the kitchen countertop. He tried to lever himself out of the plush recliner but the white guy took a few big strides across the small living space and gripped the end of the footrest and flipped the whole La-Z-Boy over with Newton in it.

  The bulk of the chair almost crushed his spine when he came down in an ungainly heap on the carpet.

  The big man hurled the chair aside, grabbed Newton by the shirt collar and pressed a palm against his throat, crushing his neck into the floor. The power behind the squeeze was indescribable. Newton went into life-or-death panic immediately, but there was nothing he could do. He tried to swat the forearm away but it was like slapping at a steel bat. Spittle flew from his mouth and he tried to scream but the vice-like grip destroyed the sound in his throat. It died away into nothingness and he flapped his lips like a fish out of water.

  The big man kept squeezing.

  Newton saw stars, felt muscle and bone in his neck starting to give way. The pain was horrendous but the sheer adrenaline dump overrode it. He figured he’d fade away into darkness with his heart rate at two hundred beats per minute. He could feel it palpitating and thumping and crashing against his chest wall.

  He thought, What the fuck is happening? as he started to black out.

  Only then did the man release his grip.

  Newton jerked up to a seated position, hands flying to his throat, which was already starting to swell. Soon it’d bruise egregiously. He sucked in air in shaky lungfuls. He’d never been so grateful for oxygen in his life. Still in survival mode, he scooted back across the carpet until his back was to the wall, putting space between himself and his assailant, as pointless as it might be.

  Both men walked right up to him, standing over him. Neither spoke. They gave him the time to get his breath back, stop his vision swimming, inch his heart rate down to something approaching normal.

  It was only then that he realised he’d wet himself.

  He muttered, ‘W-w-w-w-what—?’

  He couldn’t speak. His throat felt damaged beyond repair. He hoped it was just shock, that soon he’d be fine.

  The dark-skinned guy had a thunderous look on his face as he said, ‘We knew you were a sick fuck but we didn’t think we’d catch you in the act.’

  Deny, deny, deny.

  Newton took a breath. ‘There’s some sort of misunderstanding. Maybe you don’t know I’m a cop. Listen, I can make this all go away if we just pump the brakes, figure out what the problem is…’

  The dark guy crouched down so he was at the same eye level as Newton, stared into his eyes. ‘Of course I know you’re a cop. You’re Sergeant Dominique Newton.’

  Newton thought, Shit.

  The man said, ‘You’re in a terrible situation. Want to know why?’

  Newton knew he didn’t have a choice. ‘Sure.’

  ‘Because I’ve got a list and your name’s on it.’

  ‘What?’

  The guy pulled out his phone, opened a document and tilted the screen towards Newton. ‘See?’

  The screen read:

  Kian Grant.

  Curtis Dunlap.

  Dominique Newton.

  Sebastian Day.

  Donald Ayers.

  Valentino Moretti.

  Myles Vaughan.

  Aiden Hall.

  Frankie Booth.

  Jacob Khan.

  Jaxson Hoffman.

  Robert Holland.

  Newton said, ‘Oh.’

  52

  With the moonlight obstructed by the branches overhead, Ronan could only make out Otis crouched next to him by the orange glow of the cigarette between his lips.

  They squatted in front of a large boulder in the woods. The moon’s glow wasn’t strong enough to make out the big blocky letters inscribed on the side of the boulder, but Ronan had seen them many times during his day trips to Dogtown, time he’d spent wandering through the ghost town’s unsettling remains in search of some greater meaning as he plotted revenge against two men he’d never met.

  He knew this boulder read: IF WORK STOPS, VALUES DECAY.

  Thirty-five similar inscriptions decorated boulders all over the settlement, carved by stonecutters in the midst of the Great Depression. Some famous Depression-era entrepreneur who’d founded a college had commissioned them all. Ronan remembered other slogans placed around the settlement like, “KEEP OUT OF DEBT,” “BE CLEAN,” and, “HELP MOTHER.”

  It seemed everything leftover in this godforsaken place was intentio
nally unsettling.

  That’s why Ronan liked it.

  The concept of “normal” was what had kept him trapped in his apartment for nigh on ten years, too anxious to even bother trying to imitate the swathes of civilians floating past outside his door, going about their superficial lives. Order didn’t suit him, never had.

  It suited Otis even less. ‘Just blow it. Stop dragging this out.’

  Ronan sucked on his cigarette, fingering the detonator in his left hand. He ran a fingertip gently, rhythmically, over the plastic button shield. One flick upwards, then a gentle press of the button underneath, and he’d destroy King and Slater forever.

  But the way the last call ended…

  He’d anticipated feeling confidence, control, that deep undercurrent of power. He’d visualised hanging up on Jason King, rising from that park bench on Commonwealth Avenue with an aura of invincibility. Turns out reality never goes the way you envision. Instead of confidence, he’d stood up with paranoia. He’d cast a few furtive glances over each shoulder, unable to shake the feeling that he was being watched, that this was all some game King and Slater were playing with him. How had King been so sure of talking back to him when his family’s lives hung in the balance? At any moment, Ronan had expected the rug to be pulled out from under him.

  He’d then driven to Dogtown in the middle of the night to rendezvous with Otis, nervous the whole time.

  Now, after a cigarette break in the woods, his nerves were still shot, frayed. The world had a distant feel to it, like he was derealised, disconnected from everything around him. He’d been awake and on edge for far too long. It was going on forty-eight hours since he’d slept.

  Dom and Zach were gone.

  It was never supposed to go this way. Secretly he’d anticipated casualties, but there’s no way to prepare for how that feels, losing men you only now realise you always cared about.

  And Troy…

  Otis said, ‘You deaf?’

  Ronan glanced sideways. Otis lowered the cigarette butt from his lips and ground it out against the boulder, enveloping his face once again in darkness.