Rogues: A King & Slater Thriller

by Matt Rogers

  Ronan said, ‘It wasn’t a bluff.’

  ‘It’ll be daylight soon,’ Otis snarled. He’d spent most of the last couple of hours pacing around this new boulder, its inscription reading “HELP MOTHER,” but Ronan refused to let him venture further into the woods. He didn’t want him leaving his sight. He was all he had left. ‘There’ll be hikers crawling all over this place by mid-morning.’

  ‘That’s some time away.’

  ‘If they haven’t come yet, they’re not going to.’

  ‘Maybe they’re lost. I didn’t tell them where to meet.’

  ‘You don’t think they’ve got the capacity to figure it out? They spent their careers hunting men. They’re probably watching you right now through a scope.’

  Ronan clutched the detonator tighter, drifted the tip of a fingertip through the air above the button. ‘They wouldn’t dare.’

  Which brought the conversation back full circle.

  Otis shook his head again, snorting derisively. ‘You’re a pussy. You won’t do it and everyone knows it.’

  ‘Of course I’d do it. Watch your mouth.’

  ‘Or what?’

  ‘That a threat?’ Ronan said, standing upright to face his brother-in-arms. Otis stood shrouded, only illuminated by faint slivers of moonlight. ‘That’s what that is, huh? A threat of what? You’ll do me like you did Troy?’

  Otis hesitated. ‘What?’

  ‘You’re a good soldier,’ Ronan said, lowering his voice. ‘But your acting chops? Not up to par.’

  ‘You think I killed him?’

  ‘That’s what I was told.’

  ‘By who?’

  No response.

  Otis laughed. ‘You ain’t got anyone left, Ronan. Only people who coulda told you that are the ones you want dead. So that’s how it is now. You trust those you hate most in the world over me.’

  ‘You don’t know what you’re talking about.’

  ‘Who told you, then?’

  ‘So it’s true?’

  ‘I didn’t say that. I asked who told you.’

  ‘You wouldn’t care if the accusation was unfounded.’

  ‘Who told you?’

  ‘King.’

  Otis rolled his eyes, the whites only faintly visible. ‘I don’t believe that you actually hate him.’

  ‘Are you kidding?’

  ‘Do I look like I’m kidding?’

  ‘What he did to Brad…’

  ‘Fuck Brad,’ Otis hissed, and it was like Ronan’s heart stopped in his chest. ‘He was off in the -stans making money hand over fist to kill untrained savages. I coulda done that job with one hand tied behind my back, but they picked the big bastard because he looked impressive, looked like a real American killer. You think it’s only the civilian world that cares about the look? It matters everywhere. Everywhere.’

  Ronan couldn’t hide his own contempt. ‘The look? Brad was the best of us.’

  ‘You’re only saying that because you needed some higher purpose to pull yourself out of that hole you were in. You’re only doing this shit for your own ego. You honestly think, deep down, that you give a fuck about Brad? You don’t. You know you don’t.’

  It hit Ronan like a hammer in the sternum but he did all he could not to let it show.

  Otis kept pressing. ‘You know the truth. You saw you were drinking yourself to death, so you invented some outrage for motivation.’ He switched to a whiny, mocking pitch. ‘“Not my dearest friend Brad. How dare these men kill him out of self-defence? I’m so offended that I’ll spend the next half-year of my life plotting their demise.” It’s a joke, Ronan. If you think about it objectively for a few seconds, you’ll see this entire crusade is as pointless as your life.’

  ‘And yours.’

  Otis knowingly bowed his head. ‘I’ve done all I could think to do. There isn’t anything left for me.’

  And therein lay the truth.

  ‘Is that why you agreed to this?’ Ronan asked. ‘You never cared about Brad, but it was something to pass the time?’

  ‘See?’ Otis said, pointing a finger in Ronan’s face. ‘You’re not as dumb as you pretend to be.’

  ‘So what happens now?’

  ‘You blow that bomb and we both walk away.’

  A pause. ‘Not yet.’

  A longer pause. ‘Can’t say I didn’t expect that. It was on Brad and I to take care of that Korangali village when you got cold feet halfway through. And it’s the same here. You think you’re some all-powerful villain, but you can’t go all the way. I will.’

  Otis snatched for the remote, lightning-fast.

  Ronan jerked his hand back.

  Otis shook his head and marched forward.

  Ronan pulled his SIG.

  Otis smiled, cheeks and forehead shining. He kept walking. ‘Do it.’

  Ronan’s hand shook.

  Otis hissed, ‘Do it.’

  Closing in.

  Ronan’s phone vibrated in his pocket. Otis heard it, too. The man froze in his tracks. Ronan tucked his weapon back in its holster so he could pull his phone free and read the alert on the screen.

  MOTION DETECTED: DEVICE #4. RESULTS GENERATED. VIEW NOW.

  Motion-detecting cameras were cheap nowadays, no longer the rarities they used to be. The future was now. You could set up an impenetrable perimeter for next to nothing. Ronan swiped the notification and it opened to a grainy night-vision screenshot: a freeze-frame of ghost-white tree trunks. At the very edge of the field of view, a pair of boots was barely in frame, the man’s upper half out of the shot.

  Had to be them.

  Another buzz; another notification.

  MOTION DETECTED: DEVICE #2. RESULTS GENERATED. VIEW NOW.

  The second camera was close, only a few dozen feet over the slope rising up from the forest floor beside them.

  Ronan swiped.

  The night vision inverted the colours, painting Jason King’s face jet-black, his pupils glowing like two dying stars. He had a grip on the base of the camera, and was staring into the lens.

  Ronan muttered, ‘Oh, fuck.’

  He reached out and grabbed Otis and dragged him down behind the cover of the boulder as gunfire lit up the night.

  Automatic rounds blared from the hilltop, each report like an explosion contrasting with the preceding hours of quiet. No sooner had Ronan wrenched Otis toward safety than the man broke free from his grip, stepped back out of range and gave Ronan one final stare.

  They had no chance of hearing each other over the shots, so Ronan mouthed, ‘No.’

  Lit up by strobe-like muzzle flashes, protected from harm by the neighbouring boulder, Otis regarded his old friend with pure disdain. In that moment, Ronan knew Otis despised him: everything he stood for, everything he’d become.

  Otis spat at him, then took off running into the woods.

  63

  ‘You think it’ll work?’ Drew muttered, crouched in the tree line with a moonlit view of the trailhead. ‘You think they’re the running type?’

  He and Slater were a few hundred feet north of Dogtown Square, from which a cacophony of gunfire had just ripped through the air, sending wildlife scattering. The noise was fearsome at this distance — up close, it must have been overwhelming.

  Slater had the Glock 43X in a double-handed grip, its suppressor like a black wand jutting through the foliage. ‘One of the others will retreat, no question. Not Ronan. He’ll hold strong. He sounded stubborn to a fault. There might be one more, or two. They’ll tell themselves they’re falling back out of tactics instead of fear, but they’ll come all the same. And then it’s just Ronan isolated, clutching the detonator, waiting to be swarmed. He’ll psyche himself out of actually pressing it with bullets flying over his head, then Ethan and Harris will be on top of him.’

  He could sense the cop regarding him in the lowlight. ‘You done this type of thing before.’

  Slater said, ‘Too many times to count.’

  ‘My experiences have been a little diff
erent to this.’ A pause to peer down the trailhead, then a shake of the head. ‘But when you break it down, it’s all the same, isn’t it?’

  ‘Not quite.’

  Silence.

  Just the rustling of the trees amidst a lapse in gunfire.

  Drew still kept his voice quiet, but the tone changed. ‘You think you’re better than me.’

  ‘Let’s not do this here. Remember what Newton told you.’

  Drew stared at Slater, who faced forward.

  Seconds ticked by.

  Drew said, ‘What did Sarge tell you, exactly?’

  ‘Where your money’s stashed.’

  ‘And where might that be?’

  ‘I’m not playing this game, same as I wasn’t playing it in the car. If you don’t believe me, test your luck. Put a bullet in my head.’

  ‘I just might.’ Drew’s Beretta hovered in his hand. ‘I’m sticking to my guns. I don’t think Dom gave you shit. I think he came up with that bluff on the spot, to get us to cooperate.’

  Slater said, ‘Okay.’

  Leaves whispered in the wind.

  A tiny silhouette appeared in the far distance, ethereal under moonlight, jogging up the trail towards them. Hastened, urgent strides.

  Slater whispered, ‘There,’ and pointed.

  Drew didn’t look. He kept his eyes on Slater. ‘Where’s my money stashed?’

  Slater didn’t betray the tension in his chest. ‘I can’t tell if he has the detonator. Might need to take him by surprise.’

  Drew leant in close to Slater’s ear, hissing through gritted teeth. ‘Where’s. My. Money. Stashed?’

  Slater reached out, fast as a whip, and seized the cop by the throat. Crushed his windpipe as he finally turned to face him, teeth bared, and he whispered, ‘You go get the jump on this guy or your life’s over. You take him by surprise and make sure he doesn’t press the button if he has the detonator. If he has it, and he presses it, your life’s over. End of conversation.’

  He let go.

  Drew hovered there, undecided, a loose cannon threatening to explode.

  Out of the corner of his eye, Slater saw the figure jogging ever closer, fleeing north from the ambush.

  Slater said, ‘Try me, Drew. Fucking try me.’

  Drew didn’t try him.

  The cop hoisted his Beretta up to shoulder height and disappeared into the trees, circling east for an ambush. Slater burrowed down, but refused to so much as exhale in relief. In the next minute or so, the tiniest sound could prove disastrous. He lay still and lined up his aim on the figure’s centre mass. As he got closer, the moon came out from behind a cloud. There was just enough light to make out the oily sheen coating the man’s forehead, the shininess of his cheeks.

  It was the one who’d laid the trap that killed Troy.

  The one King had almost caught.

  Slater zoned in, finding that tunnel that comes with supreme focus, and concentrated on the man’s hands. There was a sleek black pistol in one, and in the other…

  Hard to tell.

  The moonlight only resonated off the one hand. No way to confirm. He thought about pulling the trigger anyway, but if this man had a finger on the detonator’s button…

  Wasn’t worth it.

  Then Slater focused on the guy’s face, his beady eyes. They were darting all over the place, covering every shadow, like he was hopped up on something, chemically enhanced. His focus was noticeable even in the absence of light, and from a significant distance.

  Slater thought about shouting a warning to Drew, giving away his own position.

  Too late.

  The oily man’s gaze whipped to the left, so fast, startled by a sound Slater couldn’t hear. Only then did Slater see Drew materialise in the tree line beside the man, his shadowy profile obscured by overhanging branches. Muzzle flare lit up the nearby trunks as he fired a pair of shots.

  The target’s head whipped back and blood sprayed.

  Then it came right back, like a bobblehead snapping back into place.

  He stayed on his feet.

  Grazing shots, maybe taking whole chunks of flesh off his face, but failing to pulverise his brain and put him down for good.

  Before Drew could hit his centre mass, the hostile snapped his aim on target and fired back. The retaliating flashes of the muzzle gave off just enough light for Slater to make out the entry wound exploding to life in the centre of Drew’s neck, blasting a hole through his Adam’s apple. For a fleeting few milliseconds, his eyes were visible amidst the strobe-like flashes, two narrow pinpoints frozen in shock, sporting a look that said, Are you fucking kidding me?

  Slater didn’t blame him.

  Surviving his entire career as a frontline cop, only to succumb to some bullshit side project he got blackmailed into. That sudden understanding that he was mortally wounded, and this dark patch of forest in Dogtown would be his final resting place. His face remained perplexed as he went down, laced with regret, and Slater wondered if it was possible to feel remorse for a corrupt soul. He hadn’t thought so, but that line was becoming increasingly blurred…

  At least Drew Reyes died doing something morally tolerable.

  In amidst the cacophony of muzzle flares and gunshot blasts, Slater caught a look at the enemy’s spare hand.

  Empty.

  No detonator.

  He fired at the centre point of the man’s skull.

  Hit nothing but air.

  The guy had leapt into the tree line right after hitting Drew with the kill shot. He’d lunged in after his prey, probably because he’d seen in the light of the muzzle flare that his victim wasn’t King or Slater, which meant they were both still out there.

  He’d guessed right.

  He vanished from sight and Slater put three rounds through empty space before holding his fire. He hadn’t discerned the extent of the man’s facial wounds. For all he knew, the guy could be bleeding out behind a tree, mortally wounded.

  Unlikely, though.

  Slater rose out of the foliage, silent as a cat, and slunk in a wide arc through the forest.

  It was the pinnacle of discomfort, nerves frayed and pulses pounding.

  Two enemies on the silent hunt for each other.

  64

  King peered through the NGVs at the lone remaining silhouette, vanishing behind the rock that read “HELP MOTHER” as the other figure fled north.

  Ronan’s nerve had held. It was only a hunch, but in the bottom of King’s heart he knew it. So the man who’d fled was the slimy one, the one who King had almost caught after the safe house explosion.

  There was no one else in sight.

  No third man.

  It would’ve been Brad Forrest, but King had killed him in El Salvador.

  Niccolò fired another volley of rounds at the boulder. A couple of bullets blasted away the M, leaving: HELP OTHER.

  King couldn’t control his thoughts, which were wildly accelerating in speed and volume. Does Ronan think this is the end? A last stand? If so, does he detonate?

  After the suppressive fire, King thumbed his throat mike and hissed, ‘Go.’

  To the northwest, Ethan and Harris bled out of the trees, materialising like apparitions. They’d been waiting with bated breath for the command. Now that they had it, they weren’t wasting a second to hesitation.

  They charged up to the boulder, rounded the huge rock in typical door-kicker fashion. Both hands on their firearms, one man aiming over the other’s shoulder, moving as one, as if attached at the hip. The rock swallowed them, a barrier between them and King and Niccolò.

  A storm of gunfire blared, obstructed from view.

  King said, ‘Get ready.’

  Even if Ronan got the better of them, which was highly unlikely, the ambush would spook him, and he’d seek fresh cover.

  Niccolò stood poised beside King with the rifle and its long-range scope, ready to pop Ronan’s head like a balloon when he reared up from cover.

  As the gunfire died away
, replaced by ear-ringing stillness, Niccolò pivoted sharply.

  Stuck the rifle barrel against King’s gut and fired.

  65

  You can’t move silently over a forest floor covered in dry leaves.

  Slater only took a dozen or so steps that crunched each time he planted a boot heel before giving up. No amount of stealth training could overcome the impossible. He put his back to a particularly solid tree trunk and waited, envisioning himself becoming one with the woods. He deliberately brought his heart rate down to seventy or eighty beats per minute, flushing out the adrenaline each time he exhaled, the whole time not making a sound.

  It’s the tiny, imperceptible habits that separate the elite from the ultra-elite.

  It felt like nothing important as he was calming himself, but the end result made all the difference in the world. His adversary thought he was being stealthy, but he’d received two glancing bullets to the face, and he’d be trying to do the same thing and make himself undetectable with blood pouring down his face and his breath catching in his throat.

  Sure enough, Slater heard him.

  A faint and gargled wheeze sounded, a couple dozen feet behind the trunk Slater had his back pressed against.

  Slater deduced the position by echolocation.

  He wheeled round and brought the Glock up and pumped the trigger twice, tap-tap, and the Osprey spat two suppressed rounds.

  Both hit nothing but dead space.

  Slater thought, Fuck, as he took cover again.

  Perhaps they were both ultra-elite.

  If the blood-gurgling wheeze for breath had been involuntary, then the guy had used it to his advantage, letting it escape and then slipping away, like a matador waving the red cape before skirting laterally out of harm’s way.

  But Slater hadn’t caught so much as a glimpse…

  Another noise.

  Boots crunching leaves.

  Much closer.

  Fast and hard.

  Unmistakeable.