by Matt Rogers
Grey didn’t blink, reading Arnold’s discomfort like a book. ‘You thought we wouldn’t find out?’
‘I…’
Grey could only shake his head. ‘Fool. You were one of my favourites.’
Silence.
‘Tell me,’ Grey said, ‘why do you think we pass down a moratorium in the first place?’
Arnold couldn’t take his eyes off the floor between his feet. ‘Because you knew what’d happen to anyone who went after them.’
Grey tutted as he turned away, started walking back to a black SUV parked out front. ‘Come with us.’
Arnold followed sheepishly, without a word of protest.
He looked back at his little condo for what he knew would be the last time.
86
The Airbnb in Chestnut Hill was as unremarkable a townhouse as one could imagine, but that was the point.
After the night they’d had, they’d do anything in the world for some downtime.
The wave of tiredness fell over King the moment he laid eyes on the bed. His arm throbbed incessantly, and he knew he’d need Slater to take a look at it before he hit a wall, so he backed out of the bedroom, brushing past Violetta and Junior on his way out. As he passed by, he whispered, ‘How’s he doing?’
She kissed his little forehead. ‘A little restless, but nothing serious.’
‘How’re you doing?’
She sighed. ‘Tired. Not as tired as you, I’d imagine.’
‘I’ll get Will to treat my arm, but after that I don’t have much processing power left. Do you need me?’
She smiled, touched a hand to his cheek. ‘No. I’ve got work to do. You need to sleep before you burn yourself out for good.’
‘Work?’
‘We just lost everything, Jason,’ she said. ‘I need to make sure our accounts are in order. Gotta change passwords and encryption keys. That way we’ll know we can rebuild. I’ll work with Alonzo. I doubt he’ll be sleeping anytime soon, either. Not with so much up in the air.’
‘Can I help?’
She smiled again. ‘You know the answer to that.’
He smirked back. ‘At least I’m a proud meathead.’
She pecked him on the lips. ‘That you are.’
King reached out and stroked Junior’s wispy tufts of hair. ‘Need me to go to the shops, get him what he needs?’
‘I need you to go to bed,’ she said. ‘I’ll take care of all of that.’
She could see right through him, because he was running on empty. He probably would’ve passed out behind the wheel on the way to the store. He’d never been more grateful for a companion.
He brushed past her, found Slater in the living room, eyes closed at one end of the sofa. He was napping sitting upright.
King said, ‘Before you go into REM sleep, I need you to treat this properly.’
Slater jolted awake, bleary-eyed as he focused on King pointing to his own arm. He nodded sleepily. ‘Yeah. Right.’
He unwound the gauze and set about disinfecting the wound. King put a sleeve of his shirt in his mouth and bit down on it when Slater irrigated the open wound with antiseptic. It burned worse than any pain he’d felt in months, but in comparison to the emotional agony he’d been bracing for throughout the night, it was nothing. Slater then put an antiseptic gel on the entry and exit wounds and bound the elbow with a therapy dressing. He said, ‘You’ll need an actual doctor to look at that in a day or so. For now, you’re good.’
King nodded, taking the sleeve out of his mouth. At a near whisper, he said, ‘Can you believe any of that happened?’
‘We get wrapped up in unbelievable shit so often that I’ve stopped considering how likely it is.’
‘You think it bodes well for the future?’
Slater’s tired eyes were muted, numb. ‘I think this conversation’s useless.’
‘I know. I just—’
‘It happened. Right now, I don’t want to talk about it. When we’re out of Massachusetts, we can worry about preventative measures.’
King nodded. ‘I feel the same. I just didn’t know if you wanted to address it now.’
‘All I want to address now is the fact I’m running on less than empty.’
King rose off the chair, his legs so heavy they felt tied down with deadweights. ‘You and me both, brother.’
He fist-bumped Slater with his good arm before he went back to the bedroom. He caught a glimpse of Violetta hunched over her laptop at the desk in the corner, one hand tapping keys, the other gently swaying Junior in a rocking seat, its rhythm steady.
King managed a quick, ‘I love you,’ before he fell onto the bed and his world went dark.
87
Two days later…
The Amethyst Room was a haven of hedonism and opulence.
It was designed from the ground up to maximise the cosy feeling that accompanies wealth, like a safety net personified. The thick velvet carpet absorbed sound, so plush and insulating it felt like you were speaking in total privacy. The walls were a deep mahogany, the lighting tasteful and warm and low. A roaring log fire set against the far wall was lined with marble. Everything was intimate, from the way the waiters spoke in hushed tones as they handed over single-malt scotches and old-fashioneds, to the clouds of cigar smoke that seemed to encapsulate the booths, whispering up to form domes of privacy around conversing patrons.
It shouldn’t have been very hard for Dominique Newton to enjoy himself.
It was perhaps the destination most suited for enjoying yourself in all of Boston, and, to top it off, he’d abandoned sobriety two days ago — cause for celebration in and of itself.
He took his fourth single-malt of the evening from the waiter, who receded away from the booth as soon as his work was complete, his hands folded gracefully behind his back, the empty tray vanishing. Ever paranoid, Newton eyed the surrounding booths for sideways glances, but met no one’s gaze. It didn’t much matter. Half the people in the room knew he was a sergeant, and everyone in the room knew this was no place for a cop. Everyone that recognised him knew why he was here, but this was the Amethyst Room, and they’d welcome his corruption with open arms.
The patrons weren’t the reason Newton was finding it hard to relax.
What scared him lay outside these mahogany walls.
His drinking buddy was none too impressed. ‘Would you settle down?’
Newton tried to make it look like he was taking a sip of the scotch, covering the liquid from the front as he drained half the glass. He kept it cupped in his palm as he lowered the tumbler into his lap, rotating it with the tips of his fingers. ‘What? I look frightened?’
‘I don’t know.’ Štefan Čapkovič shrugged. The Slovak’s thin hair was pulled back tight in a ponytail, the strands greasy above a pale slab of forehead. Amongst other projects, he was in porn, a behind-the-scenes coordinator on some of Boston’s most profitable shoots. Both legal and … not. ‘You don’t look right. You picked this place. Why you on edge?’
‘I’m not,’ Newton insisted, relieved that he believed himself. It turned out four was precisely the magic number of scotches to alleviate nerves. ‘Of course I picked this place. I could shoot someone in here and no one would bat an eyelid.’
Štefan looked all around pointedly, taking in the scene. He scoffed. ‘I think I believe you.’ A pause as he regarded Newton. ‘You look like shit, actually. I didn’t notice the extent of it.’
‘It’s been a big couple days.’
The entire Boston police department was flat out behind-the-scenes, everyone bracing themselves for the shitstorm that would follow tomorrow morning’s press release. Four officers — good men, some of the best detectives in the state — killed in the line of duty. A bombshell revelation. An elite antinarcotics task force wiped out in a hail of bullets behind some industrial warehouse in Waltham. They weren’t there on official business, and with no active ops in the area, the brass were scrambling to find a reassuring answer to what they were doing
when they were killed. It was bad enough having to hold four funerals, with four folded flags on four coffins, and have nothing but vague reassurances for the wives that they’d get to the bottom of it. If it turned out the task force boys were dirty, and that came to light, it’d be a nuclear explosion in the media, not just a bombshell. So they were all looking for leads, but not too hard.
Sometimes mystery is better than actually knowing.
Frankly, Newton couldn’t believe he’d gotten away with it. The time he’d spent at scenes with forensic teams hadn’t gone to waste. He’d scrubbed every incriminating fingerprint, used every trick in the book to delay rigor mortis, even blasting the bodies with heat so they didn’t cool too quickly, and so far there hadn’t been a peep of suspicion from the cops who’d combed the scene in Waltham. If anything came up, Newton wouldn’t have a problem snuffing it out.
So his work for the mystery men was done, and he hadn’t heard a peep from them since.
He’d considered changing his ways and getting on the right path for about thirty minutes, then rang Štefan and organised to meet here. He’d earned a sizeable reward, and it’s hard to fight conditioning. He was learning more and more about that as a relapsed alcoholic. Two days of drinking, and it was like he’d never stopped.
He said, ‘So…’
Štefan said, ‘So?’
‘Shall we?’
The man smirked. ‘You just used this place to get drunk, didn’t you? Get your mind right.’
Newton checked the waiters were out of earshot, hunched forward in his seat. ‘It’s been a while.’
‘That it has. I started thinking your tastes had evolved.’
‘Never. Not with the palette you serve up. Tell me about this one.’
Štefan sat back in his seat, eyed Newton from a distance, calculating what to say. ‘She’s young. Isn’t that all you’ve ever needed to know?’
It was.
You can only have sex with so many women before it becomes monotonous and you need something a little more … taboo.
Newton said, ‘One of your actresses?’
‘She’s only done a couple of scenes. Demand is low right now. She’s fresh for you.’
‘Good. That’s good.’
‘The usual price.’
‘No problem. For the night?’
‘You’ve got her for three hours. She needs to be somewhere tomorrow morning. We leave at midnight.’
‘Where?’
‘That’s none of your business.’
‘I’m not paying the same price, then.’
‘That’s none of my business.’
Štefan finished his scotch and put the empty tumbler on the walnut table between them. Within seconds a waiter was there, scooping up the glass and disappearing with a magician’s grace. Štefan got to his feet, re-buttoning his suit jacket.
Newton raised an eyebrow. ‘What’s this?’
‘What I provide is enough incentive for my clients. I don’t negotiate. It’s my price, or it’s nothing. Follow me if you’re still serious.’
And, true to his word, he walked away.
Newton sat poised for a moment, ego clashing with desire. More than anything he wished to protect his pride from being bruised, and following Štefan out like an obedient dog would certainly leave a mark. But if he let himself be stubborn he’d go home tonight empty-handed, and that just wasn’t an option. So he made his decision, finished his fourth single-malt with a gulp, and trailed after the Slovak across the Amethyst Room. He felt at ease with the wall of muscle in front of him, like Štefan was his bodyguard. It was ridiculous, he knew, what with being a high-ranking cop and all, but everyone needs a little comfort and reassurance every now and then.
Even the tough guys.
He kept reminding himself he was tough as Štefan slipped out a side door, went down a hallway, and exited through a fire door that deposited them in a laneway between two dumpsters. Expired food overflowed from the bins, rancid and festering. Newton wanted to pinch his nose but thought it might make him look weak. And who was he to be afraid? Of who? A couple of thugs?
He turned to face Štefan. ‘Where’s your car?’
Štefan pivoted so he could point down the alley. ‘Just down—’
As he turned, the bullet ripped through his face, came out the back of his head. It barely missed Newton. A chunk of something that could only be brain flew past his left ear, along with the whizz of the round continuing its course. More unnerving was the near absence of the gunshot’s report. It was there, but faint in comparison to the sound of the bullet smashing through Štefan’s skull. Newton assumed it was a sniper’s work, but when Štefan’s huge body collapsed, a silhouette was revealed standing beside the left-hand dumpster.
Newton recognised a Glock when he saw one, but the monstrous suppressor — larger than the gun itself — took him a second to compute.
An Osprey.
By then the man wielding it had the barrel pointed squarely between Newton’s eyes.
It wasn’t that dark in the alley. Not like the movies.
Newton would’ve recognised Slater’s profile regardless.
He went still, made sure not to make any rapid movements. He knew what was next, but it’s in our instincts to deny what’s staring us in the face if it’s not beneficial for our own survival.
He spoke directly to Slater, whose gaze was hard as iron. ‘I know what you’ve been doing. Your list. I figured you wouldn’t let me go on my way after I cleaned up in Dogtown.’
Slater raised an eyebrow, maybe a quarter of an inch. ‘And yet you still came here?’
‘I don’t hide.’
‘Not your smartest move.’
‘My pride is more important.’
‘Is it? Or is that just something you tell yourself?’
Newton didn’t answer that. The increasingly uneasy silence answered for him. He shifted from foot to foot, trying to stop his throat spasming.
Might as well tell the truth. ‘I didn’t think it would happen to me.’
‘Because I let you go before?’
‘I get it. You needed me then. You don’t anymore. But…’
Slater waited for him to finish. He seemed to believe it was something worth hearing.
Newton sighed. Looked up at the sky, then back down. ‘Well, we all think we’re special, don’t we?’
‘No,’ Slater said. ‘Men like you do. That’s why you think you’re entitled to do the things you do.’
Newton considered this. The gun in his face forced him to think. Truly think, for perhaps the first time in his life. It was inevitable, really, seeing that if there was even the tiniest possibility of a hell, then he was absolutely on his way. He’d never been religious, but there’s always that voice in the back of your head, whispering, What if?
He shrugged and said, ‘Yeah, probably. I can see that.’
‘Can you?’ Slater said. ‘Now you can see. With a gun in your face. Because you’re scared of what might be waiting for you on the other side.’
Newton’s lack of response said, Yes.
Slater said, ‘So you’re going to turn your life around? Repent for your sins?’
‘What, you’re some rogue preacher?’
‘I’m so far from a preacher.’ A slight smirk, then he wiped it away. ‘But I know you’d only be behaving yourself from fear of punishment.’
‘Does that matter?’
‘Yes,’ Slater said. ‘Yes, it does.’
‘But if I learn my lesson, would you consider—?’
Black.
88
When the sergeant was halfway through his question, Slater fired the kill shot.
As Newton’s corpse fell, he said, ‘I’m not considering shit.’
He walked away.
There were still a few names on the list, and he was leaving Boston. At some point he’d have to return. He promised to. He already knew everything about the Slovak he’d killed before Newton. Štefan Čapkovič ran a disg
usting and predatory child trafficking operation that Slater had ended that same night, already having turned every scrap of information anonymously over to Boston P.D. In the same information dump, he’d included everything incriminating that existed on Sergeant Dominique Newton and his recently-deceased cowboy task force.
The papers would have a field day.
By the time the first headlines exploded into the public eye he’d be well out of Massachusetts, back on the road with King and their families, hunting for a place to call home.
It was a painfully familiar sensation, and it troubled him that it seemed more normal than actually having a home.
He tucked the Glock away and turned out of the alley, leaving the bodies for some unfortunate passerby to stumble upon and have their evening ruined. He crossed the street at a fast pace and slipped into the Range Rover idling beside the sidewalk.
Alexis gripped the wheel as he closed the passenger door. ‘Any issues?’
He shook his head. ‘Let’s get Tyrell.’
‘He has a phone.’
Slater waited for her to explain herself, and when she didn’t he said, ‘Okay?’
‘He’s not six,’ she said. ‘You didn’t bring him along to this because you didn’t want him to know what you were doing. But he would’ve sat here in the car with me. He wouldn’t have seen anything. And he’s going to know regardless. He’ll Google “Boston” in two days and everything about Newton and Čapkovič will come up. First page of the search results.’
‘I figured it wasn’t prudent to bring a teenager to an assassination. You really have a problem with that?’
‘No,’ she admitted with a sigh. ‘Just spooked about leaving him after … everything happened.’
‘It might happen again,’ Slater said, ratcheting the discomfort up a notch. ‘We need to be aware of that, acknowledge it. This isn’t the best environment to raise a child.’
She sighed. Nodded.
He said, ‘You want to hand him over to the state? Put him in foster care?’