Weapons

by Matt Rogers

Slater said, ‘Relax. I’m not even tipsy. If my substance issues had any positive benefit, it was that they gave me a tolerance to be reckoned with.’

  ‘How long until this goes down?’ King said.

  ‘An hour, I’m told.’

  ‘And he’s picking us up out the front?’

  ‘That’s what he said.’

  ‘You gave him our address?’

  ‘I told him we live in the fourth building over,’ Slater said.

  King nodded. ‘Glad to hear you’re still somewhat sensible.’

  Slater nodded back. Then he put the empty tumbler down, and didn’t touch it again.

  ‘Restraint,’ King said. ‘I’m impressed.’

  ‘I can take care of myself. I was doing it for years before you came around. You don’t need to babysit me.’

  ‘Mental health isn’t that straightforward. You might not be the same person you used to be.’

  ‘You think?’

  ‘I don’t know for sure. You’re hard to read.’

  ‘And what about you?’

  ‘What about me?’

  ‘Do you think you’re the same?’

  King looked away. ‘I don’t want to talk about what happened with Klara right now.’

  ‘Why not? You had no problem mentioning my rampant alcoholism.’

  ‘That’s different.’

  ‘Is it?’

  King stared at him with pure fury in his eyes. ‘Yes.’

  Slater figured the whiskey had affected him more than he thought. His social awareness had dulled, and he’d touched a nerve he ordinarily would have skirted around.

  He said, ‘I’m sorry. It is different. You’re right.’

  But now King was deep in his own head. Slater could see it.

  He couldn’t tell what the man was thinking, but he had a rough idea.

  Finally, unprompted, King said, ‘I killed the ones who did it. But it doesn’t change a thing. Now there’s an emptiness. I thought revenge like that would feel… I don’t know…’

  ‘Better,’ Slater said.

  King nodded.

  Slater figured it was best to let him grapple with it in silence. They sat there, surrounded by the height of luxury — two broken men who had the whole world in the palm of their hands but no appreciation for it. Probably because they understood how quickly it could all be stripped away. They’d spent their careers dealing with the worst human atrocities under the sun, and those memories would always fester in their head when they put their feet up and relaxed.

  So relaxing would never come.

  It would tear them both apart, individually.

  It almost had in the past.

  Some time later, Slater checked his watch as night truly fell across the city. Dusk gave way to darkness, and he nodded once to King.

  Wordlessly, they rose to their feet and went to the door. They caught the elevator down to the garage and used the building’s private rear exit for residents who preferred to leave anonymously. It dumped them out into a tidy alleyway, and they walked to the fourth building on the left of their own. They loitered around in the shadows until a valet hurried out through a rear door. They let him bustle past. King dashed forward and caught the door before it clicked closed. They moved through staff corridors with their chins held high and their shoulders back, exuding confidence. Pretending they belonged. A couple of staff gave them peculiar looks, but they didn’t return them.

  They just kept moving forward.

  They reached the lobby and rounded the front desk, passing a bewildered receptionist who couldn’t remember letting them in.

  Slater turned to her and flashed his trademark smile and said, ‘All fixed back there, ma’am. Thanks for the hospitality. We’ll be on our way.’

  She smiled back, and nodded.

  Confused, but also slightly infatuated by their charm, which cancelled out any suspicion.

  They made it through the revolving door and stepped out onto the sidewalk as a black town car with tinted windows slid to a stop in front of the building.

  19

  Together, they wasted no time.

  Slater had a Beretta M9 in an appendix holster, and King had a Glock 23. Slater reached for the door handle as casually as he could, and at the last millisecond, when the door was halfway open, he wrenched the Beretta out in one explosive movement and slammed himself down in the seat next to Russell Williams. He pushed the barrel to the man’s head, and as soon as he had effectively taken him hostage he swept his gaze over the interior.

  It was a miniature limousine, with the seats forming a U shape in the back. There was a man behind the wheel, and an unassuming pasty man in a charcoal suit opposite Williams. Neither the unknown man nor the driver made a move to react. There was no violent opposition. Just quiet acceptance.

  Like, If this is the way it’s going to go, then so be it.

  Slater said, ‘We’re good. All clear.’

  Still outside the car, King said, ‘Great.’

  Slater put the Beretta back in its holster.

  Beside him, Williams exhaled sharply. He’d been scared. Terrified, even. He knew Slater was a wild card, which meant he was desperate. Slater scrutinised the man. It seemed he’d aged ten years since Slater had last seen him. The close-cropped hair had always been flecked with grey, but now it was silver all over, and receding. Williams’ slate grey eyes were a little less refined, a little more unfocused. His appearance was somewhat dishevelled. He’d been wearing a tie at some point throughout the day, but he’d ripped it off before arriving here.

  His suit was creased, and too big.

  Williams had lost weight.

  Slater said, ‘Move over. I brought a friend.’

  Williams shifted across to the seats running along the side, and Slater scooted across to let King in.

  The town car peeled away.

  Slater said, ‘This had better be good.’

  ‘It’s not,’ Williams said. ‘Not for me. Not for you. Not for anyone.’

  ‘How the hell did they let you back into the government after Lynx imploded?’ Slater said.

  Williams narrowed his eyes, as if to say, Really?

  King nudged Slater in the side.

  Slater said, ‘Right. They funded it in the first place.’

  ‘It was my idea, but they gave me full approval.’

  ‘And now you magically recognise the error of your ways?’

  ‘I told you I have. It’s up to you whether you believe it.’

  ‘I don’t — not yet, at least.’

  Williams said, ‘Your friend’s talkative.’

  An attempt to inject some camaraderie back into the atmosphere. An attempt to kill the tension.

  King used his massive frame to lean across Slater and shove Williams against the town car’s window by wrapping a hand around his throat.

  King said, ‘You got something to say, little man?’

  Williams gasped for breath and shook his head.

  The other guy — the pasty one — looked tense. But he didn’t move to interfere.

  King let go.

  Williams gasped for breath, and Slater gently elbowed King back into his seat. ‘That’s enough.’

  ‘What the fuck was that for?’ Williams gasped.

  King said, ‘I think kids deserved a childhood, that’s all.’

  ‘Look, I understand that you’re both—’

  ‘Speak,’ Slater snarled. ‘You wanted us here. Now you have us.’

  ‘Okay, okay, okay.’

  King jabbed a thumb in the direction of the unknown man. ‘Who’s this guy?’

  ‘Turner,’ Williams said. ‘He’s my aide.’

  ‘Why’s he here?’

  ‘Because he has a near-photographic memory and I need every detail of this goddamn thing correct when I tell you. And I trust him.’

  ‘Turner,’ Slater said, nodding at the man.

  The guy nodded back.

  He didn’t say a word.

  The driver said, �
��Boss.’

  Softly.

  Barely audible.

  Slater heard it.

  King heard it.

  Williams didn’t.

  The town car coasted to a stop at a giant intersection somewhere in Manhattan. Neither King nor Slater had been paying attention to the direction they’d been travelling, so they weren’t sure exactly where they were. They’d been focused on sweeping for anything suspicious. Now, they both stiffened as they heard the driver speak.

  Williams pressed on, oblivious. He said, ‘Look, there’s some serious shit happening in the government right now behind closed doors, and I think I’ve opened a can of worms. I think—’

  ‘Boss,’ the driver said, louder.

  Williams looked up. ‘What?’

  ‘Might have a problem.’

  ‘What do you mean — might have a problem?’

  ‘Car behind us isn’t acting right.’

  Several things happened at once. The atmosphere tightened up, tension constricting the air. Slater spun around in his seat, but he saw nothing except headlights. King burst off his seat and slumped down beside Williams. He wrapped an arm over the man’s shoulder, withdrew his Glock, and pressed it to Williams’ ear.

  ‘If you’re trying to disguise this little traffic stop as a spontaneous ambush, it’s not going to work.’

  Williams gasped and went pale as the barrel skewered its way into his ear canal. He said, ‘This isn’t an ambush. I don’t know what this is.’

  King said, ‘You’re a bad actor.’

  Slater wasn’t looking at them anymore. He wasn’t even paying attention to the conversation. He was looking in every direction at once, hyper-alert, hyper-reactionary, ready to fight for his goddamn life at the slightest provocation.

  Maybe it was all a false alarm.

  Maybe not.

  The driver said, ‘Boss,’ again without turning around.

  ‘What?!’ Williams barked, white as a ghost.

  King kept the barrel pressed into the side of his head.

  The driver said, ‘Dead ahead. A car ran the red light. Big long sedan. Coming right for us.’

  ‘Fuck,’ Williams said.

  Slater wasn’t sure whether he believed it.

  The timing was awfully convenient for Williams.

  He hadn’t told them a thing yet.

  Then Turner reached into his jacket lining and came out with a switchblade, and he lunged.

  Not at Slater.

  Not at King.

  At Russell Williams.

  20

  The driver muttered a sharp, ‘What the fuck,’ as Turner dove across the cabin.

  Slater intercepted him, crash-tackling him into the opposite seats. The impact knocked his head hard against Turner’s shoulder. Under the suit, the man was all skin and bone, which almost made things worse. Slater felt a sharp crack in his skull and his neck pitched violently to one side, and he thought that it was all going to come to an end. A simple mishap, an unintended collision, and his entire fifteen-year career crashing into the dirt…

  But it didn’t end there, because Turner was jumpy and overly nervous. He clearly had some sort of combat training, because he threw an elbow at close range, and he put his entire body into it, twisting at the waist and opening his mouth in a wide snarl as he overcompensated. If it connected it might have done real damage, but things were unfolding too fast, and it sailed on harmlessly by.

  Slater punched Turner in the nose, head-butted him in the mouth, scythed an elbow up into his chin, and finally separated himself from the seats and kicked him in the chest hard enough to break his sternum.

  The aide slumped to the seats, broken and bloody, and Slater stripped the switchblade from his hand and stabbed him in the throat.

  Then he bounced back, breathing hard, and assessed the situation.

  ‘Jesus Christ,’ Williams said. ‘What did you do?’

  Slater held up the knife. ‘You didn’t see this?’

  Williams blinked hard. ‘He had that on him?’

  The silence said everything.

  King took the gun barrel away from Williams’ ear, turned to Slater, and said, ‘Well, we need to keep him alive.’

  ‘No shit.’

  Then the driver said, ‘Boss! Car’s stopped in front of us.’

  ‘We’re boxed in?’ Williams said, pale and in shock but still able to process information.

  Turner’s body bled profusely over the seats in front of them.

  ‘Think so,’ the driver said. ‘What the fuck is going on back there?’

  ‘Can you go around?’ King said.

  ‘Not anymore.’

  ‘Why not?’

  ‘You see this shit?’

  Slater peered through the open partition. There was a sedan with tinted windows parked horizontally across two lanes of traffic. Horns were blaring, and drivers were gesticulating, but it wasn’t going anywhere.

  Something bumped them from behind.

  Hard.

  Slater twisted in his seat and saw the bright headlights behind them buried in their rear bumper. The impact nudged them forward into the car in front, trapping them tight.

  ‘Do we get out?’ King said.

  ‘Uh…’

  ‘Slater!’

  ‘I’m thinking.’

  King tightened his grip on his Glock, and Slater brandished the Beretta at the ready.

  Both of them exchanged a tense, measured glance.

  Syncing their decision-making skills. It was the subtle, subconscious connection that those who had seen war together shared. All the quibbling, and politics, and disagreements, and trivial matters — it all fell to the wayside, replaced by intense focus.

  They entered that mode now.

  King said, ‘Williams.’

  ‘Yes?’

  ‘You scared?’

  ‘I thought this would happen.’

  ‘I need you to explain, briefly, and succinctly, exactly why you called us here. Because you might not get another opportunity.’

  Williams said, ‘There is an active operation within the U.S. government to destabilise our economy and bring about—’

  He abruptly stopped talking when bullets smashed into the window right next to his head. The glass was bulletproof, and all three of them knew it, but Williams recoiled all the same. Even Slater and King flinched involuntarily, but Williams almost dove to the floor of the town car out of fright.

  Growing irate, King said, ‘Keep talking!’

  ‘Look, all I know is that people are being paid off left, right and centre, and I can’t tell you who’s doing it because I don’t know. But what I can tell you is that within the next couple of weeks, two separate events are being planned, and when I stumbled across—’

  As Williams spoke, Slater saw the lane beside them clear up — the sedan at the front had backed up a few feet to allow the cars through. They sped off one by one, desperate to flee the war zone. And it left the town car wide open for—

  ‘Down!’ Slater roared. ‘Get the fuck down!’

  Too late.

  Williams wouldn’t shut up, because King was sponging information out of him as fast as humanly possible, so he didn’t notice the oncoming tank on wheels. It was a big 4x4 with a jacked-up suspension and a massive bull bar. It had its lights on high beam to blind and disorient. King saw it coming and dove for a seatbelt and wrapped the strap around his upper body in one fluid movement. Slater did the same, but at the last second he reached for Williams.

  He didn’t make it.

  21

  He got his fingers around Williams’ suit jacket when the truck hit them in the side, and the violent lurch practically concussed all three of them.

  Thankfully, King and Slater had spent a lifetime learning how to absorb impacts, often in live situations. So they cradled up and prevented themselves getting whiplash as the car screamed in protest and went up on its side, and all the windows groaned and bent and shattered, like grenades popping one after the
other, and the sheer force of everything unfolding at once nearly hurled them out of the vehicle through the jagged window frames.

  Slater felt Williams spin away, wrenched out from between his fingers, then he had to close his eyes — there was glass everywhere, whipping around the space like it was a centrifuge, and there was blood and heat and deafening sound and pain.

  The town car came to rest on its roof, and Slater didn’t even stop to consider that he was too injured to continue. He figured he was bleeding, and bruised, and perhaps had a couple of broken bones, but he wasn’t paralysed, so he let go of the seatbelt and dropped away from the seats and shimmied out of the car.

  Turned out that King had the exact same idea.

  In seconds, they were both free from a wreckage that should have killed them.

  The power of adrenaline, and training, and compartmentalisation.

  They looked at each other for maybe half a second in total, then figured out where they were.

  They were still in the intersection — now closer to the middle. Traffic was trying to disperse, but it was typical New York chaos. There was gridlock, and that led to horns blaring in a grotesque cacophony, and people screaming, and civilians abandoning their cars. And there were gunmen in between the vehicles — dark mysterious shapes, brandishing rifles. At least five or six of them.

  Everywhere.

  Anyone else would have caved.

  Anyone else would have surrendered on the spot — outnumbered, outgunned, injured, stranded in the open.

  Slater had the Beretta in his hand in a heartbeat, and he shot the first enemy silhouette he saw through the gap in the guy’s combat helmet. The bulky figure had his visor flipped up, because it was dark, and the bullet thwacked home between his eyes and snapped his head back and he dropped out of sight between two small hatchbacks.

  Slater said, ‘Split up. I’ll get a rifle and give you cover — you try and get Williams out of there.’

  ‘Yeah,’ King muttered.

  Slater sprinted for the row of cars where he’d seen the first dead enemy drop.

  He was a different person. There were no thoughts running through his head. His life was forward movement, and he felt the same supreme concentration falling over him. Because if he died, then he died, but until that happened he would fight until the last breath.