Weapons

by Matt Rogers

  ‘But you’re still breathing.’

  ‘Yeah.’

  ‘Do you have Ruby?’

  ‘Yeah. She’s with me.’

  ‘Have you had the chance to reacquaint yourselves with each other?’

  ‘Briefly.’

  ‘Congratulations.’

  ‘What’d you and Violetta get up to?’

  ‘This and that.’

  ‘Congratulations to you, too, then. Aren’t we a pair of romantics?’

  ‘I need a favour.’

  ‘I figured, or you wouldn’t have called.’

  ‘Give me the name of the Whelan who would know exactly where Gianni was taking that truck.’

  A pause.

  A long pause.

  Then Slater said, ‘That’d be Tommy.’

  ‘Real name Thomas?’

  ‘I wouldn’t have a clue. He was the head of the family when I went to war with them. But maybe times have changed. Maybe the crown has been passed on. I can’t be sure.’

  ‘Thanks — that should be enough.’

  ‘What are you going to do?’

  ‘Find out where those black boxes were going. Follow the trail.’

  ‘You think it’s connected?’

  ‘It’d be a coincidence if it wasn’t. That much firepower shows up on the streets for a private delivery. A few days later, three Wall Street power players go missing.’

  ‘I didn’t hear about that.’

  ‘No-one heard about it. It happened last night. To the public, they’re nobodies. But Violetta promises me they’re the technological wizards the Chinese would need to pull off something drastic.’

  ‘Will I be coming back to the same country?’

  ‘If I can do something about it, you will be.’

  ‘But if not?’

  ‘Leave it with me. Just get back here.’

  ‘Should you wait until I get there to execute a raid? We’d be better off working together.’

  ‘How far away are you?’

  ‘We just took off. Four hours to JFK.’

  ‘I think I need to move now.’

  Silence.

  But an understanding silence.

  After all, they’d been operating on their own for as long as they could remember. Solo missions were hardwired into their DNA.

  Slater said, ‘Be careful.’

  ‘Always.’

  ‘Don’t do anything I wouldn’t do.’

  ‘You’re not exactly the best example to model myself after.’

  King heard a low chuckle.

  ‘I’ll be there soon,’ Slater said. ‘Make sure you’re in one piece when I get there.’

  ‘Will do.’

  King ended the call, and turned to Violetta, who was getting off her own phone.

  He said, ‘Slater’s alive. Sounds like he went through the ringer, but he has Ruby and they’re on the way back.’

  ‘So the cartels did come for her?’

  ‘I don’t know if it was the cartels.’

  ‘Perhaps it wasn’t. If it was sicarios, then Slater wouldn’t be around to answer the phone.’

  King almost smirked. ‘Then you don’t know Will Slater.’

  She said, ‘My team is picking up the box in fifteen minutes. They’ll have a rudimentary analysis of it within the hour. Trust me — they know what they’re doing.’

  ‘They’re tech guys?’

  ‘They’re everything. Jacks of all trades. It’s a highly competitive industry.’

  ‘I assume the pay is still handsome?’

  ‘We have to attract the best.’

  King said, ‘I have a name for you. Work your magic. Find him for me.’

  ‘Shoot.’

  ‘Tommy Whelan.’

  58

  An hour later, King sat in the window of a café across the street from Tommy Whelan’s building and sipped at a steaming espresso.

  He was dressed in civilian clothes, but he wouldn’t be for long. Violetta had kicked her request to the right intelligence sources, who revealed that ever since a violent incident at a multi-million dollar townhouse once owned by the Whelans on the Upper East Side, they’d been keeping tabs on the family’s whereabouts. They’d never be able to pin anything on the Whelans — the family were meticulous criminals, after all.

  But it was useful to know where they were at all times.

  So it turned out Tommy Whelan was still on the Upper East Side, but he’d downgraded from an eight-figure status symbol to a seven-figure luxury apartment in a residential building.

  Which was useful to him for a number of reasons.

  There was collateral in the form of his civilian neighbours, so his enemies wouldn’t raid the place in broad daylight like Slater seemingly had done to their townhouse the year before. The building also had impressive security in its own right, fronted by the extortionate body corporate fees and the general opulence of New York luxury residential dwellings. And, finally, Tommy could establish his own security system on top of that, doubling up on the protection.

  King saw Whelan’s goons now. They weren’t hard to spot. They lounged around the base of the building, chain-smoking cigarettes and ambling along the sidewalks in their long winter coats. As if they were doing their best impression of real wise guys — but that was the point. They were there to stand out. They were there to say, Hey, if you want to fuck with Tommy, you have to go through us.

  Which was entirely possible, if a trained combatant could jump them simultaneously, but at the end of the day it would result in a shootout in the Upper East Side, right there on the street. The cops would swarm the place within a minute.

  So King knew he had to be discreet.

  He found his opportunity fast. One of the security goons was shorter than the rest — five-eight, maybe, which mattered in an industry like this. The beefy redhead had compensated for it by packing on muscle in the gym, but it was clearly not enough. And, as King expected, the fact that he was stuck with his height in the intimidation business meant he was always having to go overboard on the aggressive demeanour. He had to play the part of the jumpy, twitchy, reckless one — the small guy who could go off at any moment. It kept him on a level playing field with the big, calm, confident street thugs. It added something new to the mix.

  Napoleon complex: an exhibit.

  What it meant was that the guy was permanently on guard. For the small man in an aggressive world, weakness cannot be tolerated. He smoked his cigarettes a little faster, he looked around a little more, and he eyeballed any passerby that dared to hold their gaze for longer than a second.

  King noted all of this, then stepped out of the coffee shop and weaved through traffic.

  In his head, he planned out an exact sequence of events.

  He memorised them once.

  Game face.

  He stepped up onto the sidewalk like a businessman with places to be — he was dressed in a collared shirt, a cashmere sweater and dress slacks to fit the part. But smart clothing couldn’t hide his massive frame, so he decided to embrace it. He kept his shoulders back, but he added a certain level of uncertainty to his gait. He was a confident man in the boardroom, and he clearly took care of himself, but did he have the real tough-guy streak?

  When he walked past Whelan’s building, he steered himself toward the shorter guy and intercepted him on the sidewalk.

  He stared straight ahead, pretended the guy didn’t exist, and slammed his shoulder into the man on the way past, literally smashing him out of the way.

  Another way to trigger a shorter man — simply overpower them and pretend you didn’t mean it.

  King wheeled on the spot and scrunched up his face with clear irritation and said, ‘Watch where you’re walking, dickhead.’

  Without even waiting for a response, he hustled down the next laneway, maintaining long strides.

  He heard the short guy’s rapid footsteps as he ran to catch up.

  Looking for a fight.

  Outraged at being manhandled.<
br />
  King smirked.

  Perfect.

  59

  The guy came running into the alleyway at breakneck speed, his face red, a vein protruding from the side of his temple. He had his fists balled and a black rage in his eyes.

  If King was an ordinary civilian, he might have shit himself right there on the spot.

  Because there was a world of difference between an angry thug and a soft-bodied office worker.

  But then there was another world of difference between Jason King and an angry thug.

  He checked once for witnesses — there was foot traffic passing by the other end of the alley, but they were looking ahead, and everyone was in a hurry. That was something King had recognised over time. Everyone passing by was a node of self-judgment. People aren’t concerned about others — they’re concerned about themselves. Nine times out of ten, if they happened to see two angry men fighting in an alleyway, they’d carry on walking.

  Not their concern.

  So King planted his feet and loosened his hips and when the small guy ran into the mouth of the laneway he twisted into a side kick, taking advantage of the size difference. If they’d weighed the same, he wouldn’t have risked taking one leg off the ground and potentially compromising his balance. Not in a street fight — not with this much testosterone in the air. But there was a size difference, and it was substantial, so he treated the small guy like one of Rory Barker’s leather kickboxing pads and hit him so hard in the ribcage that the man bounced off the nearby concrete wall like he weighed nothing at all.

  King figured he’d broken several of the guy’s ribs, so he didn’t even bother with a follow-up shot.

  He stood patiently as the man curled up in the foetal position and moaned, and waited for the help to come.

  Which it did, only a few seconds later.

  One of the other bodyguards came barrelling into view — he was big, and his coat was oversized to compensate for his giant frame. He was probably an inch taller than King, and a few pounds heavier, maybe. There was a lot of risk at play. A single well-placed punch from either party would lead to their opponent sprawled out on a dirty laneway floor with the sounds of the city echoing in their ears.

  So it was a good thing that King punched the guy square in the jaw first. He cocked his fist like a loaded gun and whipped it straight through the guy’s raised arms and torqued his chin to the left and added all his weight to the punch as soon as he realised it had landed.

  The guy’s head rotated ninety degrees, then whipped back into place. Like yanking a lamp out of the power socket. His brain dimmed, and went to sleep, and he crashed to earth, landing on top of his buddy. The short guy groaned again and heaved the unconscious body off him, despite his ribs protesting every step of the way.

  Because, of course, a little pain was better than the humiliation of lying underneath his co-worker.

  King wasted no time. He stripped the larger man of his coat and threw it on over his sweater. It was Armani — impeccable quality. The guy was also wearing a Brixton fiddler cap, like something out of a bad British gangster film, so King put that on as well.

  Then he turned and hustled back out of the laneway.

  He kept his head down, and weaved through foot traffic, and kept his aching right hand in his coat pocket. He was lucky he hadn’t shattered his knuckles punching the guy in the jaw. Bones — especially those in your hands — were brittle and delicate, no matter how tough you were. King much preferred the elbow, but the range hadn’t been right.

  He made it to the revolving doors leading into the building in less than fifteen seconds.

  And ran straight into the third guard.

  The guy put a hand on King’s chest and said, ‘Bro, what was that?’

  When King looked up and revealed his face the man froze in place.

  ‘Wait, you’re not—’

  King said, ‘Buddy, you’re fucked. There’s a 9mm in my pocket pointing right at you.’

  The guy gulped and went pale and didn’t move a muscle.

  ‘How about you take the rest of the day off?’ King said. ‘Let me do what I need to do. How’s that sound?’

  ‘They’ll kill me.’

  ‘I’ll kill you.’

  The guy nodded, already sweating from the temples, and shrugged. ‘Guess I could come up with an excuse.’

  ‘Attaboy.’

  And just like that, one of Whelan’s most important foot soldiers — tasked with protecting the boss himself — turned and walked off down the street, recognising it wasn’t the right day to be a hero. It was simple human nature. Catch anyone off-guard, and you lead the negotiation. It didn’t take long for King to convince someone they were better off not trying at all.

  He walked into the lobby and approached the concierge without hesitation. There was a line of residents waiting for service, but King shoved right past all of them like he owned the place and rested his giant forearms on the shiny marble. He leaned right across and stared a thin young woman dead in the eyes.

  He made himself look like a hard, cold bastard.

  He was good at that.

  ‘I’m told he needs to speak with me,’ he said.

  She took one look at his Brixton cap and long coat and knew immediately who he worked for. That was always going to be the case. Men like Tommy Whelan relied on bribes, intimidation, coercion. It was clearly a poorly-kept secret that he had his own security hanging around. He probably paid building management a tidy sum to let him do his thing.

  And they’d passed it down to the staff.

  The woman said, ‘Um … do you want me to ring ahead?’

  King relaxed a little, and rolled his eyes, as if to say, You know how it is.

  He said, ‘Trust me. He knows I’m coming.’

  Like he was about to be disciplined.

  Which put them, subconsciously, in the same boat.

  Fearful of the man upstairs.

  She gave a little smile and said, ‘Sure. First elevator on the left. Hit the floor number and you won’t need a keycard. I’ll program it now.’

  Without skipping a beat he said, ‘What’s the floor number?’

  If he’d hesitated, it would have been even more obvious.

  She looked at him.

  He shrugged sheepishly and said, ‘I’m new on the job.’

  ‘Nine.’

  ‘And the room number?’

  She said, ‘Seriously?’

  He smiled and said, ‘I’m as unhappy about it as you are.’

  ‘904.’

  ‘Thanks. Have a great day.’

  He hadn’t objectified her, or called her doll, or sweetheart, or sugar. Which was probably an anomaly for the men who hung around this building wearing Brixton caps and overcoats. So she took the strange development in stride and nodded with a pleasant smile and waved him through.

  He put his game face back on and headed for the elevators.

  60

  He got out on the ninth floor and made a beeline for Whelan’s door.

  He passed 901, then 902, then 903…

  He smacked a fist three consecutive times into the black wood.

  He yelled, ‘Boss, it’s urgent!’

  He stepped off to the side so Whelan couldn’t see him if he looked through the peephole, and waited with his hands down by his sides, his fingers twitching, like a gunslinger ready to draw.

  The sound of a lock turning floated out into the corridor, and the handle turned and—

  King smashed the heel of his boot into the centre of the door so hard he almost took the whole thing off its hinges. Then he ran straight inside without getting a proper look at the damage he’d inflicted. He muscled Whelan inside, checked he didn’t have any weapons in his hands, then threw him to the floor.

  He turned and slammed the door closed and took a deep breath.

  He was in.

  Tommy Whelan lay gasping for breath on the cool marble. There was a chunk of skin missing underneath his chin where the doo
r had lashed against his neck, and he was grasping his chest like all the breath had been squeezed from his lungs.

  King said, ‘You’ll live.’

  He waited for the theatrics to dissipate, and when Whelan finally sat up there was a look of confusion on his pale face. He was an old man, well past seventy, wearing a grey wool suit. He had long grey hair billowing back off his forehead, tucked behind his ears. There was no humanity in his eyes. He was a ruthless old tyrant by all accounts, and King couldn’t care less what state he was in at the end of all this.

  King dragged him to his feet, patted him down for any hidden blades or firearms, then manhandled him into the living area.

  It was a similar setup to his own penthouse. A sweeping view of Central Park, a high ceiling, and an open-plan living area with the kitchen, dining, and living combined into one.

  Seems like the whole Upper East Side recruited the same architect, King thought.

  He dumped Whelan down on the sofa, and loomed over him.

  ‘Do you have a panic button?’ King said.

  ‘What?’ the old man grumbled.

  ‘A panic button. To alert your goons if you’re in trouble.’

  ‘Yeah. It’s right here in my pocket.’

  ‘Press it.’

  ‘What?’

  ‘Press it. Call for help.’

  Whelan sat still.

  King let the silence drag out. He crouched down so he was inches away from Whelan. He said, ‘There’s no catch. I’m serious. Press it. But when your men get here and I fuck them up, there’ll be no-one left to call for help. Then what are you going to do? If I were you I’d leave it alone, because if you exhaust your final lifeline you might go mad with stress. If it doesn’t work, I can stay up here for as long as I like. But if you give me the time of day, and give me what I want, then I’ll be on my way.’

  Whelan said, ‘What do you want?’

  ‘Me and my friend aren’t happy with you.’

  ‘Who’s your friend?’

  ‘I think you know him.’

  Whelan sat silent, oblivious. He was probably more focused on not having a heart attack than the mental acuity required to wrack his brain for what King might mean.