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Hunters

The King & Slater Series Book Eight

Matt Rogers

Copyright © 2020 by Matt Rogers

All rights reserved.

Cover design by Onur Aksoy.

www.onegraphica.com

Contents

Reader’s Group

Facebook Page

Books by Matt Rogers

Preface

Chapter 1

Chapter 2

Chapter 3

Chapter 4

Chapter 5

Chapter 6

Chapter 7

Chapter 8

Chapter 9

Chapter 10

Chapter 11

Chapter 12

Chapter 13

Chapter 14

Chapter 15

Chapter 16

Chapter 17

Chapter 18

Chapter 19

Chapter 20

Chapter 21

Chapter 22

Chapter 23

Chapter 24

Chapter 25

Chapter 26

Chapter 27

Chapter 28

Chapter 29

Chapter 30

Chapter 31

Chapter 32

Chapter 33

Chapter 34

Chapter 35

Chapter 36

Chapter 37

Chapter 38

Chapter 39

Chapter 40

Chapter 41

Chapter 42

Chapter 43

Chapter 44

Chapter 45

Chapter 46

Chapter 47

Chapter 48

Chapter 49

Chapter 50

Chapter 51

Chapter 52

Chapter 53

Chapter 54

Chapter 55

Chapter 56

Chapter 57

Chapter 58

Chapter 59

Chapter 60

Chapter 61

Chapter 62

Chapter 63

Chapter 64

Chapter 65

Chapter 66

Chapter 67

Chapter 68

Chapter 69

Chapter 70

Chapter 71

Chapter 72

Chapter 73

Chapter 74

Chapter 75

Chapter 76

Chapter 77

Chapter 78

Chapter 79

Chapter 80

Chapter 81

Chapter 82

Chapter 83

Chapter 84

Chapter 85

Chapter 86

Chapter 87

Chapter 88

Chapter 89

Chapter 90

Chapter 91

Chapter 92

Chapter 93

Chapter 94

Chapter 95

Chapter 96

Chapter 97

Chapter 98

Chapter 99

Chapter 100

Chapter 101

Chapter 102

Chapter 103

Chapter 104

Chapter 105

Chapter 106

Chapter 107

Chapter 108

Chapter 109

Chapter 110

Chapter 111

Chapter 112

Chapter 113

Afterword

Afterword

Books by Matt Rogers

Reader’s Group

About the Author

Join the Reader’s Group and get a free 200-page book by Matt Rogers!

Sign up for a free copy of ‘BLOOD MONEY’.

Meet Ruby Nazarian, a government operative for a clandestine initiative known only as Lynx. She’s in Monaco to infiltrate the entourage of Aaron Wayne, a real estate tycoon on the precipice of dipping his hands into blood money. She charms her way aboard the magnate’s superyacht, but everyone seems suspicious of her, and as the party ebbs onward she prepares for war…

Maybe she’s paranoid.

Maybe not.

Just click here.

Follow me on Facebook!

https://www.facebook.com/mattrogersbooks

Expect regular updates, cover reveals, giveaways, and more. I love interacting with fans. Feel free to send me a private message with any questions or comments. Looking forward to having you!

Books by Matt Rogers

THE JASON KING SERIES

Isolated (Book 1)

Imprisoned (Book 2)

Reloaded (Book 3)

Betrayed (Book 4)

Corrupted (Book 5)

Hunted (Book 6)

THE JASON KING FILES

Cartel (Book 1)

Warrior (Book 2)

Savages (Book 3)

THE WILL SLATER SERIES

Wolf (Book 1)

Lion (Book 2)

Bear (Book 3)

Lynx (Book 4)

Bull (Book 5)

Hawk (Book 6)

THE KING & SLATER SERIES

Weapons (Book 1)

Contracts (Book 2)

Ciphers (Book 3)

Outlaws (Book 4)

Ghosts (Book 5)

Sharks (Book 6)

Messiahs (Book 7)

Hunters (Book 8)

LYNX SHORTS

Blood Money (Book 1)

BLACK FORCE SHORTS

The Victor (Book 1)

The Chimera (Book 2)

The Tribe (Book 3)

The Hidden (Book 4)

The Coast (Book 5)

The Storm (Book 6)

The Wicked (Book 7)

The King (Book 8)

The Joker (Book 9)

The Ruins (Book 10)

“It is lamentable that to be a good patriot one must become the enemy of the rest of mankind.”

Voltaire

1

Devin Nelson stood in the Oval Office before the President of the United States and said, ‘Do you trust me?’

The President hesitated. ‘Would you be here if I didn’t?’

The thick oval rug muffled their words. Nelson liked that. If they reached unwanted ears, they would cost him his career, his wellbeing, and almost certainly his life. His involvement in the world of covert black-ops afforded him the ability to rid the meeting of lingering officials. The Secret Service were outside in the adjoining office, waiting diligently for the briefing to conclude.

It didn’t help Nelson’s nerves that he’d spent all day thinking about this moment. In typical presidential fashion, the planned early-morning debrief on active wet work missions had been rescheduled twice to accommodate the President’s chaotic and never-ending list of obligations.

Finally Nelson had wormed his way into a 5:30p.m. debrief, and the time slot had miraculously stuck.

Now the President stood above the Seal, the coat of arms adorning the middle of the rug. It formed the centrepiece of the room. The man was in his early sixties with steel grey hair, cut short. His suit was tailored to his thin frame and his eyes were pale blue, sharp and uncompromising. It was like he never blinked. Nelson had known that gaze for decades, well before the man took office. Its unwavering power had carried him to the highest throne in the land.

Elevated him to places neither of them anticipated.

‘It’s my job to be here,’ Nelson said. ‘I’d understand if you didn’t have the same confidence in me as you did in the old days.’

‘Why would anything have changed?’

‘I’m just asking.’

‘But why are you asking, Devin?’

He was the President, after all. If he didn’t know how to cut to the chase, he’d have been bullied out of power at the beginning of his term.

Nelson said, ‘I have something for you.’

He slipped a tiny glass vial out of his inside jacket pocket. He held the contents up for scrutiny. The liquid within gleamed under the lights. It was semi-dark outside now, the White House grounds coated in a stormy grey, which only emphasised the allure of the amber substance, like a warm hug on a cold night.

The President stared at the vial for a beat. ‘I don’t know what that is, but how the fuck did you get it in here?’

‘You think they bring me in through the front?’ Nelson said. ‘You think I’m subjected to the routine for regular schmucks? All those screening procedures?’

The President shrugged. He rounded the Resolute desk, that giant old-fashioned slab, and sat down in his chair. Then he gestured for Nelson to sit opposite.

Which definitely wasn’t, ‘No, put that away and get out.’

Nelson hadn’t entered the White House the “regular schmuck” way in nearly a decade. He reminisced on the painstaking security measures — passing the Uniformed Division officers with their rifles, the Belgian Malinois’ sniffing for explosives, the infrared and audio detectors, the marksmen on the roof, the sweeps, the frisk searches, the alarms just waiting to blare if so much as a hint of treachery was detected.

Nelson had abandoned all that when he’d ceased to exist. Running black operations does wonders for expediency. All those boring hoops public officials have to jump through become an outdated relic of the past.

With great power comes … well, whatever you want, really.

So now Nelson came and went as he pleased, away from the lens of public scrutiny, delivering intelligence briefings to perhaps the most famous individual on the planet.

Information that would never make the news or the talk shows.

Now he pulled up an ornate wooden chair and sat

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