Ciphers by Matt Rogers (ereader with dictionary .txt) 📕

grabbed the back of his skull as soon as he turned his head and shoved it forward, preventing him from getting a proper look. He pointed to the dance floor.

‘Look out there, kid,’ Slater said. ‘What’s your name?’

‘Rico.’

‘Rico, huh?’

‘Get the fuck off me, man.’

‘What are you going to do if I don’t?’

‘Where are—’

He tried to turn his head again. Started craning his neck, but Slater used the hand looped over one shoulder to slap Rico in the face. His palm thwacked off the kid’s cheek and his head bounced back into place.

‘I took care of your bodyguards,’ Slater said.

It wasn’t true, but Rico didn’t know that. Everything had happened so fast, and the kid was drunk or high or both, and the darkness was all-encompassing, and the music was pounding. He had no way of knowing whether his men were standing right there behind him, blissfully oblivious to his situation, or laid out on the club floor with broken faces and concussions.

If Rico gave it a moment’s thought, he’d realise Slater hadn’t had time for any of that.

But he didn’t give it a moment’s thought, because all he could concentrate on was the fact that a stranger had his gun and was in the process of humiliating him.

Rico’s eyes flared up with rage. The sting would be creeping its way through his cheek. Adrenaline was now flowing through him, parting the clouds of inebriation. He was sobering up fast, and realising how stupid he looked, and starting to panic.

Slater said, ‘You going to try and break free?’

‘Dude,’ Rico said, squirming in Slater’s iron grip. ‘I told you to get the—’

Slater slapped him again, but masked it from sight with the bulk of his frame. He made it look like any old drunken friendly hug. ‘You got some nerve pulling a piece in here.’

‘Yeah, well, I’ve—’

‘Got no spine?’ Slater said.

‘What?’

‘You’ve got no spine. You haven’t done any of this on your own. You’re using daddy’s credit card.’

Rico visibly tensed.

Slater tightened the arm around the back of his neck. Turning it into a half-headlock. Making sure he didn’t go anywhere.

Slater said, ‘When I let go you might think you should try something. I’m advising you not to. You’ve already fucked up twice. Don’t make the third time the charm.’

This time, the kid didn’t squirm, and he didn’t respond.

His shoulders slumped forward.

He recognised defeat.

Slater let go of him and shoved him back in the direction of his booth. ‘I don’t know how you got that gun in here, but now it’s mine.’

Rico sized up his surroundings. Slater watched his gaze sweep over his security, who were all standing there patiently with their hands folded in front of them. Like a procession standing at attention at a funeral.

Rico stared at them, incredulous, and then pointed a shaking finger at Slater.

Whether it was shaking from fear or adrenaline — that was hard to discern.

Maybe both.

‘Get my piece back,’ he shouted above the music. ‘Papá gave it to me.’

None of them moved.

Slater watched them.

Put one hand behind his back, just in case.

Like a Wild West gunslinger ready to draw.

They looked at him. He knew they wanted to give it a shot. Rico’s father would be none too happy if the kid relayed this story. Slater had reached a mutual understanding with them through implication alone, but there was no guarantee that would last.

He got ready to shoot five men dead in a Manhattan nightclub.

9

A waiter in a tailored suit floated over to King as soon as his glass was empty. ‘A refill, sir?’

‘Not tonight, Santino,’ King said. ‘I’ve got places to be.’

The man nodded and drifted away.

Rory said, ‘Is that my cue?’

‘I’m afraid it has to be.’

‘Where are you headed?’

‘I told you I have a date. With Violetta.’

‘Must be nice.’

King said, ‘I assume you do an awful lot of travelling if you float between MMA camps.’

A nod.

‘Do you have a significant other?’

‘Not currently,’ Rory said. ‘The last one ended badly. That was two years ago. Nothing’s really eventuated since then. Nothing permanent, at least.’

‘You’re always on the move?’

‘Pretty much. I take it you are, too.’

‘Not as much as I was in the past,’ King said. ‘But it’s still brutal.’

‘How’d you find a way around it?’

King thought of his first encounter with Violetta. ‘I found someone crazy enough to work in the same field I’m in. That was enough.’

‘Has Slater done the same?’

King paused. ‘He tried.’

‘What happened?’

‘What usually happens in our field.’

Rory bowed his head. ‘Sorry to hear that.’

‘You didn’t know her. And you don’t know him. What’s it to you?’

‘I know you. Aside from your vices, it sounds like you two are one and the same. Sounds like he would have been happy with her.’

‘Yeah,’ King said. ‘He would have.’

Silence.

King said, ‘But shit happens.’

‘Shit happens,’ Rory repeated.

He lifted the glass to his lips and finished it.

‘I’ll see you next week?’ King said.

Rory nodded. ‘I’m heading out to Vegas for five days, and then I’ll be back. A fighter’s camp out there needs me.’

‘Get ’em ready for war.’

‘Always.’

They stood up. The sun had set long ago, and it was approaching the hour where the night truly came alive. King checked his watch — 10:43. Violetta had made a reservation for seven at their favourite Japanese restaurant on the Upper East Side, but she’d messaged an apology hours earlier, blaming work for unexpected delays. In any other career, he might have suspected she was up to something. But with the business she operated in, news like that worried him for other reasons. Nine times out of ten it meant something real bad was happening somewhere in the world. She probably had skin in the game — a black-ops specialist on foreign soil, deep in enemy territory, suddenly compromised. He’d realised long ago that she might be the only person he knew besides Slater that shared a similar level of job stress.

Sure, her life wasn’t directly on the line, but the second- and third-order consequences of her actions carried enough weight to traumatise her if she butchered a