Outlaws by Matt Rogers (phonics books TXT) 📕

far as I can tell, that’ll be the opportune time to take me out and make it look like a regular road accident. And, let’s face it, things will escalate when I reveal I have this photo.’

‘How did you get it?’

‘I have hundreds of people working directly for me,’ Donati said.

He seemingly didn’t feel the need to elaborate further.

King nodded.

Donati said, ‘What else do you need from me?’

King shook his head. ‘Nothing.’

‘Did you want to run me through your procedures—?’

King gave the man a withering look, silencing him.

King said, ‘You asked me to stop concerning myself with your business. I’ll ask you to stop concerning yourself with mine.’

He could have elaborated. He could have said, All it really comes down to is reaction speed. There’s only so much tactical surveillance you can do before you’ve covered all your bases. If someone gets through the outer perimeter, all that matters is winning the game of instincts. That means being on guard, and I don’t need your input for that.

But Donati didn’t need to know any of that.

The billionaire had his own problems to worry about.

King settled back into his seat.

Truth was, he didn’t trust anyone.

Not Donati. Not his men. Not Zima Group.

He was here because Slater owed Coombs, and that was it.

14

Slater had reached his decision, but it didn’t feel real.

Sure, he’d spent months considering it. Weeks seesawing back and forth, refusing to continue lying to himself. Now he’d meditated for close to five hours to confirm it.

But it was still all he’d known for fifteen years.

There was still so much to unpack.

He decided to cleanse himself the only other way he knew how. He’d heard rumours of a unique Tulum gym along the beach, but he’d never seen it in the flesh. He told Alexis he needed more time to think, and that he’d be back in a few hours. She didn’t seem fazed. Neither of them were needy. Back home, she was a busy professional, and so was he. Different sorts of professionals, sure, but mutually busy. There wasn’t an enormous chunk of time across their schedules to coordinate, so they had to cherish what time they did spend with each other. Now, in each other’s company for days straight with nothing on their calendars, their time seemed endless.

Being apart for a few hours at a time was the least of their concerns.

He found the destination on his smartphone and strolled for the better part of half an hour along the shoreline, welcoming the harsh heat of the day. Perspiration broke out along the back of his neck and in his armpits, but it barely fazed him. Discomfort was second nature. He felt right at home at the height of it. He ended up encouraging the sweating by breaking into a comfortable jog, his bare feet sinking an inch or so into the damp sand with each footfall.

He pulled up to the Tulum Jungle Gym with a thin coating of sweat covering his entire body.

He paid the exorbitant daily fee at the reception desk, but he figured the price was justified. Half the outdoor gym rested on the beach itself, and the rest was composed of a collection of cabañas with traditional thatched roofs. The receptionist informed him that all the equipment had bamboo and wooden exteriors, with stone filling the inside to add weight. Slater took in the old-school setup and smiled.

It was primitive, primal, animalistic.

A throwback to simpler times.

Just what he preferred.

He found his tunnel vision, and tuned everything else out, and pushed his body to its physical limits. He lifted wooden, stone-filled barbells until his heart rate skyrocketed, then pushed harder by heaving sizeable boulders off the sand and hurling them over his shoulder. He repeated the process, sweating and panting, his muscles burning, his lungs screaming for mercy.

Everything else fell away, giving him time to think about what made him happy.

This did.

Life, as far as he was concerned, was simple. The rapid advancement of modernity across the first world had created swathes of unhappy, unfulfilled, unsatisfied people. He saw it every day back in Manhattan, every time he stepped out onto the street. He watched men and women in formal attire rush to their cubicles, their minds clouded by uncertainty, unsure of what they really wanted from life.

Slater didn’t blame them. He’d grappled with the same issues for most of his career.

At first, he thought it was money he wanted. Black Force paid handsomely, but it only took a few months of financial freedom to realise he needed a better reason to throw his life on the line over and over again. Then, he pivoted into genuinely wanting to help people. But that too could only last so long. You couldn’t ignore your selfish impulses forever. Sure, he wanted to do good, but it couldn’t be his only reason for embracing a life filled with such an ungodly amount of suffering.

Eventually he had to learn to find joy in the suffering.

And he had.

So wanting out didn’t mean abandoning what made him happy. Pushing himself, testing his limits, seeing what could be accomplished with his physical vessel — that gave him contentment. And as much as he didn’t want to admit it, so did righting wrongs.

He decided it wouldn’t be retirement.

Not completely.

But he had to step away from Violetta and her shadowy subdivision and the rest of the government.

He had to be free.

Maxing his heart rate, pouring sweat, he finished his final boulder throw and dropped into the sand beside the giant rock.

It only took a few minutes to catch his breath, no thanks to unparalleled cardiovascular conditioning. He could recover from physical exertion like a world-class endurance athlete. By the time he sat up, head clear, mind sharp, his heart rate had plummeted.

He saw a future laid out before him.

He walked back to the villa. The afternoon sun was no less intense. Halfway back, he dove into the ocean to shed the salt caked to his skin from the workout. Enclosed by the coolness