Outlaws by Matt Rogers (phonics books TXT) 📕

When he resurfaced, he opened his eyes to a new world.

A world without unending self-expectation. A world where he wasn’t going to mentally beat himself up for slacking off. He’d given fifteen years to unconditional self-improvement, and he’d done everything for his country. He’d saved thousands of people. Millions, if you factored in the disasters he’d prevented.

He found an ultimatum, and etched it into his mind.

Alexis was waiting for him in the villa, her head buried in a faded paperback. She’d draped herself across one of the decorative reclining chairs to catch the rays of sun filtering in over the windowsill, and when he stepped inside she lifted her gaze to meet his. Her eyes glowed green in the sunlight.

Just like Ruby’s had glowed.

She said, ‘You okay?’

‘Yeah.’

‘You want to talk?’

‘Maybe later.’

She nodded. ‘There’s no rush.’

Then he reconsidered. ‘There’s one thing I’m set on.’

She didn’t pry. She waited for him to gather his thoughts.

He said, ‘If I see someone in trouble, I’ll help them. I can’t turn away. That reflex… it’s part of me by now. But I can’t do it officially anymore.’

‘Aren’t you already unofficial?’ she said, but she knew what he meant.

‘No more employment,’ he said. ‘No more contracts. No more structure. It’s like I’ve been weaponised my whole life. That’s what I’m sick of. When I was a vigilante, I was happy.’

She said, ‘Is that what you’re going to be?’

‘I can figure that out later. But now I know one thing.’

She nodded.

She knew.

But he said it anyway. He needed to say it out loud.

He needed to know he meant it.

He said, ‘I’m done with the government.’

15

When they landed in Moscow, they waited aboard the jet for customs officials to conduct a sweep for any smuggled goods.

The plane was clean.

They handed over passports, including King’s false documentation, and the Russians ushered them through without incident. Town cars took them to the luxurious Zvezda Hotel within the Garden Ring, and an hour after they’d settled in King heard Donati order a woman’s death.

The necessary steps unfolded.

He moved from the antechamber to the office.

They made eye contact.

They had their confrontation.

It played out exactly how King thought it would.

He was ready.

As Donati roared, ‘Help!’ he was already halfway rotated toward the closed door. He initiated a timer in his head, counting the seconds since Donati had screamed for help. He swept through a mental checklist of the six men working for Veloce Security Services. He ascertained who seemed to have their wits together the most, and settled on the African-American man with short close-cropped hair and intense eyes. That guy had sat deathly still the whole flight over, and the rest had fidgeted. He was ready to protect his boss at a moment’s notice. And he was more athletic than the rest of his colleagues.

He’d come in first.

How tall was he?

King guessed six three, and planned accordingly.

When the door burst open, a body on the other side hastily smashing against it, King closed the gap and opened his hips and lashed out with a body kick before he’d even laid eyes on his target.

Sure enough, it was the dark-skinned guy.

And he was six foot three, as predicted.

He took one step inside the room and King’s shinbone hit him in the liver like a steel bat. The sheer intensity of the pain he felt shut his body down, killing his ability to defend himself, and he sunk to his knees with a slack-jawed expression on his face. King didn’t follow up with a knockout blow. That’d be extraneous, and he couldn’t waste movement.

Instead, he waited for the inevitable logjam.

Sure enough, all six of them were in a simultaneous frenzy to get inside. When the first guy went down on his knees the two behind him switched gears and tried to skid to a halt, but that’s almost impossible in a congested hallway with three more testosterone-fuelled bodyguards taking up the rear. One of them literally went head over heels as he caught his feet on the first man, and King locked in on his jaw with laser focus as he tumbled and kicked like he was punting a football. The toe of his boot connected and the guy suffered a broken jaw and went unconscious in unison.

King sidestepped the body as it face-planted the carpet of the office and lunged forward, tying up the third guy in the doorway. This man had managed to come to a halt fairly smoothly, but King got a giant palm on the side of his head and smashed his skull into the door frame. It didn’t put him all the way out, but the second time it did.

A member of the trio taking up the rear came barrelling forward, intent on catching King out of position.

King dropped the unconscious third man on top of the stunned first man and lunged backward, crossing the threshold again.

Creating the first lull in the action.

Which was intentional. Six on one was a serious problem, and required a degree of recklessness to even the odds. Three on one was manageable. King could now back off with the berserker-style offence and select his shots a little more comfortably.

Not that there was anything comfortable about fighting for his life.

Thankfully, he had a touch of experience in this realm.

The three remaining bodyguards clambered over their trio of fallen comrades. They shot a couple of curious glances at the first guy, who definitely wasn’t unconscious, but definitely wasn’t moving, either. The guy was still on his knees, his face contorted in a mask of agony, literally incapable of moving as his seizing liver turned his limbs to stone.

King backed off another step.

Pointed to the first guy while staring at the remaining three.

He said, ‘You want what he got?’

No one answered. It was an unnecessary question in hindsight. To most people — even seasoned ex-military bodyguards — a fight is something rare. When a brawl breaks out, it’s brutal and ruthless and often one-sided. On the street, whoever lands the