Outlaws by Matt Rogers (phonics books TXT) 📕

The longer he masked the truth, the better.

The crew took up their established positions within the cargo zone. Two of Quinn’s buddies peeled off to settle into scouting locations by the entrance so they could keep an eye out for witnesses. It used to be a three-man gig, before … well …

Quinn watched the boss locate the specific container and nod to the remaining men. Quinn and the last two guys set to work manoeuvring the tractor-trailer truck in the concrete bay, backing the empty trailer into the correct position. Then they used a giant yellow shipping container handler — like an oversized forklift — to lift up the refrigerated container, detach it from its plug, and guide it into the gaping maw of the open trailer.

Quinn watched all this from a dozen feet away. They’d streamlined the process. Cal handled the forklift, and Kurt shouted directions.

This time, there was a slight difference. Quinn’s gaze wandered over the ridged exterior of the container as it caught the moonlight. He noticed a small cylindrical hole cut into the metal, maybe the size of a golf ball, no larger. There was something solid and grey on the other side of the hole, but Quinn watched it peel away before his very eyes, and realised it was packaging tape.

Then a wide eye pressed to the hole from within, barely illuminated by the moonlight.

It spotted him.

He saw primal fear in the pupil.

The eye vanished, replaced immediately by the tape.

Quinn shifted from foot to foot, his stomach churning. He knew he was breaking out in an uncomfortable sweat, but there was nothing he could do to prevent it. The night was humid and clammy, and as soon as adrenaline fired, his system did the rest. He wiped his brow and hoped nobody noticed his discomfort. He gave thanks that they were skilled enough as a crew to do this by moonlight alone. He’d hate for his face to be lit up for all to see.

The container disappeared into the semi-trailer — out of sight, out of mind.

He repeated it, over and over.

Out of sight, out of mind.

Out of sight, out of mind.

Out of sight, out of mind.

You saw nothing.

They beckoned him up onto the tractor unit, and he leapt onto the step below the closed passenger’s door, attaching himself to the outside of the truck. He looped an arm in through the open window and gripped the inside of the door lining for stability. Kurt, now behind the wheel, accelerated out of the cargo zone, and the two scouts came running out of the darkness. They leapt aboard too.

With all six of them either inside or outside the tractor unit, Kurt steered the truck toward the opposite end of the gargantuan berth.

A couple of seconds later, headlights hit them front-on, fully illuminating the trio hanging off the doors. It didn’t automatically incriminate them, but it sure looked suspicious. The oncoming truck barrelled past, heading further away from shore, toward distant berths.

When it was out of sight, they all sighed with relief.

It was a clear oversight on the scouts’ part.

Kurt drove all the way to the edge of Terminal Island in the dead of night, passing three separate officials they’d paid off. He slowed the truck alongside an open-topped jeep parked alone in shadow, and Quinn leapt down. It was his ride out of here. Only Kurt and Vince would stay with the truck.

The boss leapt down off the same door and landed on the concrete alongside him. He was a tall man, with blond dreadlocks and a tanned wiry frame.

Your typical California surfer on the surface.

Underneath, not so much.

The boss said, ‘That was close.’

Quinn said, ‘Yeah.’

‘We might need a seventh member for the next gig after all. We worked better with three scouts. What do you think?’

Quinn tried to steady his racing pulse.

He thought of Roman’s unknown whereabouts.

He thought of the eye in the container, bloodshot in the moonlight.

He said, ‘Yeah, maybe.’

He climbed aboard the jeep, realising he didn’t have a good life after all.

1

Moscow

Jason King heard his employer order a murder through the closed door.

Their hotel resided within the Garden Ring, overlooking the Moskva River. The suite had unobstructed views of both the Kremlin and St. Basil’s Cathedral across the water. King stared out at the landmarks from an antechamber within the suite. It was a circular space, ornately furnished, that led through to a huge private office currently occupied by the man he had come to Russia to protect.

Sam Donati.

The head of an American conglomerate that ran transportation and shipping for half the globe.

Outside, it was grey and overcast. Rain drizzled — not enough to qualify as a downpour, but enough to put a considerable dampener on the mood within the suite. He already had a dozen reservations about being here, but the weak light in the antechamber and the dreary conditions outside combined to churn his gut. The rain was all he was paying attention to when the muffled voice resonated through the wood, coming from within the office.

He figured he wasn’t supposed to be within earshot.

Which didn’t matter.

He heard what he heard, and the rest of the world fell away.

Donati said, ‘You’re sure she’s alone?’

Silence.

Donati said, ‘Okay. Do it. Make it quick.’

King stopped. He’d been pacing, restless after a long flight from New York and a considerable lack of sleep, but now all of that became superficial. He zoned in, listening for anything that might indicate he’d misinterpreted what he’d heard.

Donati said, ‘I don’t care. You know what this is worth. Be discreet. Get it done.’

What this is worth.

King knew.

He reflexively reached for his appendix holster. Milliseconds later he remembered it was empty, and his hand froze along its trajectory. He glanced at the other end of the antechamber, through to the main room of the suite. The six-man team from Veloce Security Services were somewhere out there, out of sight, probably pacing too. They comprised the entirety of Donati’s personal security crew.

Like King, all of them were