Outlaws by Matt Rogers (phonics books TXT) 📕

They’d flown in privately, but it wouldn’t have been prudent to try to smuggle an arsenal of firepower past customs. Not without the governmental stamp of approval, which King knew he’d never get for a civilian gig.

Now, an arms dealer was en route to the hotel from further north, in tow with all the weapons they could ask for. One of Donati’s team had found him on the dark web and exchanged the particulars.

But the guy wasn’t here yet. That’s what they were all waiting for.

So King didn’t have a gun.

Doesn’t matter. You can’t let this slide.

The rigidly moral voice in his head. It had followed him his whole career. He knew the stakes. Fail to listen to it once, and you open the floodgates. Obeying it put his wellbeing at risk, over and over and over again. But the alternative was losing his soul, and that wasn’t a sacrifice he was willing to make.

He stepped forward, twisted the door handle, and stepped into the office.

Donati looked up, surprised. Frazzled. A little angry.

Which was to be expected.

King was an outlier within the man’s usual inner circle. A late addition to the party. An enigma. Donati had kept him at arm’s length for the entire trip, valuing his unrivalled amount of experience but hesitant to open up to an independent contractor he’d only just met. It was an odd predicament all round.

Now, it was odder.

Donati squared up, the surprise dissipating, the anger amplifying. He was a large man, a couple of inches taller than King, sporting deeply tanned skin of Italian origin, and he was perhaps best characterised by the stubborn refusal to accept the fact he was going bald. The thick curly hair framing either side of his big head was his defining characteristic, making him stand out in a crowd. There was almost nothing left on top, but he’d be damned if he was going to admit it and start shaving his head.

He was a stubborn man through and through, and if he decided on something he stuck to it no matter what it entailed.

In that way, he and King were the same.

Donati jabbed a fat finger at the phone pressed to his ear and said, ‘I’m on a call.’

King took another step forward, crossing the threshold, committing to the interruption. The action carried with it a measure of finality. There was no going back. Without taking his eyes off Donati he reached back and gently closed the door.

Sealing them in.

Donati cocked his head to one side, which could mean he was listening to whoever was on the other end of the line, but more than likely meant he’d finally registered King as a threat.

King said, ‘Hang the phone up.’

Donati’s eyes flared with rage, and he pointed to the closed door. ‘Get the fuck out of my office.’

King didn’t budge.

He stared the man right in the eyes and simply said, ‘No.’

Donati didn’t respond.

But a little of the flame died down.

Smart, King thought.

The man wouldn’t win this one with intimidation. Making use of his impressive size and smouldering intensity had probably won him hundreds of business negotiations in the past.

This was not a business negotiation.

And whatever he could do to intimidate, King could do twice as well.

Donati ended the call without another word. Which was a significant problem. King had expected a ‘Wait one,’ or a ‘Stand down for now,’ but instead Donati simply took the phone away from his ear, thumbed the touchscreen, and placed it face-down on the desk. He stayed fixed to the spot and crossed his giant hands in front of the gut bulging against his tucked-in shirt.

He said, ‘What are we doing here, Jason?’

‘Call your man back, and tell him to stand down.’

Donati raised an eyebrow. ‘This is quite the change of allegiance.’

‘It is.’

‘Are you going to explain why you decided to interfere?’

‘No.’

‘You’d better start talking—’

King ratcheted his gaze up a notch. Put a bit of his own smouldering intensity into it. It made Donati shut his mouth halfway through the sentence. The atmosphere shifted. King knew why. Donati was only just now beginning to understand that the man he was facing could snap him in half with his bare hands.

King had experienced that dynamic many times before.

The sudden thud of realisation in an adversary.

Donati said, ‘Whatever you think you heard, you’re mistaken.’

‘Am I?’

‘I don’t have to explain myself to you.’

King nodded. ‘You’re right. You don’t. All you have to do is pick up the phone and call off the hit.’

Donati’s mouth sealed into a hard, firm line.

King said, ‘It’s the girl from the surveillance photo, isn’t it?’

‘Yes.’

‘Who is she really?’

‘Does it matter?’

‘Yes.’

‘Look…’ Donati said, and wiped a palm across his goatee in rumination. ‘Is it money you want?’

‘No.’

‘This isn’t something I can reverse. But I can compensate you. To keep quiet. A hundred thousand?’

‘No.’

‘Five hundred thousand.’

‘No.’

‘A million flat. You know I can wire you the money like that,’ — he snapped his fingers — ‘and you’ll have it tomorrow.’

King stared. ‘You don’t get it.’

‘What’s not to get?’

‘I have more money than I need for fifty lifetimes,’ King said. ‘But I could be worth a penny and I still wouldn’t accept.’

Silence.

‘You don’t need money?’ Donati said.

King shook his head.

‘Then why are you here?’

‘Because I owe someone. This was never about money.’

Donati squirmed.

The one thing he could wield like a sword — bribery.

The crux of his success.

Now useless.

‘Pick up the phone,’ King said. ‘And call off the hit.’

‘I can’t do that.’

‘Then we’re going to have a problem.’

A vein pulsed on Donati’s temple, and redness crept into his throat. The skin across his neck had the texture of sandpaper. King noticed every dry patch, every crack, every crevasse. He felt like he could see through to the man’s vocal chords.

He knew what was coming.

Donati roared, ‘Help!’ at the top of his lungs.

King turned, steeled himself, and waited for six beefed-up private security thugs to come bursting through the door.

2

Manhattan

Four days earlier…

Will Slater was plagued by indecision.

And not because he was in a bar.

He no longer