Outlaws by Matt Rogers (phonics books TXT) 📕

he got close to was in danger. So if he truly cared about Alexis, then by extension he should cut her off.

For her own good.

But not even someone of Slater’s mental toughness could dip to that level of self-torture.

He made a beeline for the Bowery, despite what was smart.

No one’s perfect, after all.

He traced the same route that he and King had followed on that fateful night months earlier, when the lights had gone out and they’d prevented the city being plunged into anarchy by a hair’s breadth. It still lingered in the back of his mind. It always would. Each past operation was the same. It existed as a fragmented memory, a cut-together rapid-fire blur of sight and sensation. Most of it violent. Most of it agonising.

All of it unpleasant.

He had memories like that everywhere. All across the globe. If location alone triggered the post-traumatic recollections, then he’d never be able to step foot outside his apartment. Thankfully, he could force it aside when he needed to. He could work on his harrowing past when he deemed it necessary — it didn’t roar into his prefrontal cortex at random, debilitating him on the spot.

He knew there were many, many men and women who’d seen combat who weren’t so lucky.

He took random lefts and rights throughout the trip, zigzagging down side alleys, loitering sporadically at random intervals, never adopting a pattern, never making things predictable. There wasn’t a chance a sentry trying to keep track of him could do so without being spotted. They’d get caught up in trying to guess his movements and eventually run into him. But no one did. He was confident there was no one following him.

Evidently, Violetta and her superiors weren’t that paranoid yet.

He made it to a familiar intersection in the Bowery, and saw the giant bank building across the street, still cordoned off with police tape. There was little commotion around it, but for a few weeks after the blackout it had been constantly swarmed by nosy civilians and rabid journalists alike. There’d been dozens of eyewitness reports of a brutal shootout on this very intersection.

The NYPD realised the speculation wouldn’t fade on its own, and immediately issued a press release, claiming that a gang shootout exacerbated by the tension of the blackout had spilled out onto the streets. Several officers had fallen in the line of fire, and their heroism would be honoured with a state funeral.

There’d been no mention of two vigilantes storming the building, tearing it apart from the inside, putting a stop to something far more sinister than anyone thought possible.

Slater didn’t care.

Being the subject of headlines would only make things a hundred times worse.

Opposite the bank building was the same residential complex he’d sought refuge in on that fateful night. The complex where he’d met the woman he now loved.

So was it fate? Did you need to suffer that night, to find someone you shared a connection with? Would your bond be as strong if you hadn’t met at such a turbulent time?

He didn’t like to think about any of that.

It went down dark, dead-end roads.

There wasn’t much good in his world. When it came, he liked to make it uncomplicated, so he could appreciate it all the more.

He entered the lobby of Alexis’ building, and this concierge recognised him too. He nodded to her, then strode fast and hard for the stairwell instead of the elevator. He stepped inside the cold concrete cylinder and moved to the side as soon as the door swung closed.

There, he waited.

For a truly unnecessary length of time.

No one followed. No one came creeping in, not ten minutes after he entered, not fifteen, not twenty. He didn’t allow himself to get distracted, which was simple enough. Doing absolutely nothing was effortless. He’d emptied his mind before he stepped out of his penthouse, maximally focused on not getting tailed.

When he stepped back into the lobby, it was empty save for a couple of residents. They didn’t throw a second glance his way.

The concierge did.

She said, ‘Forgot something?’

He crossed to the elevators and stabbed the Up button with his thumb. ‘I was just getting some exercise in the stairwell. Missed my workout today.’

She laughed, unsure whether he was serious, opting to interpret it as a joke regardless.

Exactly what he wanted.

He stepped into the elevator when it arrived and it whisked him upwards, leaving her awfully confused.

30

Alexis answered the door with her familiar smile, and Slater found himself spontaneously struck by insidious thoughts.

Not toward her.

Toward the rest of his life.

She could tell. ‘What’s up? Do you have your answer?’

Slater said, ‘No.’

He stood there, thinking.

She let him.

Finally he said, ‘Do I need an answer?’

She didn’t respond. She knew what he meant. She clearly didn’t like it.

He kissed her and stepped into her loft. He’d grown to love her space — his own home was cold and empty in comparison. Here he appreciated the exposed wooden beams along the ceiling, the staggering array of greenery from a nearby nursery, the tastefully arranged furniture. It was all less expensive than the contents of his penthouse, but he’d come to learn that money didn’t mean a thing if you didn’t know what to do with it. The priciest furniture in the world was still ugly if your home didn’t feel like a home.

Slater’s home felt like a training compound.

Which wasn’t a bad thing, given his occupation. It was better to expunge feelings and hone your skills if your life depended on it.

But he didn’t want that anymore.

Alexis followed him inside and said, ‘What are you saying?’

He turned to her. ‘I’m saying why am I waiting for permission?’

‘Aren’t there logistical problems?’ she said. ‘Don’t they control your fortune?’

‘No. I’ve always made sure my accounts are untraceable. I set it up that way when I was a vigilante, scattering my wealth through Grand Cayman. I didn’t hand over control when I came back to work for the government. I just gave them an account for one of my shell corporations,