Sharks by Matt Rogers (best book series to read TXT) 📕

Which it absolutely was.

He reared up on his knees and made to tackle her, but she kicked out like she’d been told she’d be killed if she couldn’t punt a football to the opposite end zone. That sort of urgency only comes around every so often, and she realised if she didn’t connect she’d probably slip off her feet, sealing her fate.

But she connected.

Her boot met his face and he snapped out of consciousness in a millisecond, which didn’t even take into consideration how much worse she’d made his jaw. She honestly didn’t know if she’d disfigured him for life, or worse.

She didn’t care.

Those blurred lines were getting blurrier…

But she forced that aside and turned back to the second man. He was still writhing, but it seemed like he’d been scrabbling to get back to his feet. Now he lay there, shocked, unmoving. She found it odd, then realised how loud the connection of boot to face must have been.

She aimed the Glock at his head.

In case he needed further dissuading.

Turned out he didn’t.

He lay on his back, clutching his leg with both hands.

Hands already slick with blood.

But the bullet hadn’t cut an artery, or he’d probably have lost consciousness already.

He was ghost-white, but stress chemicals were keeping him lucid.

‘Ya killed ’im,’ he croaked.

‘Maybe.’

‘Lord…’

‘What’s that in your pocket?’

‘Huh?’

‘Is that a book?’

He grimaced and looked down. ‘That’s nun ya business.’

‘It is now.’

‘What you want with it?’

She realised he thought she knew what it was. She’d known about Vince, after all. He thought she’d lured them to this alley deliberately.

Use it, a voice in her head said. Use the false confidence.

She wasn’t sure if the voice was her own.

She said, ‘Give it to me or I’ll put one through your head.’

‘No ya won’t. Ya already shot me. They gon’ be here any minute.’

He might have succeeded in scaring her, but level-headedness seared through her, clearing the fog. She cocked her head to one side and listened. More to display to him that no one was coming than to actually check for herself.

She had confidence.

She said, ‘Who? When?’

He went quiet.

Maybe from pain. Most likely from hopelessness. This was a rough neighbourhood, and the suppressor had done its job anyhow, transforming the blast into a guttural cough. It’d probably be chalked up to a local taking a potshot at a stray animal.

In any case, she had at least a few minutes.

She said, ‘Take that book out nice and slow.’

He took it out.

It was a diary with pages the colour of cream and a nicked and scratched cover the colour of the dead mangroves. Pocket-size, obviously, or it never would have fit in his pants.

She said, ‘What’s in it?’

‘It ain’t mine. It’s for Mista Ricci.’

She said, ‘Go figure.’

34

King drove.

Slater rode shotgun.

Teddy took the back seat, behind the driver. Slater had thought about putting him up front, but it was a little too dictatorial. The man still didn’t know them, and didn’t fully trust them. The space between the front and rear seats was no man’s land, giving him some space to compose himself. It had been an afternoon of change, after all. A disruption to the same routine he’d done thousands of times before, and probably thought he’d do thousands of times in the future.

That’s how long it would take to pay back Dylan Walcott.

Unless…

Slater said, ‘What does an ordinary meeting with Vince look like? Paint a picture for me.’

Teddy said, ‘It’s not a picture you want painted.’

‘Trust me, it is.’

Teddy said, ‘Usually he just sits around. The manager and the other staff pretend he’s invisible because they know who he is. They understand if I did something that requires Vince’s involvement then it’s nothing they want to stick their noses in. They’re smart, you see. Smarter than you two.’

‘Or cowards,’ Slater said. ‘Depending on how you look at it.’

‘Yeah,’ Teddy said, staring at his feet. ‘Everyone who sees a bad thing and does nothing is a coward. That makes everyone a coward.’

‘I’m not saying that’s what I think,’ Slater said. ‘I was using an extreme, like you did. They’re certainly not the geniuses you paint them as.’

King said, ‘You said “usually”.’

Teddy’s eyes bored into the driver’s headrest. ‘I did.’

‘What happens when he doesn’t sit around?’

‘He slaps me up, throws me around. He mostly does it in front of my co-workers to make me feel small. It works.’

A poignant silence elapsed.

Slater said, ‘Does it make you pay any faster?’

‘No,’ Teddy said. ‘I always pay what I can pay, as soon as I have the money. He knows that. He does it to make an example out of me.’

‘Has he ever seriously hurt you?’

‘He’s tried. Several times. Look, how do I put this … I’ve lived a quiet life. I’ve never been in a fight. I’ve never done hard physical labour or truly tested myself in any way. And I’m perfectly happy about that. I see people like you all the time. You look like you’re carved out of stone. So does your buddy. I’ve never seen the sense in it. Looks like a whole lot of work just for vanity. I realised a long time ago I was very happy getting by, so that’s what I’ve done. Which I guess is what’s made me so frail. Look, the point is, I didn’t know how I’d react to a punch, or a shove. I don’t like it, but it looks like this old boy has got some strength under the surface after all. Vince has thrown me down hard enough to break my bones, snap my neck, give me a permanent injury. I’m sure that’s what he’s trying to do, and it only makes him angrier when it doesn’t work. I know he’s trying to make it look like an accident. But I haven’t wound up with any permanent injuries yet. The bruises heal. So do the cuts. I think that’s why he’s ramping it up lately. It makes him mad.’

Teddy cut himself off, his voice wavering.

Slater thought