Outlaws by Matt Rogers (phonics books TXT) 📕

Ten minutes later the driver veered inland, putting a natural barrier of trees between the Navigator and the river.

Finally he eased off the accelerator.

The SUV crawled to a halt on the side of the road, its wheels rumbling against the gravel.

Then it stopped.

Slater sat motionless in the back. He didn’t go for his gun, but he didn’t play along, either.

The driver said, ‘This is you.’

Slater looked outside. Saw the outlines of trees, black against the blacker backdrop. He thought he could make out the moonlight glinting off the Hudson, deep in the background, but he couldn’t be sure.

He said, ‘What is this, exactly?’

‘There’s a dinghy waiting for you on the riverbank,’ the driver said. ‘Use it to get yourself over to Pollepel Island.’

‘What?’

The driver spun in his seat, mildly irritated. ‘There’s an island out there in the middle of the Hudson, maybe a thousand feet from shore. It’ll be a quick trip. You can steer a dinghy, can’t you?’

‘Yes,’ Slater said. ‘I can steer a dinghy.’

‘Go to the island. You’ll see Bannerman Castle. Go there. They’ll find you.’

Slater said, ‘Are you fucking with me?’

‘I assure you I’m not.’

‘Will I find a magic scroll there? Maybe a lost civilisation? The long-buried tomb of an emperor?’

‘It’s not a castle anymore,’ the driver said. ‘It’s a pile of abandoned ruins. My employers are cautious. That’s where they want to meet you.’

‘A great place to bury a body, no doubt.’

‘Yeah,’ the driver said, unapologetic. ‘Probably. That’s none of my business though.’

‘And if I decide to take the dinghy elsewhere?’

‘They’ll know. If I had to guess, that’s why they wanted me to bring you all the way out here. Because you have a gun, and I’m sure you have wilderness survival training, but that won’t be enough. You won’t make it back to the safety of the city in time.’

Slater stewed restlessly.

The driver shrugged. ‘You came. You dug your own grave. But maybe they don’t want to kill you.’

‘Do you know what they want?’

The man smiled wryly. ‘I don’t even know who they are.’

Slater fidgeted.

The man said, ‘Good luck.’

Slater took that as his cue. He nodded, found the handle, popped the door, and stepped out of the Navigator. The temperature had plummeted. His phone told him it was a shade after nine p.m. He exhaled softly, and a cloud of breath whispered out and dissipated.

He closed the door behind him, and the car pulled away. It looped a U-turn and then rumbled off back the way it had come. When it was out of earshot, Slater tasted the silence.

It didn’t offer him comfort.

But if darkness and treachery and uncertainty deterred him, he wouldn’t have made it a week in his profession.

So he turned and made straight for the tree line and the uncertain fate beyond.

36

The dinghy was small and metal and rusting.

Slater guessed it could only fit three or four people without capsizing, but that wasn’t something he needed to worry about. It was abandoned on the shore, half in the water, half on the wet dirt.

He pushed it into the river, held it in place by putting a palm on the outboard motor, and used his other hand to yank the ripcord three times in a row. It sputtered to life, and he pushed off the bank and leapt in. He kept the Glock in its holster. The driver was right. Resistance was futile. He knew there’d be a minimum of three snipers with night optics trained on his head from separate vantage points.

You can’t kill what you can’t see.

All his surroundings were pitch black, but even still he could make out Bannerman Castle. He’d thought it odd that the driver hadn’t given specific directions, but now he realised there was no need. The ruins loomed on the eastern side of the island. Even the silhouette was foreboding. If they were truly abandoned, then they’d normally be festering with junkies, vandals and the homeless, but Slater had no doubt any witnesses had been driven out long before this meeting.

He steered toward the castle.

The outboard motor ruptured the night with its throaty chugging. It was practically deafening on the quiet lake, but it didn’t perturb him. They knew he was coming regardless, and even if he was quiet as a mouse they’d still have eyes on him.

He figured he might as well announce his arrival as bombastically as possible.

Get this over and done with.

He pulled up to the eastern shore of the island, largely unfazed. If they thought shadows and old ruins and a permanent sense of foreboding would rattle him, then they hadn’t even bothered to have a glance at his case files.

He drove the dinghy straight onto the dirt bank, where it ground to a halt. He used the momentum of the boat slowing to vault off the damp wooden bench within and leap out over the hull. He landed in the dirt, and in one motion drew the Glock from its holster and stuffed it in the pocket of his leather jacket.

He kept both hands in his jacket pockets, to throw up a decoy smokescreen.

Then he advanced toward Bannerman Castle, trudging through overgrown weeds and scores of bushes.

It was dead quiet. Now that he could see the looming ruins up close, he thought he recalled a faint echo of information about the castle from his military days. He’d heard it mentioned before. It used to be an old military surplus storage facility, or something of the sort. Now it was only a tourist attraction from a distance, visible along the Amtrak route.

Out of curiosity, Slater touched two fingers to his neck, measuring his pulse.

Perfectly normal.

You’re going to need to do better than that, gents.

Dealing with fear was his greatest strength.

Only a couple of dozen feet from the castle, a handful of key features became visible. One wall had collapsed entirely, and modern steel supports propped up what was left of the edifice. A moss-covered set of concrete steps, framed by uneven brick banisters, led to a regal archway.

Darkness loomed beyond.

Slater mounted