Ciphers by Matt Rogers (ereader with dictionary .txt) 📕

defeat, with a 9mm Glock in his hand and that hand in question pointed firmly at the alley floor. He showed no signs that he intended to use it. His shoulders were slumped and his stare was vacant.

Despite gaining the upper hand, King felt a cold chill work its way down his spine.

The kid was straight up menacing.

He had barely a shred of body fat on his frame, and little muscle either. He was tall and pale and skinny and gaunt, like a skeleton in human form. His eyes were set far back in his head, surrounded by shadow, giving his head a hollow appearance. They were some of the widest eyes King had ever seen. He wasn’t blinking, but his eyelids twitched imperceptibly in the lowlight. King noticed every detail.

He kept his own firearm pointed squarely at the kid’s head.

He said, ‘Are you Samuel?’

‘Yeah.’

‘Put the gun down.’

Samuel let go of his grip on the Glock. It clattered to the concrete beneath his feet, louder than King anticipated. He almost jumped from the noise, but he controlled himself.

Samuel said, ‘I ain’t got nothin’ left to live for. Shoot me.’

‘Not just yet.’

King sensed Samuel studying him.

The kid finally said, ‘Do I know you?’

‘What’s your last name, Samuel?’

‘What’s that matter?’

‘Tell me, or I’ll make it painful.’

‘I wouldn’t mind that.’

‘You don’t really mean that.’

‘Try me.’

‘Tell me your name, kid.’

A pause.

A long, drawn-out pause.

Then Samuel told him.

A knot formed in the pit of King’s stomach.

The silence was suddenly daunting.

Suddenly cold.

Piece by piece, it started adding up.

‘Samuel,’ he said. ‘My name’s Jason King. Is there something you wanted to say to me?’

Samuel’s face collapsed, and his eyes went wider.

41

Sometimes, Slater wondered if fate conspired against him.

Truthfully, he should have known what was coming. He and Rico had emerged on Second Avenue, and now they were sprinting through a sea of abandoned vehicles — Rico fleeing, Slater pursuing. He should have considered the fact that Second Avenue cut through the heart of the Bowery, and that the address Violetta had fast-tracked to him and King was positioned along this route. All he knew about it was a rough summary — an old abandoned bank building yet to be refurbished, resting on an ordinarily busy intersection. He figured it’d be a hulking slab of old-school New York architecture, and he figured it’d stand out from its surroundings.

But none of that played on his mind as he ran flat out after Rico Guzmán, his legs burning almost as bad as his collar bone. Blood had soaked through his compression shirt, and the wet material slapped against the wound with each step. All the sensation made him largely oblivious to where he was headed, and he didn’t realise what was happening until it was too late.

Rico fled at breakneck speed, his long black hair bouncing up and down as he sprinted. He was covering ground faster than Slater, taking advantage of his youth, his weight, and his desperation. In comparison to the smattering of surrounding civilians, he stood out. He probably had a savage intensity in his eyes, which wouldn’t have helped his case. But he threaded through the cars and trucks and vans and burst up onto the sidewalk and pushed himself even faster.

Straight toward a huge looming building across the intersection.

Really, he didn’t know what it was. Slater recognised that. The kid had an evil streak, no doubt, but he wasn’t wrapped up in a greater conspiracy. He was a hotheaded, volatile little shit with a rich powerful dad and a slew of bodyguards. He had nothing to do with the blackout. The building wasn’t even his destination.

But he’s sprinting in its direction.

And, if the intel is correct, the residents are prepared to wage war to defend their turf.

Slater opened his mouth to shout a warning.

Before any sound left his mouth, Rico’s head exploded.

The long black hair blew apart in all directions and gore showered the sidewalk. A moment later the concussive boom of a sniper rifle’s report resonated through the Bowery. Impossibly loud. A .50 cal round, without a doubt. Civilians screamed all around Slater, but he barely noticed. As soon as he saw the kid die he hit the deck, lurching forward and diving for cover between two parked sedans. Milliseconds later a round blew past the air he’d been occupying. He knew it was the same calibre, fired from the same long-range sniper rifle, because it felt like a truck had missed him by inches. He knew that amount of displaced air could only emanate from a huge goddamn bullet.

And then it impacted a van several dozen feet behind him.

With the force of a bomb going off.

He rolled underneath the nearest sedan, clawing his way to cover. He tore the skin off his hands in his haste, but he barely felt it. He had tunnel vision and unparalleled focus. The cool metal of the sedan’s undercarriage pressed hard into his upper back, but he didn’t feel a shred of claustrophobia. Being skewered under a stationary vehicle was infinitely more desirable than being out in the open, vulnerable to a .50 cal bullet blowing his bones and muscles and organs apart like they were nothing.

Boom.

The vehicle above him reverberated.

Struck by a round.

Then something flashed beside him. It took him about half a second to recognise it was another bullet, smaller than the first, fired from a different angle. It had sparked off the asphalt and ricocheted into the undercarriage of the sedan.

Oh, fuck.

It had missed him by less than a foot.

Someone could see him from a neighbouring building, and was honing their aim.

He burst into motion, kicking and clawing and scratching for the left-hand side of the car. As he moved he was keenly aware of his lack of recon. He hadn’t even managed a decent look at the bank building in question before everything had gone to hell. So he was blind, in the dark literally and metaphorically, focused on sheer survival. He couldn’t believe his bad luck.

He made it out from underneath