Outlaws by Matt Rogers (phonics books TXT) 📕

the spot, and then floored it for the parking lot’s exit. As they picked up speed, and the wind lashed his dreadlocks, he said, ‘That’s what you gotta learn, brother. All about what happens up here.’ He tapped a long spindly finger to the side of his head. ‘All that muscle you got — it’s just for show.’

King nodded again, this time even more sheepishly.

Duke seemed to get off on the power trip. It made him comfortable. Out of nowhere, he said, ‘You heard of Donati Group?’

‘Yeah,’ King said. ‘I have.’

Hook.

Line.

Sinker.

44

Slater’s first strike — with the butt of the Glock — broke the guy’s nose.

For a couple of seconds after that, it doesn’t matter if you’re a tier-one soldier. You might as well be a common civilian.

Because your septum swells and your face puffs up and involuntary tears make your eyes water and your vision blurry. Not to mention the disorientation of the pain. Slater had broken his nose a few times in the field. It never gets easier. You never get used to it.

He smacked the Beretta out of the guy’s hands and grabbed his skull in one palm and smashed the side of his head into the door frame. Which put him damn close to unconsciousness, and Slater used the hesitation to spin him around and use him as a human shield. He stormed into room 730 with the Glock pressed to the side of the guy’s head, and he kicked the door shut behind him, sealing the petrified maid outside, out of harm’s way.

Slater faced the room.

He said, ‘Guns down. Right now.’

At least the rest of Violetta’s intel had been truthful. There were five of them. The guy with the broken nose who’d stepped out first, and four other men spread across hastily erected folding tables around the beds, hunched over laptops, seated in front of an assortment of guns — some disassembled, some not. Two had been watching the screens when Slater stepped in. The other two had picked up weapons of their own, a fast response to the noise of the maid fiddling with the door to 732.

Too fast.

They’d been warned in advance.

Slater’s blood ran cold, and the last shreds of trust he’d formed now fell away. Cynicism washed over him, and truthfully he liked it. He hadn’t been built to rely on others, and now it felt damn good to sever all allegiances. Now, he cared about no one but himself and Alexis.

Violetta could burn, as far as he was concerned.

Right now there was a more imminent problem on his hands.

Namely, two more Berettas aimed in his direction.

Slater said, ‘Don’t be fucking stupid, boys.’

‘There’s backup on the way,’ one of the men said.

‘No,’ Slater said. ‘There isn’t.’

They didn’t answer.

Slater said, ‘I can wait here all day. And all night. And all the next day. I won’t budge an inch. Not even a hair.’

They stared at him, gazes furious, but the atmosphere in the room was ice. All six occupants — Slater included — were the elite of the elite. They lived and breathed combat. But there were levels.

Slater said, ‘One of you is going to make the first mistake. I guarantee it. Anyone reaches for a phone, or looks like they’re going to pull a trigger, I’ll pull this one. Your buddy will be dead. You want to live with that?’

‘You’re dead if you do that.’

‘Maybe,’ Slater said. ‘Maybe you don’t hit me with the first shot. Maybe you hit him. I’ve got a shield and you two don’t. I can have a bullet in each of your skulls in a second flat. You want to play that game? You think it’s worth the risk?’

‘We put our guns down,’ the same guy said, ‘and we’re all dead.’

‘You have my word I’ll let you live.’

‘Why would you do that?’

‘Because I don’t feel like killing you. You’re not bad people and neither am I. But I’ve got the jump on you here, so that’s just the way it has to go.’

‘You won’t make it out of the city.’

‘I think I will.’

They kept staring.

‘Guns down,’ Slater said. ‘Now.’

They thought about it for a beat. Slater tightened his forearm around the human shield’s throat. The guy grunted in pain. It helped expedite the process.

The two men with Berettas put them down.

Slater said, ‘All of you lie flat on your stomachs.’

No one moved.

Slater cocked his head. ‘I really don’t have time for this.’

They complied.

Slid off their chairs. Slow and methodical, to show they weren’t going to lunge for a weapon. They knew better. Slater had no doubt they’d been provided with his case files. They knew of his genetic abnormality. It was probably the main reason they’d shied away from a Wild West shootout in the confines of the hotel room.

Because, even though it was five on one, he would have killed at least three of them before they had the chance to put him away for good.

And deep down in their cores, they believed him.

He wasn’t a monster.

Nor were they.

They flattened themselves to the scratchy carpet and pressed their foreheads to the floor. Slater let go of the human shield, and trained the Glock on him, and the man sunk down to his knees without any further prompting. His nose had already swollen, inflaming his face beyond recognition. He pressed his forehead to the floor, too.

Slater moved with purpose.

He stepped forward, took careful aim, and pumped the trigger five times.

Sending a suppressed round through the sole of each man’s left foot.

The group writhed and moaned in unison, but they’d all live. Blood flowed, and the pain and nature of the wounds would render them unable to walk for the foreseeable future, but all five of them were trained operators, and they’d know to stem the bleeding and maintain pressure until emergency services arrived.

Above the chorus of protests from the tactical team, Slater said, ‘Sorry.’

‘Fuck you,’ one of them muttered through gritted teeth.

‘So you wouldn’t have followed me if I left you here alive?’

‘You … could have …