Outlaws by Matt Rogers (phonics books TXT) 📕

me. Nothing you can prove, anyway. You see now? I don’t even have to pay you.’

King fell quiet.

Duke said, ‘You’re lucky I’m a stand-up guy.’

‘Appreciate it, my man.’

‘Come on,’ Duke said, opening the door. ‘Let’s go in and meet the boys.’

King got out, keeping what Duke had said before locked in his mind.

Drugs and guns and girls.

Probably fentanyl from China for thousands of kids to overdose on, and rifles with no serial numbers for the cartels and gangs to shoot up innocents with, and sex slaves for the rich and powerful to use and discard.

Ryan Duke facilitated all of it.

With steely resolve settling over him, King followed Duke to the mansion. As he walked, he opted to make this as quick and brutal as possible.

He didn’t have time for scum.

46

Slater handed over a fifty-dollar note, and Manuel palmed it.

The chef ushered him through the kitchen of the ground floor restaurant.

Slater strode past smoking grills laden with prime rib-eyes and bubbling vats of oil filled with fries, then dipped into the storage room out back and exited his building discreetly. He came out in a quiet narrow alleyway with minimal vantage points — just what he needed to avoid the snipers he knew would be trained on the lobby’s entrance. Dawn had broken, crisp and cool and grey. He had no bag, no possessions besides the passport, credit card, and gun. Despite all that, he was oddly free.

He’d stepped out of his tower for the last time — now, technically homeless — and he didn’t care in the slightest.

He took a deep breath.

Disregard the past.

Focus only on what’s ahead.

Advice he’d do well to keep in mind for the next few days, if not weeks and months.

He gazed down the length of the alley, and waited for an opportunity. Exactly eight minutes later, a plain white van with Gutiérrez Kitchen Supplies turned into the mouth. Slater had always known it would happen eventually. His tower was comprised of eighty floors and multiple restaurants and bars, all of which needed regular servicing.

Slater put on his game face, projected an air of authority, and strode to intercept the van.

It slowed, and the Latino driver wound down the window. ‘Where do you need it?’

Referencing the cargo.

Slater mumbled something.

The guy leant further out the window, squinting.

Slater circled around the hood and get in the passenger seat. The driver looked across, perplexed.

Slater took the Glock out of its holster and angled it up at the man’s face.

The blood drained from the driver’s cheeks.

Slater said, ‘We’re going to wait here for ten minutes, then you’re going to drive me to the Bowery.’

‘Okay. Anything you need.’

They sat in silence, and Slater kept his gaze transfixed out the windshield. The seconds ticked by, each one slow with tension.

As soon as a respectable amount of time had passed to avoid suspicion, Slater nodded to the driver and he threw the van into reverse.

They took FDR Drive without incident. Traffic was congested, which aided Slater’s need for invisibility. It would be impossible to monitor the entire Upper East Side for sightings. They’d need to stick to a certain radius. Besides, they’d still be watching the lobby. The bumper-to-bumper traffic created a hundred thousand potential targets. Safety in numbers. Manhattan was a nightmare for surveillance.

They inched through the morning rush as the sun trickled above the horizon, intermittent shafts of light breaking free from the thick cloud cover. He hoped Alexis had rehearsed his instructions a thousand times in her head, so that when she executed them it would be as comfortable as breathing.

He’d certainly rehearsed his own movements.

Over and over and over again in his head.

He withdrew his burner phone, opened his messages, and texted: Now.

Drawing on schematics of the building he’d fished from public record the night before, he waited for the driver to turn left onto Second Avenue and then directed him to the outer edge of Alexis’ residential complex, to another indiscriminate laneway reserved almost exclusively for deliveries. The intersection was crammed with vehicles at this hour, so there was plenty of time for observers to see the delivery truck turning in, but they wouldn’t think anything of it.

Slater told him to pull up at an emergency exit door skewered into the side of the complex. There was only a couple of feet of space on each side of the van.

Slater said, ‘I’m getting out for a minute. If you don’t run, I’ll give you a thousand dollars cash.’

The driver didn’t visibly react.

But he didn’t seem flustered, either.

Slater swung the door open and dropped out of the passenger seat to the damp concrete.

The emergency exit door burst open in his face.

Alexis hurried out, walking as fast as she could manage, and moved straight past him, chin tucked, eyes wide, a hood drawn over her hair.

Two burly men in civilian garb followed her out, hasty to corner her in the quiet of the laneway. Slater had told Alexis to deliberately get herself spotted in the lobby, and keep a measured pace as she exited through the kitchen so they had all the time in the world to follow closely.

They ran right into Slater.

One of them looked dead ahead and kept walking, intent on brushing past the newcomer to get to the girl, witnesses be damned. The other guy took a longer look, and realisation dawned.

Slater smashed him unconscious first, elbowing him square in the forehead and then head-butting him in the jaw. He crumpled, and Slater stepped over him and kicked the second guy in the groin, doubling him over, which allowed Slater to drop an elbow on the back of his neck, sending him face-first to the laneway floor. His unprotected face ricocheted off the concrete and he lay still.

He kicked them once each in the head, making sure they sported concussions to go along with their temporary sensory deprivation, and then turned back to the van.

Alexis stared in horror.

She’d probably never seen violence like that in the flesh — at least, nothing as ruthless and unrelenting as