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

hands with the Glock 22, and raise it to the door. Or keep her silent. It all depended on whether the sicarios knew he was in here. If they did, the palm over the mouth was futile.

He heard them right there, only feet from the door, and it struck him that the woman was between himself and the door.

No, a voice in his head said. She didn’t ask for this.

He took a deep, silent breath, and turned her around with his palm so she could look into his eyes. He stared right back, and he didn’t blink. He hoped she could see something in there other than a stone-cold killer. Something to reassure her, convince her everything might be okay. She stared back, and she didn’t struggle against his hand. It all unfolded in seconds, but it was the best he could do.

He didn’t have time.

He took his hand off her mouth, took the Glock out of his bad hand, pivoted and pointed the barrel right at the door’s centre mass.

And there he froze, still as a statue, his back to her.

She could attack him, if she wanted.

Pick up a heavy object and bring it down on the back of his skull. No amount of reflexes would save him there. She probably should do it, too. He’d stormed into her home and practically assaulted her.

All he could hope was that she understood.

He didn’t blink.

Didn’t move.

Didn’t think.

Just listened.

And the footsteps thudded away. They came within a foot of the woman’s apartment door and then carried on past, slowing only to maintain a measured pace. They hadn’t been running at a destination. They hadn’t seen Slater go into the apartment. Seconds after they passed by, they disappeared from the edge of his hearing.

Gone, for good.

Melting away to sweep the rest of the building.

The seconds ticked by, and Slater realised he hadn’t been struck from behind. In fact, she hadn’t moved. He lowered the gun and turned, slowly.

She was still right there, a few feet away, watching him with unabashed curiosity.

She kept her voice low and said, ‘Who were you running from?’

‘Unsavoury people.’

‘Did they do that to you?’ she said, motioning to his right arm, still pinned to his side, and his bloody collarbone, and his overall state of dishevelment.

He looked himself over. ‘Actually, I did most of this to myself.’

‘You okay?’

‘You should be telling me to leave.’

‘But I’m not.’

‘I assaulted you.’

‘It’s been a weird night. You didn’t mean it.’

He stood there awkwardly, barely able to think, his shoulder socket drilling sharp bolts through the rest of his body. ‘How can you tell?’

‘That’s why you looked me in the eyes before,’ she said. ‘To show you were … vulnerable.’

‘Yeah.’

‘The type of men who do what you just did don’t ever pretend they’re vulnerable.’

He nodded toward the door. ‘I needed a place to hide. You opened your door. I’m sorry.’

She was still scrutinising him. Then she realised she’d prolonged the silence, and said, ‘It’s okay.’

‘Do you mind if I stay here for a few minutes?’ he said. ‘I’m—’

Then the needles of pain merged into one giant wave, and it hit him like a tsunami, and he went down on one knee with an uncontrollable grimace.

The next thing he knew, she was helping him to his feet in a daze.

47

‘I’m sorry,’ he mumbled as she helped him down the hall.

They came out in a loft-style space, like a smaller version of his own penthouse on the Upper East Side. Exposed wooden beams criss-crossed over their heads, adding a rustic vibe to the otherwise modern architecture. The walls were reinforced concrete, and the floor was carpeted in the living area, and the kitchen had tiles the colour of steel. A narrow staircase led up to a second floor loft, where he figured the bedroom lay, overlooking the main space with the help of a thin railing. She hadn’t held back on decorations, furnishing the ordinarily cold space with ample throw rugs and a plethora of pot plants and hanging vines draping off the kitchen island lighting.

He liked it a lot, and he wasn’t quite sure why he was paying so much attention to it.

Delirium, maybe.

She seemed to notice. She dumped him down on the old-school corduroy sofa and perched herself on the edge of the armchair opposite it, still on edge. She made sure she had a line of sight with the entranceway, and she threw intermittent nervous glances down the length of it to the front door.

She said, ‘You like the place?’

It was in jest, considering the circumstances. He was covered in blood, with only half his wits about him, and his right arm rendered useless. Swamped with crippling pain. But he still said, ‘Yeah, I do.’

She pursed her lips, as if wondering what the hell to do next.

He said, ‘I don’t want to bother you—’

‘But?’ she said, raising an eyebrow.

‘I need to get my shoulder back in.’

She winced. ‘It’s dislocated?’

‘Yeah.’

‘How’d you do that?’

‘Running away from those guys,’ he lied.

Didn’t consider it prudent to tell her the truth.

I caved a man’s throat in.

‘Who were they?’

He shrugged. ‘Just a couple of gangsters. They saw me on the street and didn’t like me.’

‘How’d you get in this building?’

‘The lobby was open.’

‘There are a million better places to run than an unfamiliar apartment building.’

He shrugged. ‘Beats me.’

‘Did they shoot at you?’

‘Yes.’

She nodded. ‘There was a god-awful racket a few minutes ago. What sort of firepower did they have?’

‘Can we just get my shoulder back into place? Then I’ll answer all the questions you have.’

‘You’ll answer them now or I’ll kick you out.’

He paused. Then half-smiled. ‘You drive a hard bargain.’

‘You’re lucky I didn’t send you packing straight away.’

‘You really should have. That’s not usually how I introduce myself to women.’

Now it was her turn to half-smile. The corners of her lips crept upward, despite her best efforts to fight them back down.

Then a commanding voice in his head said, No.

She was gorgeous, and her personality was right up his alley. He could banter with her, and nothing