Outlaws by Matt Rogers (phonics books TXT) 📕

let go of the SIG. King snatched it up and shot to his feet and planted the sole of his boot into Duke’s throat, crushing his windpipe, pinning him to the floor.

He surveyed the scene.

Not pretty.

Kurt was facedown on the tiles, a rapidly expanding pool of arterial blood forming around his head. One of Duke’s stray shots had hit him in the face or neck. King took in the information, filed it, and promptly forgot all about Kurt.

He wheeled, searching for Aaron.

He found the surfer in the far corner of the living area, in newfound possession of another SIG Sauer P226. Their weapon of choice, apparently. Duke must’ve received a case of them, which King figured were scattered all over the house, considering Aaron had found one in seconds.

The surfer locked his aim onto King’s centre mass like he’d been exclusively practicing that motion his whole goddamn life.

King panicked.

He hadn’t been anticipating the accuracy, or the reaction speed. He’d underestimated the kid, writing him off as too high to function, when maybe it was a particularly effective strain of weed that had made him scarily sharp. Whatever the case, Aaron raised and aimed and fired a tight cluster of shots that went high. They would have drilled through King’s brain and pulverised his head if he hadn’t dropped behind the kitchen island milliseconds before the rounds burst forth from the chamber.

He flattened himself down, and the bullets whisked overhead, tearing the opposite cupboards to pieces.

He took a deep breath.

Worked his way back to a crouch, pressing his upper back to the drawers, affording him a good look at Ryan Duke a few feet away.

The man’s wrist was mangled, and the skin on his neck was bright red with King’s boot imprint. He’d managed a crouch of his own, but he was clutching his bad arm with his good one, rendering him useless, and his face was creased with unfamiliar pain and shock.

King looked him in the eye and shook his head.

Don’t move.

Or I’ll have to kill you.

Duke stared back, and King knew he understood.

Whether he would listen was another matter entirely.

Technically, he obeyed.

He didn’t move.

He said, ‘Aaron, now.’

53

King steeled himself and ran through a number of ways the firefight could unfold.

He was halfway through that list, dissecting tactics and possible manoeuvres, when he heard a rapid chain of footsteps from the other side of the island.

Close.

Way too close.

He realised what was happening, and knew he needed to forget about Duke entirely.

There was a far more imminent threat.

He looked up and braced himself and raised the SIG to a vertical trajectory, just in time to see Aaron’s wiry frame slide over the lip of the countertop above him.

That’s the worst thing about madness. It’s unpredictable, and it throws off even the most tactically sound plans. Of all the possibilities King had contemplated, he’d never expected the kid to dive head-first onto the countertop and use its smooth surface to slide all the way across, coming down in a heap of limbs on top of him. Of course it was suicide. Of course it wouldn’t work. But it didn’t need to be foolproof. It just had to buy Ryan Duke some time. And clearly his “boys” were more than old buddies. Clearly they were willing to die for this man who had given them everything.

It changed the whole dynamic instantly.

King fired three times, given the fact that he’d miraculously predicted the move and had the SIG aimed in the right direction.

All three bullets slammed home in Aaron’s torso — two in the chest, one in the stomach.

Suicide, as predicted.

But his body came down directly on top of King’s head, the deadweight nearly snapping King’s neck. A few inches to the right and it might have. But King rolled out from under the bleeding body and rescued his grip on his own SIG and searched rabidly for Duke.

He found him.

Duke was six feet away.

On his feet.

He’d snatched up the gun Aaron had dropped in his death throes.

Duke angled the SIG diagonally downward and fired three shots into King’s chest at close to point-blank range.

The right move.

Go for the largest target.

Minimise your chance of missing entirely.

Duke had combat training.

The bullets struck hard, knocking King backward, throwing him off his feet.

He sprawled to the tiles, all the breath pounded out of his lungs…

…but with no other significant injuries.

Duke hesitated.

Confused.

King shot him between the teeth. The bullet went through the back of his mouth and came out the rear of his skull in a grisly exit spray. Duke’s lifeless body twisted and fell and the gun clattered out of his limp hand.

‘That’s what you should have done,’ King muttered.

He gave himself the once-over before he got to his feet, but none of his ribs were cracked. He breathed a sigh of relief, because he could breathe. He’d broken ribs before. It was abhorrent how useless it rendered you. He stood up, wincing at the bruising he knew would already be forming across his chest and stomach, but bruising paled in comparison to what might have been.

Before he checked the full extent of the damage, he swept the rest of the space.

Quinn was still alive.

Cowering in the corner behind an authentic Eames chair.

The other three were dead.

Kurt.

Aaron.

Ryan Duke.

All corpses.

King said, ‘Get up, Quinn.’

Quinn rose shakily, hands raised above his shoulders, fingers spread wide, a ridiculous demonstration of the fact he was unarmed.

King said, ‘Put your hands down. I know you don’t have a gun.’

Quinn nodded, practically blinking back tears, and lowered his hands inch by inch, until they were out of sight behind the chair.

King froze, watching closely.

Then he shook his head in disbelief.

Quinn said, ‘What?’

‘You’re a terrible actor,’ King said. ‘Two choices. Either you put a finger on either side of the chair back, and spin it slowly around to show me the gun that’s taped there, or you try to pry that gun free and use it to kill me, in which case you’re dead.’

Quinn didn’t move.

King said, ‘It’s a simple decision, Quinn.’

Quinn’s hands