Monsters by Matt Rogers (bill gates books to read TXT) 📕

seen each other before, but the eyes betray all intentions. The man understood, and when the door slammed and the interior went dark he wasted no time. Hijacking Frankie’s ride was as simple as shifting the car into gear and stomping the accelerator. The keys were still in the ignition, after all.

The Russian had spotted an opportunity and seized it.

King said, ‘Out.’

Danny didn’t answer. Probably wasn’t sure if King was talking to him.

As Petr fishtailed a wild U-turn at the end of the street, King shouted, ‘Out!’

‘Why?’

Only one syllable, but the tone revealed what Danny meant.

He was scared.

Petr finished the U-turn, smoke pluming off rubber, and picked up speed as he mounted the sidewalk to get around King’s car, parked in the middle of the street.

King said, ‘This’ll be too dangerous. Find somewhere to hide and don’t come out until I’m back.’

‘What if you don’t?’

‘Danny, get out.’

Danny threw his door open and spilled out of the passenger seat as Petr shot past them, nearly clipping the driver’s side mirror. As soon as he was clear of the car King spun the wheel and accelerated, and the G-forces slammed Danny’s door closed. He roared away from the scene in pursuit of the last surviving member of the Russian gang, hoping and praying that Danny heeded his advice.

Hoping Frankie’s grooming didn’t still have its hooks in the poor kid’s soul.

65

Slater didn’t have a gun in reach.

Wouldn’t even know where to start searching for one.

In any other setting, facing off with a man sporting far worse injuries, he’d be buoyed by confidence. In his long career of both official and unofficial operations he’d rarely encountered another individual who could withstand pain the way he could, shut it out like he was capable of. He couldn’t feel his ankle, or even much of his leg, and the rest of his body was scratched and bruised and inflamed, but he really wouldn’t consider that an issue.

Except maybe now it was, against a professional fighter in unarmed combat.

After all, a fighter’s career is built around the ability to deal with pain. If they didn’t have that, they would cave the first time they stepped foot in the cage. If Kit had anything close to an experienced MMA record, it meant he’d been taking professional bouts every three or four months consistently for years. He would know all about harnessing adrenaline, using it to blunt injury and agony until the job was done. That was his career, and when that’s your career, it’s your life.

So Slater found himself unusually hesitant.

Kit came round the trunk with unbridled anger in his eyes. There was no quip about Slater not getting the job done, no pause to mix words before the big moment. He was furious, and he didn’t have time for any of that shit. He charged at Slater and feigned a right uppercut that made Slater jerk back, bring his hands up into a competent boxing guard, at which point Kit changed levels and shot in for a double-leg takedown.

It was sloppy and slow, his athleticism and training hampered by grievous injury, but the exact same could be said for Slater.

Slater tried to sprawl his legs backwards to prevent the takedown but his ankle didn’t respond to his brain’s commands. He ended up lurching back in a half-committed stumble, which ended up making the takedown even easier.

Most people, if they ever had a street fight, would be merely irritated if someone grabbed their legs and forced them down to the ground. That’s only because they don’t know the consequences. Instead of irritation, Slater felt true panic as he fell back. If Kit got on top of him, his brain would be punched into mush. No question.

Slater did everything right on the way down. Bucked at the hips and tried to roll with the momentum of the takedown, tried to reverse it so he ended up on top. He’d drilled that move so many times it was now flawless muscle memory, and more importantly it didn’t rely on the use of his ankle, so he managed a decent effort.

But it was still hampered by the state of his body.

He ended up bucking Kit halfway off him, so they sprawled side by side into the dirt.

Slater could’ve thrown a fist off his back, twisting sideways into a hook, trying to bounce Kit’s face off the ground, but it’d have to be picture-perfect to achieve anything. There was much more reward in establishing top position so he scrambled to his knees and then threw himself on top of Kit, trying to seize full mount and pin the guy to the ground.

Kit brought his knee up at the right moment and it crushed Slater’s groin.

There’s nothing quite like that sort of pain. It overrides any mental barriers you’ve erected, cuts through to your core and shuts your body down.

Slater refused to let his body shut down.

He tapped into some primal willpower, some part of the brain that modern society never activates. Even he never activated that part. It was a state of mind he didn’t want to dwell in, a type of savagery he never wanted to use. But if it was a matter of collapsing in this ditch, getting his face beat in, or becoming something truly dangerous, well…

We’re human.

We want to survive.

Kit’s knee smashed between his legs, the bone driving into his groin, but he snarled and seized top position despite every part of his brain and body wanting out. Kit couldn’t believe it. The man’s eyes went wide underneath Slater. He’d landed a perfect knee, a knee that might even be life-altering, but it hadn’t done anything. He was probably wondering if Slater was superhuman, or a cyborg.

Let him wonder.

Slater elbowed Kit three consecutive times in the face, rendering him motionless. The guy was only semi-conscious but it gave Slater the breathing room to look around, get his bearings, assess the situation properly.

They were right next to Bobby’s corpse.

Slater squinted.

Made out the shape of a semiautomatic pistol resting