Hunters by Matt Rogers (books for 5 year olds to read themselves .TXT) 📕

22nd Street intersection, overshadowed by the triangular Flatiron Building the district was named after. The honking horns of angry commuters had been a small price to pay for the gap, which the five SUVs now slotted into.

Two trained Special Forces snipers activated by the shadow world between deployments manned windows on either side of 5th Avenue. They had an unobstructed view of the convoy below, scanning the sidewalks and nearby vehicles through the scopes of their M39 Enhanced Marksmanship Rifles for threats. The snipers had done these gigs dozens of times before without incident.

Which meant they were a little slow to react when the Chrysler in the opposing lane swerved hard, accelerated, and rocketed nose-first into the first SUV in the convoy.

The Chrysler’s bumper crushed the big four-wheel-drive’s fender and drove it into a parked car.

After the screech of tyres and the thump of metal slamming into metal, there was an ominous pause.

Then it happened.

Two screaming Hispanics spilled from the Chrysler, both clutching Kalashnikov AK-47s. One of them emptied half his curved magazine into the hood and bulletproof windows of the leading SUV. The shots pinged harmlessly off the reinforced armour, but the noise was horrendous. The other hostile leapt onto the hood of the Chrysler, affording him a view of the other four vehicles in the convoy, and he fired at the second and third vehicles, roaring at the top of his lungs. When his weapon was near-empty, he lifted the barrel to the sky and held down the trigger, pumping rounds into the air.

The two men screamed and screamed until one of the snipers blew their heads off, spacing his two 7.62mm rounds only a second apart.

Dark blood and brain matter sprayed the windshield of the first vehicle in the convoy.

The body of the first man slumped in the middle of 5th Avenue, and the second slapped the Chrysler’s windshield as he slid down the hood like a ragdoll.

Carnage erupted.

The fourth vehicle in the convoy wasted no time. It was the ride that housed the valuable goods, so its driver was most on edge. The convoy had barely made it a hundred feet down 5th, so all he had to do was pull a sharp U-turn onto the sidewalk and gun it back the way they’d come. Pedestrians had scattered at the sound of automatic gunfire and sniper rounds, and an eerie chorus of civilian screams echoed down 5th.

The fourth car reached the mouth of the alley it had spewed forth from, and the driver ripped the handbrake and twisted the wheel so the alley could swallow it again without the SUV losing any momentum.

Tyre smoke rose in plumes as it drifted into the alleyway, retreating fast for the bay it had emerged from.

Lockdown procedures.

When the smoke whispered away, the sniper with the better vantage point spotted a bulky silhouette spread-eagled on the roof, gripping the meagre handholds for dear life.

Fuck, his brain screamed.

He went for his throat mike and shouted a warning into it, but by then it was too late.

81

The guard nodded politely to King.

It was an automatic reaction to the chef’s uniform.

The man was skinny-fat. He had noodles for arms yet his gut hung over his belt. He was probably in his late forties, and King had to wonder just how idiotic Fabio Torres was with his approach to his own security. It reeked of nepotism. Maybe this physically unimposing specimen was an old friend, facing tough times, in need of gainful employment. Maybe Torres had helped him out. ‘Work for me, friend. All you have to do is walk around the ground floor. No one will make it past the perimeter cordon anyway.’

But someone had.

The guard’s nod froze at its lowest point as he computed King’s facial features and didn’t find a match. There was a half-second of disbelief, his motor functions pausing as he thought, Oh, shit.

By that point King was already in his face. He’d released the tray as soon as he’d burst forward and it clattered to the rug as he looped his arm around the back of the man’s neck. He wrenched the guy forward. The guard was going for his gun but it was far too late. He found himself trapped in King’s one-armed clinch, and now their faces were separated by inches.

He went to shout for help.

King headbutted him in the mouth, knocking his two front teeth out. The guard’s knees buckled but King knew that was going to happen, so the next headbutt found the mark square on the guy’s nose, breaking it. King knew his forehead was like a bat at close range, so he used it twice more, thudding it into the guard’s own forehead as the man sunk down to the rug.

King knew he had a harder head and a higher pain tolerance.

King ripped the phone out of the unconscious guard’s belt, tossed it aside, and dragged him back into the kitchen by the collar. He kept a two-finger grip on the pistol and dragged the body with his other three fingers, all his sinew straining. He dumped the unconscious man in front of the cool room door and pulled it open with his free fingers.

He came face to face with the terrified chef, shivering between two butchered cows suspended on meat hooks.

Torres must like his steak.

King said, ‘You have a visitor. When this guy wakes up, reassure him. But make sure he stays in here with you. You know what I’ll do if I see either of you.’

A scared nod from the chef.

King dragged the guard over the threshold and shut the door on both of them.

He shook out the lactic acid in his arm, then left the kitchen again.

82

Slater had leapt from the cover of a newspaper stand into the mouth of the alleyway two seconds before the target SUV came roaring up the sidewalk.

He’d pressed his back to the brick wall just inside the alley, narrowly avoiding getting run over by the speeding vehicle.

When it screeched past, slowing only