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

was bigger than King, which was impressive in its own right. At least six foot five, with a thicker frame. Basketball-sized hands. A large head, but not brutish. His features were refined, despite his size. It gave him a wholly unique appearance, and something about it scratched at King’s memory. He was reminded of an intelligence briefing he’d glossed over months ago, but before he could confirm it, the enormous man raised a semi-automatic pistol and fired twice.

But he’d aimed and fired too fast.

Granted, the shots came close. King felt them whisk past him, and anyone else — besides Will Slater — would have ducked reflexively after nearly having their brains pulverised by tiny pieces of lead. Instead of retreating back down the manhole, King vaulted out of cover, rolled his big frame over the steel lid, and heaved it off the lobby floor. It weighed almost as much as the drain lid back in the alleyway, but this time he had the all-encompassing aid of adrenaline on his side. He lifted it like it weighed nothing and propped it up vertically on its hinges, using it as a circular shield to protect his vitals from follow-up shots.

Just in time.

He tucked his chin to his chest, ruining his situational awareness but saving his life. Three bullets struck the lid dead-centre, each one reverberating against the steel and vibrating through into his bones. He shivered, but then came the inevitable lapse in gunfire as the big guy realised King was safe from harm. King could see a perfect mental image of the guy skirting to the left or right. No way to tell which direction, but easy to estimate how much ground he was covering.

One step. Two steps. Three steps.

King reared up and snapped the MP7 to his shoulder, skewering it hard against his collar bone for support, and then found his target and pulled the trigger.

The guy was smart.

He hadn’t stayed in place.

He’d retreated, anticipating what was coming.

He was halfway through the curtains when King’s rounds laced his upper back. One of them struck centre mass, that was certain. The others, King couldn’t be sure. But there was the meaty thwack of a direct hit and then the guy jolted like he’d been electrocuted, and a half-second later disappeared behind the curtains. The thick brown material drifted back into place, obscuring his bulk.

King sent three more rounds through the curtains, hoping for the best, and then turned and bolted for another set of curtains in the opposite direction.

As he took off, he shouted, ‘Fifteen!’ into the manhole.

He knew Slater would get the message.

He ran flat out, heart pounding, and threw himself behind the curtains just as a couple of stray bullets tore through the material, right near his skull.

He ducked into a crouch as he burst through them, practically rolling head-first into a half-furnished waiting room complete with oak coffee tables and polished stools arranged around a marble bar.

He barely had his feet under him when he realised there was someone else in the space.

Only a couple of feet in front of him.

The guy was unarmed, and hadn’t been anticipating defending the lobby from within, but it didn’t seem to deter him. He was a trained combatant — King could tell from his demeanour alone — squat and compact, probably six inches shorter than King but roughly the same weight. A gorilla in human form, with an enlarged jaw and a feverish glint in his eyes. A capable veteran ready to kill for a high price, a price he’d undoubtedly been offered.

King started along the natural trajectory of raising his MP7, but the guy caught it under the barrel and wrenched it upward even faster, using his inhuman strength, sending it arcing toward the ceiling. A trigger pull would achieve nothing, so King abandoned that option, and loaded up to deliver a colossal head butt into the bridge of the guy’s nose.

The man jerked sideways, throwing King’s aim off, making him hesitate.

Then he wrapped two burly hands around the shoulders of King’s bulletproof vest and hurled him off his feet and brought him down on the nearest oak table, crushing and splintering it.

Crushing and splintering King in turn.

61

Perched halfway up the ladder, Slater counted to fifteen, making sure to take it slow.

Anyone in a high-stress environment was naturally inclined to rush. Thankfully, he’d spent most of his life in high-stress environments, and he could calm himself when he needed to. So, with gunshots raging over his head, and the life of his brother-in-arms hanging in the balance, he started ticking away the seconds as accurately as he could manage.

When he made it to thirteen, he heard an almighty crash.

It resonated through the lobby, the sound travelling up to the dome ceiling and echoing back down. It sounded eerily like wood splitting, with considerable weight behind the impact, and it had come from the exact direction King had run toward.

Two seconds left.

Indecision plagued him.

Stay, or go?

If he missed his cue, it would be tactical chaos. Together, he and King formed a cohesive unit, but only if they knew what each other was going to do before they did it. King had instructed him to wait fifteen seconds with full confidence, and Slater knew the man needed the time to set himself up at a vantage point so he could provide covering fire.

But if it was King on the receiving end of that earth-shattering crash, then there’d be no cover fire to speak of.

Slater would raise his head out of the manhole and meet the same fate as Samuel had.

Fourteen.

Fifteen.

He didn’t move.

He held his breath, listened to the gunshots ripping through the space, and hoped like hell King was okay.

62

King wasn’t okay.

Superficial pain was nothing. In a fight to the death, he could get bruised and cut over every square inch of his skin, and he’d barely notice until he was out of danger. But injuries that impeded his movement … those couldn’t be so easily ignored.

When he pulled himself