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

King said, ‘Call him. Whatever you need to say, say it.’

‘They’ll have to go in…’

‘They’re operatives,’ King said. ‘Just like me. They’ll handle it.’

Torres reached slowly for his robe pocket. ‘My phone.’

King nodded.

He withdrew it, clutched it between white knuckles, and clenched his teeth.

King said, ‘What?’

‘You must forgive me for the way I’m going to talk. Otherwise … it won’t be believable.’

‘I don’t care,’ King said. ‘Just get it done.’

Torres nodded, but still looked reluctant. ‘Is one of them your wife?’

Close enough. ‘Yes.’

‘You must forgive me,’ Torres repeated.

King sighed. ‘I don’t have a lot of time here, Fabio. Make the fucking call.’

Torres dialled.

A tinny voice answered, snapping in Spanish. ‘Qué pasa?!’

King got the gist. What do you want at this hour?

‘Tranquilo, ’mano,’ Torres said. King kept the gun pressed to his head. He was a competent actor. Despite the stress, there was no trace of fear in his voice. Only seediness. ‘I’ve got a present for you.’

‘I’m busy.’

‘How busy?’

‘Get to the point.’

Torres silently winced, then plunged headfirst into his character. ‘I got these two American bitches, man. They’re new here. You should see them. They’re like goddesses. I’m telling you, ’mano, I never seen two hotter bitches in my whole life. Their chochas must be like sweet honey. And their faces … I’m talking supermodels, Victoria’s Secret, whatever. Cream of the crop. I was going to bring them here, but I thought I might send them over to you first.’

‘How much they charge?’

‘On me,’ Torres said. ‘On your brother Fabio.’

‘Then what’s it really going to cost?’ Vásquez grunted.

There’s always a price.

‘Nothing, my brother,’ Torres said, grinning, enveloped in the role. ‘I understand the pecking order. You eat first. Then the rest of us. You earned your spot. I’m only doing my part. As I expect those underneath me to treat me in future.’

‘You’ll ask for something down the line,’ Vásquez said, but his voice was lighter, less concerned.

If Torres really wasn’t demanding anything right now, and if these two whores were anything like how they were described…

‘I’m telling you,’ Torres said. ‘Best chocha in the world. They’ll do anything you ask.’

‘I doubt that.’

‘Try them.’

‘Send them over. I’ll have my international calls wrapped up within the hour. Wasn’t going to sleep tonight anyway.’

‘Of course, ’mano.’

‘And Fabio…’

‘Yes?’

‘Thank you. It’s been a stressful night. I need to let out a little anger. You think they’ll be okay with that?’

‘They might need some extra cash for that.’

‘No problem.’

Vásquez clicked off.

There was a beat of silence, then Torres slowly lowered the phone away from his ear. He looked forlorn as he glanced at King. ‘I’m sorry. For the way I spoke.’

King said, ‘Don’t be.’

He pulled out his own phone and dialled.

Violetta answered in a beat. ‘Did you do it?’

‘I need something from you and Alexis.’

‘Okay.’

‘It’s not going to be safe, but it’s the only way Slater will make it.’

‘It doesn’t matter what it is.’

King gritted his teeth and told her.

88

Slater and Alonzo stepped out into the street, wearing the fast-fashion garments they’d taken from the department store.

Jeans, jumpers, overcoats, scarves, sunglasses, hats.

It was a freezing morning. They didn’t look out of place. If they’d walked out the front doors of the department store, they would have been apprehended immediately, well within the temporary cordon the NYPD had established around the scene. Instead, Slater had consulted the schematics Violetta had downloaded, and used side doors and laneways and shortcuts to move five buildings down. It was only a few hundred feet from where they’d started, but there’s only so much of Manhattan you can shut down in peak hour without causing gridlock, so the established crime scene was small.

Slater gave thanks that all this had happened in New York.

The enemy of the secret world is eyeballs.

But, in some ways, it’s also their strength. They had access to every digital eyeball in the country, and there’s no larger concentration of CCTV cameras than New York City. As soon as they stepped out into daylight, Slater knew they were operating on borrowed time.

He remembered what he’d told Garcia back in Jersey. ‘I’ll need one more thing once I’m in Manhattan. You have people there?’

‘I’ll make it happen.’

They hustled two blocks east on foot.

Slater watched the stationary traffic like a hawk, gaze darting from car to car.

None of them rang a bell.

Alonzo was doing the same thing. He said, ‘I don’t see it.’

Slater said, ‘Got to be here somewhere.’

If it’s not…

He didn’t want to think about that.

Then it was there.

A dark blue 2015 V8 Ford Mustang in awful condition. Dented fenders, stained windshield, one front headlight cracked, the glass like a spiderweb. It stood out in the black-grey fleet of luxury town cars that comprised the bulk of the morning rush around the Flatiron District. But it was the best Garcia could do, and it was certainly better than nothing.

It was the sort of car you bought if you never had a spare dollar in your life, then suddenly happened upon a lot of cash, but you kept all the old tendencies regarding how much care you took with your possessions. Which was exactly what had happened to the guy behind the wheel. He was a thin pale redneck who looked like he consumed a decent amount of the product he dealt on the street corners. One of Garcia’s low-level street dealers, brought in from middle America.

The guy hunched closer to the windshield as he identified Slater from the description Garcia had fed him, and Slater saw his straw-coloured hair fall forward in a bowl cut over his forehead.

The dealer’s eyes went wide.

Play it cool, Slater willed. Please.

At least the guy followed the instructions.

As soon as he spotted Slater and Alonzo coming down the sidewalk, he threw the handbrake on and climbed out of the Mustang, leaving it in traffic. It was in the far lane, surrounded by the motionless gridlock of rush hour.

He power-walked away from the idling car, enmeshing himself with the throngs of pedestrians.

Slater broke out of the crowd, weaving between cars