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

his walls up, kill his emotions with steeliness. It was brutally tough work. Harder than killing people.

‘Jack Sundström had a family,’ he said. ‘Didn’t you read the paper? A wife. A son. Two daughters. Grandkids. I’m sure they were expecting him home.’

Danny let out something resembling a moan.

King said, ‘Get in there. And if you don’t do exactly what I said, if I find out you withheld what you were supposed to confess…it won’t be good for you, Danny.’

The survival instinct kicked in.

Danny twisted in his seat and threw a punch, fast as a whip, utilising the strength of a rock-solid abdomen from all that striking and conditioning work in Hunters Point. He hoped to catch King on the jaw, stun him for long enough to spill out of the car, make a run for it, maybe get back to his sister and his father. He’d fled the trailer park for valid reasons, but going back would be preferable to a cell.

King understood, and didn’t blame the young man.

He caught the scything punch with an open palm, wrapped his hand around Danny’s fist like enclosing it in a paw. All Danny’s stopping power — which was considerable — was distributed into King’s arm, rattling the bones, but King was made of tougher stuff than a guy in his early twenties, and nothing broke or dislocated. Muscle and bone held strong. It hurt like hell to stop the hook in its tracks, but there wasn’t a chance King would let it show.

Danny broke down.

He’d probably never experienced that before. Someone treating all his martial arts training like it was nothing, swatting his offence away like scolding a toddler. King let go of the fist, and Danny brought both hands to his face and sobbed into them.

He didn’t try to run.

He suddenly understood there were different breeds of warriors.

Levels to this game.

He had all the adrenaline that came with the fight-or-flight response, but King didn’t.

In a low, level tone, King said, ‘We’re going to pretend that didn’t happen.’

Danny nodded wordlessly.

Still sobbing, he opened the car door and trudged into the police station, head bowed the whole way.

King watched him go in, then turned and smashed his open palm against the top of the steering wheel three consecutive times. His furious power rattled the whole car, battered the top of the wheel out of shape, creating a U-shaped divot.

He allowed himself that much of a release, then cut his emotions off, threw the car into gear, and drove away.

White knuckles on the mangled wheel.

Life wasn’t fair, but he was doing the best he could.

That’s what he had to tell himself to maintain his sanity.

76

Slater knew something was wrong.

He’d finally gotten through to King, who first asked about his condition. When it was understood that Slater’s injuries were recuperable, King mumbled a few words about the job being done and told him to call Alexis instead.

Then he hung up.

So, Slater thought. Danny must be dead.

He dialled Alexis again upon King’s instructions and she finally answered. They went back and forth for a few minutes about the extent of each other’s injuries, then Slater asked about King.

There was no response.

Slater said, ‘Alexis?’

‘Where are you?’ she asked. ‘I’ll come get you.’

‘That’s not an answer.’

‘I’ll tell you in person. Please.’

‘Is Danny dead?’

‘Just tell me where you are.’

He did.

Thirty minutes later, as the clock ebbed closer to midnight, she arrived. She pulled up in a large black SUV with tinted windows. He didn’t ask about that. He detached himself from the shadows and appeared by her passenger door, so sudden she leapt with fright in her seat. He peered in through the window, able to see her under the yellow interior light, and grimaced. She was in bad shape. Face swelling, one eye purple and closed shut, scratches all over. She cradled one hand in her lap, and at first glance he couldn’t tell why. Maybe a couple of fingers were broken. He opened the door and fell into the seat, groaning as he dragged his bad leg into the footwell.

She grimaced right back as she saw his condition, but it didn’t seem clear to her what specifically was injured. ‘Which leg? Same one as Mexico?’

He shook his head. ‘The other ankle. Which is good, maybe. I’m distributing the trauma evenly.’

She smiled at that, despite it all.

He said, ‘What the hell happened to you?’

‘Fell down a hill.’

Slater recalled falling off a speeding ATV in the mountains above Xalisco, tumbling dozens of feet down a severe slope. ‘Now you’re just copying me.’

She kept smiling, which is about all he could ask for in this mad world. Then her expression bled back to normal. Perhaps a little worse than normal. She was clearly uncomfortable. ‘This’ll be a media firestorm.’

‘How’s the scene look? For when the cops show up.’

‘Heidi and Frankie side by side, bullets in their heads. Then there’ll be remnants of Frankie and Petr’s crews discovered all around San Francisco. It’ll look like a CEO got greedy and found herself swimming in shark-infested waters, which is almost exactly what happened.’

Slater digested the update. ‘Just Heidi and Frankie in the creek. So you moved Danny’s body?’

‘He’s not dead.’

‘Then what—?’

She sighed, bowed her head, reached over and squeezed his thigh for the strength to speak. ‘Danny was lying, Will. About his innocence. He killed an old man for Frankie already. Pummelled him to death.’

Slater closed his eyes. It made sense now.

Corruption and betrayal were a whole lot worse for King to deal with than if Danny simply got killed in the line of fire.

Better to die a noble death than to allow yourself to be poisoned by evil.

Slater said, ‘Where are they?’

‘King’s taking him to the SFPD.’

Slater stared vacantly out the windshield. ‘Shit.’

‘Yeah.’

‘No mercy, huh?’

‘You think he deserves mercy?’

‘No. Was just an observation.’

She didn’t answer.

Slater turned to her. ‘So.’

‘So?’

‘How’d you like venturing out on your own?’

She shook her head. ‘In future, I’m sticking with you. Fuck this solo business.’

Slater nodded. ‘I needed you to realise that for yourself. If I