Messiahs by Matt Rogers (bookstand for reading txt) 📕

He realised his nose and jaw were both cracked. He bent over, caved to the pain, and went down. Incapacitated not by the damage itself, but by his acceptance of the damage. Slater had learned to control that decades ago. If he hadn’t, he wouldn’t be standing here.

The other two Aussies saw their friend fall over and submit, which had a stronger effect than if they’d seen him get sparked clean unconscious. Giving up is a whole lot more demoralising than being taken out of the fight involuntarily.

But they were brave.

Or stupid.

Sometimes the two go hand in hand.

They charged at the same time, which was also the right idea, and Slater got the impression they were more than casual brawlers. You take the movie approach of attacking the hero one by one and — surprise, surprise — it doesn’t work in your favour.

But Slater was physically stronger than both of them put together so he just grabbed the side of one guy’s skull and used it as a bowling ball to smash against the second guy’s shoulder. The first guy went down and the second guy stumbled off-course from the impact, and Slater lined up a high kick like he had an invisible targeting system and threw it. Which is a terrible idea if you’re evenly matched in a street fight, because as soon as you take one leg off the ground you risk getting taken down, where your adversary can beat your brains into the pavement, but Slater recognised a fight-ending sequence and went for it.

It landed, boot to jaw.

The guy walked right into it.

He went out cold with his feet still under him and collapsed at the knees, probably twisting an ankle as he went down.

It’s hard to protect your joints when you’re asleep at the wheel.

Slater took stock.

The first guy was done, the second guy was swimming in the unreality of semi-consciousness, and the third wouldn’t have his senses back for hours. He’d wake up in thirty seconds — no one stays out for much longer than that unless they’re comatosed or dead — but he’d be awfully confused for the rest of the night, dizzy and sick and disoriented.

Slater squatted by the second guy — the one he’d used as a makeshift bowling ball — and lifted his head off the pavement.

The guy stared up with unfocused eyes, but he was certainly more lucid than the other two.

Slater said, ‘Here’s what you do. You’ll be back to full health first, before your buddies. They’re both going to need trips to the ER. One’s got most of his face rearranged and the other’ll have a mean concussion. You’ll have a headache for a few days, but you’ll be fine in the long run. All of you will. That’s unless you try to do the brave thing and go inside and tell your boss what happened. If it goes that way, all three of you will be in a ditch by the morning. I don’t think you’re ready to die, so I think you’ll make the smart move. If Mickey’s alive tomorrow and asks what happened, you show him your injuries and tell him an ambulance got to you before you could contact him. You throw your phones away and tell him your attacker took them. Then everyone walks away happy to be alive. My people and I are going to have a chat with Mickey later tonight, and if we get a whiff that he’s onto us beforehand, all three of you are dead. Look me in the eyes and tell me you’re not ready to die.’

The guy’s lip was split where he’d bitten it in the clash of head against shoulder, so blood ran down his chin as he mumbled, ‘I’m not ready to die.’

‘Good. Tell me you’re going to do the right thing.’

‘I’ll do the right thing.’

‘Get to it,’ Slater said. ‘As soon as you start considering dialling Mickey’s number, think of me.’

He lowered the guy’s head back to the concrete and rounded to the front of Holt’s Tavern.

A couple in their thirties were on their way out of the saloon doors.

The man nodded a friendly greeting to Slater.

Slater nodded back, and returned to the rented SUV across the street like nothing was amiss.

6

King gave him the evil eye as he slipped back into the driver’s seat.

Slater closed the door behind him. ‘What?’

‘You just left them there? Round the corner.’

‘Yeah,’ Slater said.

King stiffened. ‘Don’t tell me you killed them.’

Slater rolled his eyes. ‘Of course. I murdered three idiots who probably have no idea what they’re really doing here.’

‘So they’re still there?’ King said. ‘I take it they’ll get up, go inside, and warn Mickey.’

Slater shook his head. ‘Not likely.’

‘What’d you do?’

‘Talked some sense into them. Just like we’re going to talk some sense into their boss later tonight. It’s as simple as that.’

‘It’s never as simple as that.’

‘You need to change your mindset,’ Slater said. ‘If we’re going up against insurmountable odds, then of course it’s smart to sit it out given what you’ve got waiting back at home. But things like this? You can keep doing this as much as you like.’

‘Says you.’

‘We have a considerable advantage over almost everyone we go up against. You know it, I know it. If we leave Mickey alone and he ends up taking over Walcott’s loan shark scheme, then it means we didn’t help anybody. If we talk him out of it before he gets there, we’ve directly helped dozens, maybe hundreds, of hurricane victims who have nothing left. And all we have to do is rough him up in a dark alley and make him understand what’s what. You’re telling me you’re not willing to do that? Low risk, high reward. I’ll handle the high risk business.’

King stayed silent for a while, then said, ‘Sometimes you’re persuasive.’

‘I know. One of my many talents.’

‘You’re starting to convince me … you and your bootleg therapy. Maybe you should take over from Dr. Phil when he calls it