Outlaws by Matt Rogers (phonics books TXT) 📕

you abandoned the government? So you could do less?’

He shook his head. ‘Never. I can’t stop. I’m going to do things my own way. But I didn’t know if you’d be along for the ride. I need to know if you’re okay with that.’

She sat, pensive and still.

He said, ‘I think Slater’s in the same boat. I don’t think we want our talents to go to waste.’

She said, ‘There’s nothing to stop me from continuing to handle the pair of you.’

Music to his ears.

‘So that’s the way forward?’ she said. ‘A vigilante crew?’

‘Like old times. Only a little more organised.’

She didn’t respond.

He said, ‘Unless you have other ideas.’

‘I’ll be honest — I did. Until this. I know what’s in that container back there. I can’t sit back and allow things like that to keep happening.’

‘Welcome to my mind.’

It felt good, he had to admit.

Unity.

Mutual understanding.

They spent the rest of the trip in silence. Adrenal fatigue hit hard, making them feel they were moving through quicksand. King was a little better accustomed to the sensation than Violetta, but that didn’t make it any easier. He settled into autopilot and went through the motions, following the GPS route back through the mountains toward the Pacific. Then he navigated the coastline until he was finally made to stamp on the truck’s brakes outside a giant cream building with brick columns and a tall archway above wooden double doors.

Over the doors, a sign illuminated by an overhead light read: City of Laguna Beach Police Department.

Violetta said, ‘You think this is the way to go?’

‘What else can we do?’ King said.

She nodded her understanding.

They didn’t share another word. They got out, went to the back of the trailer, and King opened it up. The container rested within, neatly settled on low supports. He vaulted up onto the trailer bed and set to work on the exterior locks. He made quick work of them. They were designed to be opened from the outside, not within.

He swung the door open.

There were twelve of them in total, huddled up in a nervous group against the rear wall. They must have sensed the truck coming to a stop with some measure of finality. The space in front of them was cool — that’s what the refrigeration was for, to ensure they didn’t suffocate. Mattresses had been arranged in neat rows against each of the longer walls — six per side. There were bedsheets and duvets and pillows in cases. MREs — military ration packs — were stacked in equal towers next to each bed, alongside multiple gallon water containers. Up the rear of the container, lidded plastic buckets served as toilets, complete with a makeshift privacy screen.

King paused a beat to truly admire their resolve.

The women were all dirty and dishevelled and riddled with stress, but they hadn’t let their surroundings mirror the fear they’d been crippled by. Throughout the whole journey they’d kept the space as clean as they could, even though he was sure every part of them wanted to descend into nihilism.

They hadn’t wavered, not even in the face of their worst nightmares coming true.

There was nothing more impressive.

And they were strong now. They glared at him from across the container, daring him to lay a finger on them.

He pointed a thumb at himself. ‘Police.’

No one budged.

They’d been lied to before.

He said, ‘You’re safe. Trust me.’

Violetta appeared beside him. She regarded the contents of the container and winced in horror. She couldn’t help it. The role of handler involves a necessary detachment from the field. When you see the consequences, when you hear them, smell them — it’s so much more real.

Too real to process.

King knew Violetta was imagining exactly what would have happened here had they not interfered.

King was wondering that too.

Wondering what might have happened if Jack Coombs and his dirty secrets hadn’t wandered into a bar in Koreatown.

Days ago.

It felt like years.

It always did.

Violetta steeled herself, and then pointed to her own chest, and said, ‘Police.’

Something about the presence of a female inspired trust. Not fully, and each of the women moved with a certain amount of scepticism, but it was progress. A woman at the front stepped forward, in her twenties, with pale skin and delicate features and black hair and wide eyes. She kept her gaze locked on Violetta and walked towards her.

Which opened the floodgates.

King and Violetta helped each of them out the back of the trailer, where they milled around on the asphalt opposite the police station. A couple of them stared up at the big sign, but most of them stared at their feet. Violetta leapt down to console them as King helped the final few out of the container.

The last woman out was tentative. She held back as the rest of the group dispersed, silhouetted at the rear of the space.

King hovered in the doorway and beckoned her out.

She stepped forward.

It was the girl from the surveillance photo.

Eastern European. Naturally beautiful. Long blond hair. The secretarial garb was gone, replaced by dirty tracksuit pants and a sweatshirt.

Full circle.

King said, ‘Do you speak English?’

She shrugged. ‘A little. I needed it for work.’

‘Then you speak for them,’ he said. ‘When you get inside, you tell them exactly what happened. Give them all the details you know. Drop the name “Donati Group.” The investigation will do the rest. You’ll be returned home as soon as possible.’

‘Where are we?’

‘A police station in California.’

‘I do not trust police.’

‘There’s too many of you,’ King said. ‘There’s no chance of a cover up here. We’re in Laguna Beach. The whole station would have to be corrupt to hide it.’

She looked at him, deep bags under her eyes, cynicism in her gaze.

Her look said it all, revealed her distrust of authority.

All police are corrupt.

King said, ‘Not here. I’m sorry for what happened to you. But here is different.’

She didn’t move.

He said, ‘This will make the news. If it doesn’t, I’ll know something’s up. Then I’ll come handle it.’

She looked at him again.

Again, her look