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

112

It took until the next day for King to realise being back stateside wasn’t so bad.

Somehow the mainland didn’t feel so hostile.

After all, the hunters were gone. Every last one of them. Their bodies were riddled across Las Vegas, Joya de Ceren, and Santa Ana. The very best the world of black operations had to offer was reduced to nothing, all its elite Tier One killers chewed up and spat out by a pair of retirees supposedly past their prime.

Getting out of Manhattan had proved straightforward enough. There simply wasn’t anyone of King or Slater’s calibre left to pursue them. The team that stormed the consulate had been more of the best, although not quite as qualified as the hunters. With them gone, snuffed out by King’s surprise assault, all that remained was to evade the regular police and security forces scattered throughout the state. With Alonzo on their side, it was a cakewalk. He’d designed many of the NYPD’s procedures and protocols in the first place, using insights gleaned from big data to develop a sophisticated approach to laying down roadblocks and bottlenecking fugitives. With that insider information in their possession, Alonzo simply laid out where he knew the hotspots would be located, and they avoided those roads. They made their way out of the five boroughs, went up north toward Albany, then eventually turned east into Massachusetts when Alonzo determined it was too risky to continue north.

So now here they were.

Winthrop.

A coastal city in Suffolk County, a shade east of Boston, with oceanside properties overlooking pebble beaches and yacht clubs and lighthouses.

The sky was overcast the morning after their daring escape from Manhattan, but King barely noticed the weather. It could have been sunny or hailing.

What mattered was their condition, which was free.

He realised for a government that preached freedom above all else, they sure were adamant about gagging anyone who knew of their dirty secrets. But as the strange calmness of the day settled over him, he figured this might be the first time the American secret world refrained from chasing him and Slater.

It simply wasn’t worth it anymore.

King stood at the window of a rented townhouse facing Pico Beach, his left arm bound tight in a competent sling. Now they had access to proper medical supplies, Violetta had done a flawless job of treating his arm. There was still muscle sheared off the bone, but after gentle scrutinisation Violetta had determined that surgery wasn’t required for the moment. Which was a good thing, considering they couldn’t step foot in a hospital. They would have had to bribe a doctor, which comes with its own myriad problems.

So he needed rest.

Weeks, maybe even months, of rest.

He didn’t consider that a bad thing.

Through the window he watched Slater, Alonzo, and Alexis stand in a tight semi-circle on the lawn. Besides his broken, swollen nose, Slater showed no sign of the consecutive wars he’d been through over the last three days. There was barely a scratch visible on his body, but that was by careful design. He wore a long sleeved athletic shirt and tracksuit pants that covered up the mottled bruising all over his limbs. His body would be tender and raw, his head fragile from the repeated blows. He’d need the forthcoming rest just as much as King.

Which is why he wore striking pads on his forearms instead of gloves.

He wouldn’t be taking part in the drill he’d devised for Alonzo and Alexis.

He was the coach.

Alexis rippled with tight muscle in her workout kit, her abdomen like a washboard. Alonzo was the odd one out. He wore a baggy white oversized tee and XXL basketball shorts. His hairy calves protruded from the shorts. They were shapeless blobs. King guessed he was thirty pounds overweight, maybe more. Too much indulgence in the good life. A few weeks with Slater would get him on the right path.

At first Slater had been hesitant when Alonzo insisted he wanted to learn how to fight.

‘It’ll take you years,’ Slater had said.

Alonzo had raised an eyebrow. ‘So that means I shouldn’t try?’

That had hit the spot. Slater had shot to his feet and thrown a glance at King. ‘You coming?’

‘No.’

‘Suit yourself.’

Now, King listened to Slater’s instructions through the gap in the window, which he’d inched open so he could hear.

‘You need to open up at the hips when you swing your leg,’ Slater said. ‘Like this—’

Slater clearly couldn’t resist. He’d told King he wouldn’t exert himself after King had warned him about doing too much in the aftermath of a concussion, but now he whipped a kick through the air in front of Alonzo at ludicrous speed. Like a World Series hitter swinging the bat, except the bat was Slater’s shin.

Alonzo’s eyebrows shot upward and he sheepishly lowered his hands to either side of his considerable belly, practically resting his gloves on his stomach fat.

Slater said, ‘What?’

‘I don’t know. Maybe this was stupid. What am I trying to be?’

Slater said, ‘You’re not going to be like us, if that’s what you’re thinking. You won’t be an operative. You don’t want to do what we do.’

‘So then why am I doing this?’

‘You know why. You alluded to it inside. It’s valiant to better yourself. Doesn’t matter where you end up. What matters is that you start. You’re Sisyphus pushing the boulder up the hill, and you’re loving the process.’

Alonzo — ever the philosopher — got the metaphor, and smiled. ‘Okay.’

Slater held the pads at chest height, and Alonzo swung a kick. His shin barely touched the leather, stifled by his horrendous inflexibility. The attempt made him wince as he stretched his groin. His chunky leg slammed back down to earth.

All in all, it seemed pathetic.

Which is good, King thought. Because that’s where everyone starts.

He knew the only thing that was actually pathetic was quitting.

Alexis stepped up next, and slammed eight consecutive kicks into the striking pads, synchronising with Slater in a way that indicated they’d trained together hundreds