Ghosts, Matt Rogers [reading the story of the .txt] 📗

He sipped at it, and Melanie flirted with them, and they flirted back.

She kicked her heels off, stretched out across the upholstery, and put a hand on King’s thigh.

He winced internally, but couldn’t show it.

The driver reversed out of the laneway and navigated back onto West Desert Inn Road, a mirror image of the journey King and Slater had taken to Chinatown. King spotted the Spring Mountain gravel pit pass them on the left, and with it the confirmation that they were deep in the privacy of an uninhabited industrial zone, late at night.

He met Slater’s gaze over the top of Melanie’s head, and gave an imperceptible nod.

Now.

17

Slater sat forward and openly stared at the mareros.

They stared right back. They tightened their grips on the revolvers.

Slater put all his attention on the one in the middle and said, ‘Why don’t you stare harder, pendejo?’

‘What the fuck—’ the guy started, eyes lighting up with anger.

Before he could threaten them, Slater raised his voice, addressing the whole cabin. ‘You know what? I’m done with this. Pull over.’

Through the open partition, the driver twisted in his seat. ‘What?’

‘Pull over. Slow down.’

King added, ‘You heard him. We’re done. Slow down!’

He shouted the last sentence, his voice booming in the confined space.

Chaos.

The three mareros in the back started shouting all at once, a couple of them shaking their guns. Melanie went rigid and the blood drained completely from her face.

Out of the corner of his eye, King saw a vein pulsating in her neck, her heart rate through the roof.

Adding to the uproar, King said to her, ‘Did you hear? We don’t want you anymore. Get out.’

She looked up at him, fear on her face. ‘Huh?’

The mareros kept shouting.

Slater shouted back at them, his tone frantic.

It was all unintelligible.

Amidst the explosion of noise, the driver slowed the limo to a crawl and pulled onto the shoulder, more to sort out the commotion than to honour the clients’ request.

King jumped at the opportunity. He reached out and threw the door open, then grabbed Melanie’s wrist and made to throw her out of the car.

‘Hey!’ she screamed.

The driver stamped on the brakes.

The limo slowed to a crawl.

As gently as he could, King pushed her out.

She landed on her feet and staggered barefoot away from the limo, regressing to a silhouette in seconds. One of the mareros screamed a command at the driver, who obeyed. The guy stamped on the accelerator again and the momentum of the limo picking up speed swung the door shut.

As soon as it was closed the gangster in the middle leapt out of his seat and shoved the barrel of his revolver against the side of Slater’s head.

Slater froze and switched gears. He started to shake.

‘I’m sorry,’ he said. ‘I wasn’t thinking. That was a mistake—’

His words quite literally fell on deaf ears. The mareros were shouting and cursing and bickering between each other, in a furious debate as to how to proceed. Gates’ best worker had just been disrespected. Demonstrations had to be made. Examples had to be set. Amidst the furore, the other two thugs seesawed their way across the rear compartment and pinned King in his seat with their gun barrels — one on each side of his chest.

They shouted at him in Spanish, spit spraying his face.

He made himself look scared, which took some effort.

The barrel was tight against Slater’s skull. The marero ground it against the flesh by twisting it left and right, drawing blood. Slater turned his head slightly to see out the windshield, and watched the driver veer off the road into the outskirts of the colossal property containing the two gravel pits. There were industrial outbuildings and rows of heavy mining equipment all over the place. The driver parked the limo in the shadows beside a handful of massive bulldozers. He was out of the vehicle before it had even come to rest, throwing the door open and skirting round to open up the rear compartment. The three mareros within started screaming again, gesticulating wildly for King and Slater to get out.

Slater went first.

The barrel stayed firm against his head as the gangster followed him out.

It was a hot night. Sweat beaded in the small of his back as he took a gulp of air. King came out next, two guns against his back. The gangster beside Slater shoved him hard toward the bulldozers. It was a weak push. He could have stayed right where he was, but he went along with it. He staggered to the right, away from the limo.

King followed suit.

Slater came to a stop first and assessed the situation. He cast his gaze over what road he could see outside the mining pit. The asphalt trailed away toward the Strip, empty and sparsely lit.

No passing traffic.

No Melanie.

They’d driven for maybe thirty seconds after King had forced her out of the car, but that was enough to put her out of sight.

Maybe not out of earshot, but that didn’t matter.

Everyone in the vicinity would hear what came next.

But no one would see it.

King stumbled to a halt beside Slater, one of the tattooed gangsters skewering the revolver into his chest. The marero was all the way up in his face, still shouting. Slater was pretty sure they weren’t actually going to follow through with the threats. If he and King played along, they’d live. Slightly humiliated, maybe roughed up by a few blows, but not outright executed.

Didn’t matter.

King had done a remarkable job of working the circumstances to create maximum confusion.

King said, ‘Can she see us?’

Slater said, ‘No.’

King just ripped the revolver right out of the guy’s hand, breaking fingers in the process. He shot the gangbanger in the face, pushed his falling body aside and fired three more shots at a furious pace.

Pop-pop-pop.

The mareros fell, one by one, like macabre dominoes.

Not a single one of them had managed to raise a gun in response.

King threw the revolver on the body of the first gangbanger and walked away.

Slater followed.

They got in