Ciphers, Matt Rogers [a court of thorns and roses ebook free TXT] 📗

running, trying to make sure no one panicked when they saw him blazing past. He worked his legs like pistons until he got his heart rate up to an appropriate level, and then he maintained that pace all the way from Midtown to the Upper East Side. Perspiration beaded on his forehead and soaked his undershirt. Instead of deterring him, it only motivated him to run faster. He kept pounding the pavement until he was drenched, and then he stumbled to a halt at an intersection packed with pedestrians and sucked down the second bottle of water.

He found another street cart, and bought another bottle.

Then it was back to the same head-throbbing, heart-pounding blur of motion. He was barely paying attention to street signs, or his surroundings. He knew by instinct where the Upper East Side lay, and he steered himself there using his subconscious alone. He needed to. He could barely think straight through the haze of booze. He had the uncanny ability to mask his inebriation, but he knew how he felt on the inside, and he was by no means ready for an intense debrief with King and Violetta.

When the demographic changed from excited civilians of all socioeconomic backgrounds to frantic businessmen and women in suits and skirts and coats, he knew he’d made it to the Upper East Side.

He wondered what people made of him. He was dressed expensively in designer-wear, including a seven-thousand dollar leather jacket from Dolce & Gabbana, but he was coated in sweat and panting for breath with every step.

It helped that he was still feeling the effects of the booze. He didn’t give a shit what people thought of him.

He didn’t pay much attention to his surroundings. His mind was dull and unfocused, grappling with the change in circumstances. One moment he’d been dancing with a beautiful woman, planning a sleepless night with her at his penthouse, and the next he was running back home on foot, downing bottles of water, perspiring freely, trying his best to return to a coherent state so he could be of use to his country’s government in a time of mass panic.

He drank down the entire third bottle, found his building’s street, and jogged across the road, weaving between stationary cars. The Upper East Side was a more lavish area, but a blackout didn’t discriminate. Streetlights and traffic lights weren’t working here, either. Everyone was just as concerned as they were in Harlem.

Sure enough, his building was illuminated. There were only a smattering of windows glowing up the side of the eighty-storey structure. In normal circumstances, the lack of light would have made it seem desolate. Now, surrounded by total darkness, it was a beacon. A soft glow emanated through the floor-to-ceiling glass windows in the lobby, and Slater peered through to see a handful of the building’s staff milling behind the reception desk, looking mighty uncomfortable.

They’d opted to use as few lights as possible. Slater admired the decision. The less attention drawn to them, the better. The last thing they wanted was angry mobs outside the front door, demanding to be let in. As a result, the lobby had been plunged into shadow.

Slater pulled to a halt on the other side of the street and doubled over to catch his breath. He wanted to appear presentable, even though he was known to the staff. It would be just his luck to be turned away because he looked like a sweating madman. So he wiped the perspiration off his face with the shirt under his leather jacket before straightening up.

He stepped down off the sidewalk.

Something whistled past his ear from behind, fast and hard.

He flinched.

Half a second later the guttural cough of a suppressed gunshot spat from the lip of the alleyway behind him.

He heard it, and threw himself to the sidewalk with reckless abandon, nearly breaking his nose in his haste to flatten to the concrete.

Lucky he took such drastic measures.

More displaced air washed over him.

Thwack, thwack.

Once, twice.

He rolled, tumbling end over end like a man possessed until he reached the safety of a big metal dumpster overflowing with trash. He hurled himself behind it, sacrificing the skin on his hands for greater speed. When he leapt up into a crouch with his heart in his throat, he realised how disoriented he was. His vision tilted to the left as he righted himself. With one hand he seized the edge of the dumpster for support, and the other reached back for the Colt.

You drunk, he thought. You fucking drunk. It’s about time it got you killed. You deserve this.

But there were no follow-up shots.

Just the pitter-patter of footsteps, receding into the distance.

His attacker, fleeing.

A throaty cackle rang out, eerie in the dark.

Slater froze in place. He didn’t often hear laughter in the midst of a firefight.

And after the cackle, a high-pitched male voice.

‘You did this!’ it screamed, the words echoing off the dumpsters. ‘You took everything from us, motherfucker! This is your fault! This—’

The man didn’t finish the last sentence. He devolved into more raucous laughter, this time uncontrolled. Slater didn’t move a muscle. He stayed right behind the dumpster. Mostly because the guy was already running away, and there was no point prolonging a firefight unnecessarily. But partly because of the volatility. The guy sounded certifiably insane. No matter how unskilled he might be combat-wise, you couldn’t predict what a madman would do. There was a chance he was crazy enough to have no regard for his own life.

So Slater stayed put, and a shiver ran down his spine.

Because of the weird setting, and the total absence of streetlights, and the echo of laughter, and the absence of civilians on this particular stretch of sidewalk.

When the laughter faded into nothingness, Slater stood up.

You did this.

Dread enveloped him.

Tentatively, he raced across the street for his building’s lobby.

16

Dark.

All dark.

King was inches away from the floor-to-ceiling windows of his penthouse. Eighty floors up, with an unparalleled view of Manhattan and Central Park.

It was like something