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

out of a dystopian movie. He couldn’t pinpoint exactly why it filled him with tension. In all likelihood, the government would mobilise its resources to fix the issue at the source, and power would be restored before the following evening. Sure, right now there was no running water, no phone coverage, no ability to communicate with anyone through anything other than the radio. But it’d all be okay in the morning.

Right?

‘Right,’ King muttered to himself.

He stood in the dark, too. There was a desk lamp switched on in the corner of the cavernous space, giving just enough illumination to see the silhouettes of his furniture, but it felt wrong to have the overhead lights on when the rest of the city had been plunged into the dark ages.

It certainly made things a touch more ominous.

Someone knocked at the front door.

King stopped twirling the satellite phone between his fingers. He eyed the big slab of oak at the end of the corridor, but he didn’t immediately move to answer it. He found himself rooted to the spot, deep in thought. For the first time in a while, he didn’t want to step out of his comfort zone. It’d either be Slater or Violetta. Neither option enticed excitement.

Ordinarily he was jumping at the bit for combat and pain and suffering and war, but now…

Now, it felt different.

Then the knocking became more urgent.

He shook himself out of his stupor, walked to the door, and opened it.

Slater was standing there, gun in hand. He was sweating freely, his shirt damp, practically soaked all the way through. His leather jacket had drops of perspiration on the sleeve. But he seemed alert enough. His bright green eyes were piercing and unwavering, as usual. King had seen them turn foggy in the midst of a binge drinking session, but that didn’t seem to be the case now. He figured the man had sprinted all the way from Palantir to sweat out the booze.

Smart move.

King would have done the same.

They had a mutual inclination for the fastest solution to the problem, no matter how uncomfortable you had to get in the process.

King looked down at the Colt.

‘Whose is that?’ he said. ‘That’s not yours.’

‘It’s the kid’s from Palantir. Why don’t you have any lights on?’

‘Doesn’t feel right. What kid from Palantir?’

‘The cartel kid. The one I told you about over the phone.’

King shook his head from side to side. ‘Sorry. I’m out of it. Got a million things on my mind.’

‘I’d have a million things on my mind too if … you know.’

‘You were sober?’

‘I’m getting there.’

‘You look like you’ve been for a swim.’

‘I ran from—’

‘I figured.’

‘You going to let me in?’

‘Right,’ King said, shaking his head for the second time.

An attempt to wrestle himself out of his stupor.

He stepped aside, and Slater strode past. Together they made their way into the living area. Slater placed the Colt on the arm of the Eames chair in the corner of the loft-style space and threw himself down into the chair itself. Then he touched two fingers to the damp shirt material under his jacket and said, ‘You got a spare change of clothes?’

King nodded and went to the bedroom. He came back with a few garments he figured would lend themselves better to athletic endeavours. Dark combat khakis, a long-sleeved compression shirt and a pair of Gore-Tex boots. He threw them over, and Slater stripped down.

King wasn’t fazed. They’d been side-by-side through some of the most hellish circumstances imaginable. They weren’t exactly shy around each other.

As Slater changed, King surveyed the landscape. Nothing had changed. He checked his watch — it had been an hour since New York went dark. He grimaced and turned back to find Slater wearing his clothes like a glove. King was three inches taller, but they both shared the same physique. Athletic specimens, built like pro sprinters with more muscle. It took serious discipline to balance the raw power needed to manhandle people using their bare hands with the cardio necessary to run long distances if required. There was a calculated science to it, and they’d been training for both those eventualities most of their adult lives.

Slater moved to the kitchen, opened the fridge, and came out with a gallon jug half-filled with a pre-made concoction, bright blue in colour. It was a mixture of electrolytes, stimulants, and … a few ingredients usually off-limits to the general population.

You simply couldn’t train like King and Slater without the aid of certain enhancements.

Right now, King could see Slater needed shaking out of his half-drunk, half-hungover state.

He downed half the contents of the jug, then put it back in the fridge and closed his eyes to compose himself.

King could see him feeling the effects of the stimulants almost immediately.

After this many years in the game, they’d nailed their nutrition and supplementation to a tee.

Slater crossed back to the armchair, dumped himself down in it, and let his stomach set to work digesting the cocktail he’d sucked down. King could see his belly distended from sculling so much water.

Then Slater said, ‘Someone shot at me on the way here.’

17

Slater watched King’s face.

The man said, ‘What?’

‘You heard me.’

‘Where?’

‘In the alleyway across from our building.’

‘Who?’

‘I don’t know. He was in the shadows.’

‘You didn’t hunt him down?’

‘He was insane.’

‘Insane how?’

‘Laughing. Cackling to himself. Probably just a junkie who got his hands on a firearm when the lights went out.’

‘You don’t really believe that, do you?’

‘No,’ Slater said, rubbing his brow. ‘No, I don’t.’

‘Did he know you lived here?’

‘How am I supposed to know that?’

‘I mean, was he following you all the way here, or was he lying in wait?’

Slater shook his head. ‘He wasn’t following me. I ran all the way here. Would have been pretty obvious if a junkie was on my heels the whole time.’

‘So then he knows we’re here.’

‘It’s one guy.’

‘You wouldn’t have brought it up if it didn’t concern you.’

Slater kept rubbing his brow. Didn’t immediately react. Then said, ‘Yeah, I’m concerned.’

‘Did he say anything?’

‘He said