Monsters, Matt Rogers [ereader for android .txt] 📗

Slater lifted his gaze and scanned the opposite side of the road. In front of a graffiti mural dedicated to Rosa Parks that took up the entire front wall of a single-storey house, he found the car he was looking for. An old Subara, almost on death’s door.

Time to help it along its trajectory.

Slater pointed it out.

King said, ‘You got this?’

Slater wordlessly stepped out of the car. He waited for a break in traffic, then jogged across and crouched by the front right-hand wheel with a concerned look on his face, faking worry for a ride that wasn’t his. Surreptitiousness would be key. He’d have to do this in front of potentially dozens of witnesses. Just the nature of a job in a major city. In one motion he slipped an open switchblade out of his jacket pocket and, shielding it with his body, he stabbed the tyre twice. Air hissed out in twin bursts. Feigning outrage like he’d stumbled upon the damage instead of inflicting it himself, he quickly rounded the hood and carried out the same action with the other front tyre. Then he stood up to his fullest height, the blade already tucked away. He snarled and stormed back across the street. Got back in the passenger seat and let the act fall away, his face turning blank as King gunned it away, slotting into a narrow gap in traffic.

King said, ‘You think it’ll work?’

Slater checked his watch. ‘He won’t make it on public transport in time. And he won’t get an Uber.’

‘How do you know?’

‘He won’t have room for discretionary spending. It’d cost him everything he would’ve made today.’

‘You’re sure?’

Slater looked pointedly over. ‘You know what coaches get paid.’

It took them thirty minutes to cover the six miles to Hunters Point, but the traffic eased considerably for the last leg of the journey, through industrial zones and towards the naval shipyard. Sleek ride-share vehicles and luxury sedans were replaced by the second-hand pickups of blue-collar workers from the docks. The last of the apartment buildings and family homes receded as they left the edge of Bayview behind, and then it was only warehouses and empty lots and padlocked gates.

Frankie Booth’s MMA gym was a single warehouse on dry and barren land, framed by more undeveloped lots that culminated at the end of the road with the shipyard’s gate. You couldn’t see the water, even though it was only a few hundred feet away, which might’ve been the only appealing part of the commercial property. A huge sign above the front doors read, “COSTA MIXED MARTIAL ARTS” with the subheading, “Muay Thai, Brazilian Jiu-Jitsu, Boxing, Wrestling, Fitness & More.”

King said, ‘Costa?’

‘He’s Frankie Costa here,’ Slater said. ‘Frankie Booth had a rap sheet a mile long. Seems he wanted to leave his domestic-abuse charges in Massachusetts.’

‘So he started in Boston?’

‘I would assume that’s how Griggs found out about him. I’m guessing Frankie knew he’d escaped justice by a hair and decided not to push his luck. Probably had grand dreams of coming out here and living by the beach, continuing his streak of general scumbaggery under a new name. But something changed out here. He probably realised he only had enough coin to train out of this shithole, then desperation set in. I’d say he became something far worse. In Boston he was scum, but I’m not sure if he was a killer. If this really is connected to Vitality+, then Frankie must’ve realised there were criminals in California who needed messages sent, needed people punished. Whether Dwayne found out about him after Boston or not is anyone’s guess.’

‘That’s a lot to assume.’

‘You think I’m wrong?’

King shook his head. ‘We’ll find out anyway.’

‘We always do.’

Slater parked up the back of the lot. There were nearly twenty cars in front of the warehouse. A soft breeze blew up from the ocean, which was still invisible after Slater turned a wide circle on the asphalt. The sounds of feet and fists smacking against pads and bags echoed out through the open doors, mixed in with grunts and shouts of exertion. If the location didn’t scare regular San Fran fitness enthusiasts away, the noise emanating from the warehouse certainly would. This place was for the hardcore. Slater shielded his eyes with one hand and headed for the doors.

King followed suit.

23

Alexis wasn’t about to pretend she was some seasoned operator.

She thanked the gods for delivering appropriate weather as she pulled the hood of Mary’s raincoat over her head. Warm drizzle hissing through thick and humid air was never pleasant, especially not in summertime where expectations betrayed all, but nothing about this was going to be pleasant. She’d be working up a sweat regardless, so why not start early? The heat rippled off her as she took the elevator down to the lobby.

Everything about the way she walked out of the building was coordinated, tactical. If she stared at her feet the whole time there was a chance Mary’s stalkers would be too incompetent, and they might miss her. If she panned her gaze across the street, searching them out, they might notice the slight differences in complexion, skin tone, the contours of her face, and they’d recognise her as an imposter. So she alternated, glancing up and down at the congested traffic and the damp sidewalk, acting as nervous as expected from a civilian whose life was in danger.

Two men stood in the shadow of an overhang across the road.

Watching.

She locked onto them in her peripheral vision but didn’t turn her face to them. She looked past them, winced as if distressed, then hustled along, weaving past pedestrians. She upped her pace. In truth she was almost as nervous as Mary would’ve been. She was ready for that. Exposure to King and Slater’s side of the world had taught her that the fear never truly leaves you. Doesn’t matter how experienced you are. The survival instinct exists for a reason, and it can never be fully suppressed. But there are ways