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

It put a smile on his face.

He tucked the wallets into his pockets without going through them. He had all the time in the world for that later. Right now, he was fixated on the firefight playing out a hundred yards down the street. Men with rifles flooded toward a building with floor-to-ceiling glass windows and shot them out, shattering the panes with deafening rounds. He couldn’t make out their features. They were dark silhouettes against a dark backdrop, and they bled inside like creatures of the night.

Then something struck a dumpster a dozen feet to his left, and a moment later the muzzle flare emanated from within the lobby itself.

He’d been shot at.

Rico’s heart spiked again.

This time, it palpitated longer.

Seized by sudden terror, he threw himself behind the dumpster, clutching his chest. Sweat broke out under the collar of his shirt, but he didn’t notice. He was fixated on the space ahead, his eyes glazing over. Fear unlike anything he’d ever felt before struck him, turning him cold. His heart zigged and zagged in his chest. He gripped his pectoral muscle tighter. His eyes went wide.

Really? he thought. This is where it all comes to an end?

He thought his life flashing before his eyes was a cliché, but it happened.

Well, not all of it. Only some parts. Only the parts that mattered, the parts that had contributed to his current predicament.

Like every time he’d stumbled into a bathroom and snorted lines, or taken ecstasy and ignored the tightness in his chest. Each memory flashed across his vision in a rapid-fire montage, and he realised, Yeah, I probably deserve this. He’d been pretending the warning signs weren’t there for far too long.

But it subsided. It took some time, and when his heartbeat finally returned to normal he became aware of other sensations. Like the sheet of perspiration he was coated in, and the clamminess of his hands, and the paralysing fear gripping him tight. Then, one by one, those sensations faded too, and he found himself seated behind the dumpster panting and fighting the urge to vomit.

No more, he told himself. No more drugs. At least, not for a while.

He realised he very well could have been sitting there for an hour. Pure fear is a fugue state. It feels like an eternity, and it also feels like the blink of an eye.

Fighting to keep all the alcohol down, Rico crawled on all fours out of cover, wondering if the gunshots had been some crazed hallucination induced by a vital organ on the verge of shutdown. But he stumbled his way to the mouth of the alley and saw the glass windows still shattered. He hadn’t been dreaming it. But the street was silent. His ears weren’t ringing, so perhaps the violence was over…

Then a couple more shots rang out, and Rico froze up. A few minutes later, a trio of individuals stepped out of the lobby and set off down the street. There was no artificial light whatsoever, and he could only make out their silhouettes, but something about the way one of them moved seemed familiar—

Then they were gone.

Rico stayed on all fours, barely moving a muscle. The sweat was drying on his skin, turning cold. His pulse was steady, but hard, thrumming in his neck and chest.

He tried to figure out what to do next.

Then a voice only inches behind him whispered, ‘Hello.’

He jolted so hard he nearly induced another episode.

He turned to see a guy roughly his age staring at him, with a shaved head and wide, unblinking eyes. The kid looked like a skeleton. He was gaunt and his skull seemed hollow.

He was on his knees in the middle of the alleyway, watching Rico like a cat watches a bird.

The scene was indescribable.

Rico flapped his lips like a dying fish.

The walking skeleton said, ‘I’m Samuel. What’s your name?’

23

King stepped across the threshold before Slater, staying on Violetta’s heels.

He didn’t think of steering their conversation toward anything personal. They were an item, but whenever work interfered they tucked that side of their relationship firmly aside. No ifs, ands or buts. No exceptions. And this…

This was definitely work.

Shards of glass crunched underfoot as he stepped out onto the sidewalk. The giant window panes that had previously constituted the entire lobby wall facing the street were now shattered into thousands of pieces by the mercenaries’ gunfire. King scanned the street, up and down, as soon as he was out in the open. There was no one in sight. Any pedestrians had promptly scattered. There was no pandemonium. Nothing close to what would have happened if the firefight played out on a normal Manhattan evening. These circumstances were different.

Maybe a few hysterical civilians who’d seen or heard the shootout unfold might have run off screaming bloody murder, but they would have quickly been swallowed by the general hysteria reigning across the city.

No, it was just quiet.

Violetta said, ‘This way.’

She wasn’t looking at them. Her eyes were everywhere at once, scanning every visible window and every dark shadow for signs of hostility. King did the same, and he knew behind him Slater would be following suit. He mirrored Violetta’s stance, keeping his Sig Sauer P320 in his hand and readily accessible, hidden from civilian sight only by the fold of his leather jacket.

But there were no more reinforcements, and no reason to worry. It had been a once-off invasion, quashed as soon as it had begun. King didn’t bother trying to figure out what that meant.

He knew almost nothing at this point, and speculation was just wasted time.

They moved in a tight unit, and they didn’t speak. They covered the length of the street in the darkness. Better to keep things discreet. They reached the end of the street and merged into Second Avenue. It was like transitioning from a ghost town to a major city at peak hour. There were thousands and thousands of people crammed into the long avenue,