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

So they didn’t understand Violetta’s importance, or what this temporary HQ even constituted, because it was well above their pay grade. And, as feds, there wasn’t much above their pay grade in terms of counter-intelligence. So the world of black operations was a foreign one to them, which made them a last resort for Violetta. She must have known they were close by and leveraged her power to call them in as bodyguards.

They weren’t used to being bodyguards.

And they wouldn’t understand why King and Slater were even necessary.

So Slater put all that together and said, ‘We might be the infamous duo. But you don’t need to know anything about that. You weren’t hired for that.’

They bristled.

Slater said, ‘You’re here to guard this door.’

More bristling.

King said, ‘We wouldn’t want to distract you from such an important task.’

Cold silence.

Slater slapped the lead man on the shoulder and said, ‘Best of luck with it, boys. You’ve trained your whole lives for this.’

Then he went through the maze, working his way around them to get past, but he brushed them aside with just enough subdued aggression to let them know he wasn’t a pushover. The third guy was both the biggest and the angriest, and he saw what was coming after Slater touched his two co-workers en route. So the guy stepped forward fast, trying to add a little oomph to the impact when their shoulders inevitably clashed.

But Slater changed direction in a split second and worked his way past the other side, missing the third guy entirely, which made him look like an idiot for having such a strong reaction.

He stood there, aware that he’d been humiliated but unsure exactly how.

King didn’t meet any of the same resistance on the way down the corridor.

Slater turned at the end of the hallway and watched Violetta thread her way through the procession. On the way past, she stared at each of the feds in turn and rolled her eyes. Like, Really, gentlemen?

Slater masked a smirk.

‘Where to?’ he said to Violetta, which was another subtle dig at the feds.

Where are we going that they’re not allowed?

Violetta pointed to a nondescript door at the very end of the hallway. It matched the rest of the building’s interior. In poor condition, with sturdy foundations. Everything was chipped and cracked and faded and worn, but if you locked a door in this place, it would hold. Perfect for discreet operations.

Slater stepped up and knocked. There was a pause, and then the thunk-thunk-thunk of three bolts sliding across one by one, and then the door inched open a crack.

It was too dark inside for Slater to see anything.

He said, ‘We’re with her.’

He figured they’d get the message — whoever they were.

They did.

The door closed again, a chain came off, and then it opened just wide enough for Slater to squeeze his broad frame through. Keeping the inside of the room out of sight of the feds. Another precaution they’d be none too happy with. Slater stepped inside, turned to let King through, and then Violetta squeezed in last.

An Asian man wearing a T-shirt tucked into slacks closed the door behind them. Slater admired the back of the door — the bolts he’d heard turning were enormous. Shiny and thick and made of steel. The entire door frame was reinforced with some sort of impenetrable concrete that most definitely hadn’t been there to start with. It was an impressive contraption, and it’d take a dump truck with a battering ram fixed to the front to get through.

Which meant what lay behind the door was important.

Slater turned to admire one of the first black-ops HQs he’d seen in the flesh.

25

Rico was already back to his usual, fun-loving self.

The strange thing was, he didn’t much care about being shot at. Something about a potential heart attack was just viscerally terrifying, no matter how reckless you were. He’d felt his body collapsing from the inside, the primary organ simply ceasing to work. And then it was all back to normal, and relief flooded over him. Besides, there was still enough coke in his system to subdue the panic unless he was outright traumatised.

And he wasn’t.

The pleasant haze settled back over him, and he almost didn’t care that a gaunt wide-eyed guy had snuck up on him in the process.

He got to his feet, and the man who’d introduced himself as Samuel did the same.

Rico said, ‘Hey. I’m Rico.’

‘Nice to meet you,’ the guy said, and gave a sinister smile.

Rico still wasn’t sure if he was dreaming.

He said, ‘What are you doing here?’

Samuel held up one hand, turning it to the faint moonlight. He had something in it.

A gun, Rico realised.

A 9mm Glock, by the looks of it.

Rico said, ‘Where’d you get that?’

‘It’s mine,’ Samuel said.

‘Nice.’

‘Have you seen two men?’

‘I’ve seen a lot of men,’ Rico said. ‘You know how many people there are on the streets right now?’

‘I’m looking for Jason King and Will Slater.’

‘No idea who you’re talking about.’

‘Oh, well,’ Samuel said, tutting to himself. His brow furrowed, and a frown appeared on his face. ‘That’s unfortunate.’

‘What are you doing here?’ Rico said again.

‘Just having a good time,’ Samuel said. ‘It’s fun with the lights out.’

‘It is,’ Rico said.

But the tendrils of sobriety were creeping into his consciousness. He didn’t like that one bit. It made his current situation all the more harrowing. His skin salty, his heart racing, his mind hazy. Alone in the middle of Manhattan, without his usual safety net. No guards, no security. Probably in deep shit with his father. Standing opposite a lunatic who looked like something out of a horror movie, making strange conversation. He didn’t want to think about any of that. He wanted to dull it.

He said, ‘Samuel, you got any drink on you?’

Samuel smiled and extracted a flask from the pocket of his jeans. He opened it and took a long swig. At least two or three shots worth, if it was straight spirits.

He didn’t blink once.

He said, ‘It’s whiskey. You