Ghosts, Matt Rogers [reading the story of the .txt] 📗

The DA’s office was in a four-storey building with reflective glass. A security cordon had already been established out front. Five guys total, wearing suits so they looked somewhat professional, most of their heads shaved and all of them sporting earpieces. There were no guns in sight, not even when the BMW roared into view. This was a public commercial area, after all. Right now they just looked like unnecessary security. If they pulled their pieces, workers looking out surrounding windows would see.

That was what ruined their chances.

Slater screeched to a halt in the middle of the aisle a couple of dozen feet from the suits. Besides their crew, there was nothing between the BMW and the entrance. No parked cars, no witnesses.

Before they got out Slater said, ‘Guns behind backs. We’re plainclothes.’

‘Uh-huh,’ King said.

He complied. Levered out of his seat and kept the SIG out of sight, pressed into the small of his back as he squinted under the sun. The five-man crew stared daggers at them. Slater rounded the hood and together they strode straight for the suits.

‘Closed for business,’ one of the thugs barked. ‘Come back later.’

‘LVMPD,’ King said, moving toward the cohort the whole time. ‘We got a report that—’

‘Whoa, buddy,’ the biggest of the five said. He held up a giant palm, but King kept advancing. ‘Can we see some ID?’

King said, ‘Yeah, sure,’ and brought the SIG up from behind his back and crushed the butt of the gun into the guy’s unprotected face. It broke his nose and sent him careening backward, but he kept his feet.

King darted in, fast as hell, and kicked the guy’s legs out from underneath him. Then he pivoted and swung an elbow, timing the second man’s instinctive lunge to perfection. He caught the second thug square on the temple. He would have preferred the jaw, but fistfights are messy. It still sparked the man unconscious. King shoved his limp body aside and shouldered past him and saw—

Slater was like a bull in a china shop.

He’d hurled himself into the midst of the remaining trio. One was already down, blood streaming from his mouth, palms flat on the hot pavement. King hadn’t seen how it happened.

He saw sure the rest.

Slater took a glancing blow across his right shoulder from one of the surviving pair, who’d actually managed to throw a punch. But he’d thrown it fast, so it was a weak, panicked, sloppy endeavour. Like getting slapped by a fly swatter on the deltoid. Slater finished his pivot and now he was close-range, which was a nightmare for the opposition. He hit the guy in the middle of the throat with the butt of his own SIG, temporarily ruining his ability to breathe. They were only three seconds into the entire brawl, so the last guy still hadn’t figured out a plan of attack. He was flailing, wondering whether to kick or punch or run. He didn’t have a weapon, but he couldn’t just back down. That’d be career suicide.

Slater didn’t let him make a decision.

He kicked the guy in the gut with the sole of his boot, doubling him over, then swung in with the pistol butt again, crunching it into the soft flesh behind the ear, which shut him down as effectively as a bullet.

Slater turned back to the only guy still on his feet, who was now clutching his throat with wide eyes. Slater smashed the butt once, twice, three times into his forehead. Each consecutive hit put more sag in the guy’s knees, and finally the cumulative damage made him fall. On the way down Slater put a hand across his upper back and shoved him, helping him along the trajectory. His face hit the concrete and he lay still.

King didn’t give the aftermath a second look.

Nor did Slater.

They had bigger fish to fry.

They stripped the five incapacitated henchmen of their weapons — only three were armed — and locked the excess firepower in their trunk.

Then they left the group in their collectively sorry state and stormed into the building, guns up.

35

There were a trio of reception workers behind the front desk, all of them equally terrified.

Aside from that the giant space was empty. It had been cleared out in advance, most likely as soon as Kerr had called down. Usually there’d be people milling around, floating between offices or chatting over coffee. Now the atmosphere was subdued, skeletal, punctuated only by the heavy breathing of the poor staff.

King and Slater swept the space in its entirety, then aimed left and right respectively with only a foot of space between their backs.

King glanced at one of the receptionists — a skinny kid with a name badge that read CHASE — and said, ‘Relax. We’re not here to hurt you.’

‘Uh-huh,’ Chase gulped.

He was looking past them to the five writhing bodies outside.

King said, ‘Let me guess. The three of you see a lot of weird shit happening in this building but don’t know much more than that. Gloria keeps you in the dark, right?’

Three nods.

They might just be nodding along because they fear for their lives. They might know nothing at all.

But King focused in on Chase, and saw some sort of recognition in the kid’s eyes.

Behind the terror.

‘Chase,’ he said. ‘A friend of ours is in danger. Gloria Kerr is a bad, bad woman. I’d threaten you, but I don’t like doing that to people like you. I want you to make the choice to help me.’

Chase didn’t answer. He was clammed up, shaking.

King said, ‘She’s got an office upstairs?’

Chase nodded.

King said, ‘There’s a door code?’

Another nod.

‘What’s the door code?’

‘9045,’ he said without a moment’s hesitation.

‘Thank you, Chase.’

He sprinted for the spiralling staircase, and behind him Slater stayed put, keeping his aim on the area ahead of King. When King got to the foot of the stairs he trained his gun up through the spiral, and Slater ran to catch up.

Cover and move.

They worked their way fast up the staircase,