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

shoulder, Slater met the gaze of the man with the gun.

He said, ‘You’re standing about six inches from her and she looks like she’s seen a ghost. I’m not moving, so those cops are gonna get curious sooner rather than later. If they get out you’ll have to shoot me, shoot her, and then get into a shootout with police. Is that what you want to do?’

The man’s gaze was thunder.

Slater said, ‘They’re already suspicious. We’re all just standing here. The four of us. Surrounding one woman. You should see how terrified she looks.’

Mary was frozen.

So were the three hitmen.

Slater said, ‘Make the call.’

The guy made it. There wasn’t any other option. He slipped the gun inside his jacket, concealing it with the leather, and stepped back away from Mary. Trying to minimise suspicion, encourage the cruiser to continue on its way.

Nothing to see here.

Slater sized up angles and distances. Then glanced to his left.

He thanked his lucky stars for Jason King.

King was already halfway across the street, sauntering toward the cruiser like he hadn’t a care in the world. At six-three and two hundred and twenty pounds he was a veritable wall of muscle, and he used it to bend down and obstruct the view as he tapped on the passenger side window. It came down a few inches, and Slater watched King receiving stern words, feigning disbelief at why they were irritated. His broad back completely blocked their line of sight.

The thugs hadn’t noticed.

Slater lunged past Mary and leapt into a jumping elbow, putting everything into it. Like a freight train exploding into motion. In his haste he shouldered her aside, and she let out a little cry as she fell against the railing, but it was drowned out by the crack of the thug’s jaw shattering. The pure violence knocked him off his feet, made him spill back through the open motel door he’d just emerged from.

When Slater landed, he grabbed the two remaining men by each of their collars and hurled them into the room after the first guy.

He followed them in at a sprint and kicked the door shut behind him, sealing Mary outside, alone.

35

It was like target practice at a shooting range, only the consequences were fatal.

Slater had taught Alexis everything about ignoring the consequences. She remembered his words as she spun. There should be no difference between shooting for practice and shooting for your life. It’s the nerves that make you miss. It’s the pent-up tension. You should flow like water. You should try your very best, using whatever mental tricks you need, to convince yourself that there aren’t any consequences, that it doesn’t matter whether you live or die. Then you have the greatest chance of staying alive.

The less you desire, the better you do.

She saw four heads, four targets, all of which had been facing the lake, searching for signs of a woman emerging from the sinking car. They’d heard the gunshots behind them and all four were starting to spin, guns coming up.

She didn’t breathe in, or out, or panic at the fact they would soon mow her down in a hail of gunfire.

She just gently depressed the trigger, four times in a row, working her aim steadily from right to left.

Bang.

Bang.

Bang.

Bang.

No one got a shot off.

Their bodies fell and the undergrowth swallowed them whole.

She remembered the distant scream from before, but didn’t bother searching for the source. The body of the lake was broad and sweeping, visible from almost anywhere along its perimeter trail. There was no question as to whether the whole ordeal had been witnessed. That much noise in such a public place…it absolutely had, no matter whether she’d seen civilians on the way in or not.

As soon as she registered that she’d killed everyone she ran back to the closest enemy SUV. All its doors hung open. There’d been four men in the first car and two in the second. She got behind the wheel, threw the car into gear, and accelerated away fast enough to swing the other three doors closed.

When Boronda Lake receded in the rear view, the shock set in.

You just killed six men.

Six lives, individually snuffed out.

It made her realise she wasn’t like Slater, wasn’t like King. Not yet. It’d take time. It was obvious why they’d been pursuing her, what they’d planned to do if they got their hands on her, but somehow it didn’t make it any easier to handle.

Death was death.

She drove fast away from the scene, aware that she’d now reached the tipping point. She’d killed before, killed to defend herself, but wiping out that many people at once was staggering in implication.

You’re a human weapon now.

Whether she liked it or not.

36

Slater had the jump on them but they still had guns.

Relentlessness, therefore, was the only answer.

He’d taken all three of them off their feet in the initial madness but the two he’d hurled by the collar were fast to rise, uninjured and embarrassed. The other guy had slammed the back of his skull against the floor and his jaw was a broken mess, so he wouldn’t be getting up until he got his bearings. That’d be five or ten seconds from now, but that was all the time in the world.

Slater lurched toward the closest of the pair who’d gotten up and threw a Muay Thai-style front kick into the wrist he was using to try to pull his piece. Bones shattered under Slater’s boot heel and the guy jerked his hand away with a gasp. He wouldn’t have felt much pain in the moment, what with the adrenaline of a survival situation, but his right hand was now useless. He couldn’t use his left to pull his weapon from the holster so Slater took the opportunity to pivot to the other guy and punch him square in the nose with a tightly closed fist.

Blood jettisoned from both nostrils.

The guy was an idiot and had elected to lunge toward Slater instead of pulling his gun.