Outlaws, Matt Rogers [best ereader under 100 TXT] 📗

‘No,’ he said. ‘But she deserves to be worried about it, at the very least.’

Alexis nodded. She couldn’t hide her relief.

Slater said, ‘Come on. It’s this building here.’

He led her across the wide road to an orange brick building facing the park. It was three-storey, old-school, built like a motel with landings out the front of the apartments, all three walkways connected by thin metal staircases.

There were no witnesses in sight as they sauntered up to the second level. Slater put his hands on the railing and looked out at the park, the bridge, and the skyline. The clouds had receded, and the sun was out, and the view was beautiful. Birds chirped in the trees. He savoured it, knowing full well he probably wouldn’t step outside for quite some time.

She stood alongside him, doing the same.

Subconsciously, she knew too.

Then he turned to face room 204, fished the key out of the pot plant by the welcome mat (as per the Airbnb instructions), unlocked the door, and stepped inside.

The modern equivalent of going dark.

49

King thought about waiting.

It made sense for so many different reasons, the first of which was ordinary common sense.

He’d been at their Emerald Bay compound for less than a half-day, and knew nothing about the layout of the house. He had a handful of rudimentary details about the operation itself. There was also much to gain by cosying up to Duke and his crew at dinner, and then the subsequent morning. Maybe they’d go for a surf at Laguna Beach, or play volleyball at the nets on Main Beach, or down a couple of pre-game beers at one of the hotel bars before the big job tomorrow night.

But, really, all of that was unnecessary. Truth was, King had sized them all up, and despite his unpreparedness he wasn’t worried about going for it.

There were bigger things on his mind than a ragtag gang of crooks who thought they were geniuses because they could launder their dirty money.

Quinn led him through the open-plan kitchen and living room, and now that King didn’t have to focus on introducing himself to five different people he could take in the towering ceilings and stark white walls and columns scattered throughout. There’d been no corners cut on construction of the house — everything was expensive, and everything was high quality.

King said, ‘You like it here?’

Quinn looked over his shoulder. ‘Of course, bro.’

King nodded. ‘Thought as much. I’d love to live in a place like this.’

It subconsciously put him below Quinn on the dominance hierarchy. He wanted to appear like he was looking up to the crew, wondering how they were living such an incredible life, fantasising about one day maybe joining them. It said, I’m not as good as you, without explicitly stating it.

It disarmed Quinn.

He shrugged, almost sheepishly. ‘One day, man. Never say never.’

They went down the big central hallway branching off from the kitchen, leading into a number of bedrooms with en-suite bathrooms. King knew this because some of the doors lay ajar, offering views of big rooms with unmade king-sized beds and messy clothes strewn across floors. It seemed all of Duke’s crew were similarly unruly, adding to the frat-house feel. He spotted a couple of surfboards propped against walls, a few wall-mounted TVs facing the beds, and state-of-the-art laptops and MacBooks thrown around the floors at random.

Young, dumb and rich.

That’s what they were.

Then, en route to the communal bathroom at the end of the hall, King glanced into the last bedroom and spotted a sleek grey SIG Sauer P226 handgun resting on one corner of the mattress. There was no magazine inserted, but he saw a couple of full mags on the desk opposite the bed. He estimated that the gun and the ammunition were ten feet apart.

He veered left and stepped into the room.

Quinn said, ‘Whoa. What are you doing?’

King pointed to the abstract hand-painted art piece mounted to the wall above the headboard. ‘That’s fucking awesome. Is that an original?’

He took another step forward.

Quinn was oblivious. He lingered in the doorway. ‘Yeah, man. Cal likes art.’

‘What’s that bit on the corner?’ King said.

‘Huh?’

‘On the corner of the piece. Right there.’

He pointed.

Quinn stepped into the room, squinting.

King picked up the SIG and pivoted and thrust the barrel into Quinn’s trachea. The metal smashed against his windpipe and choked him up, and he doubled over, his face turning the same shade as a beetroot. Veins protruded from his forehead, and his hands flew to his throat, and by the time he’d recovered enough to eke out a cry of protest King had crossed to the desk and chambered a magazine of Parabellum rounds.

He had the loaded gun aimed squarely at Quinn’s forehead before the guy could open his mouth and shout.

Quinn froze, face paling.

King kept his voice even, maintaining the exact same tone as before, so anyone within earshot would hear identical murmurings with no change in intensity.

He said, ‘You ever had a gun aimed at you before, Quinn?’

Quinn’s mouth said yes.

His eyes said, Fuck no.

King said, ‘You’re not ready to die.’

Quinn tried to maintain a brave face. It was respectable. He gave it all he had. But his hands began to tremble involuntarily. Staying calm whilst staring death in the face is one of the hardest things you’ll ever do.

King said, ‘Do you know how to get into Duke’s computer, or are you useless to me?’

Quinn’s pupils flared as he spiked with adrenalin.

He knew what being useless would mean.

He said, ‘I’m—’

‘Voice down,’ King said.

Quinn composed himself. ‘I’m the tech guy. Of course I have access. I’m the one who does all the dark web stuff through Tor browsers. Duke doesn’t have a clue. He delegates.’

‘Good,’ King said. ‘Then you’re useful. Congratulations.’

‘What do you want from me?’

‘Bring up the dialogue with Donati Group. I need to know which container you’re picking up.’

‘The computer’s in the den.’

‘Where’s the den?’

‘Back the way we came.’

‘Then that’s where we’re going,’ King said. ‘You’ll walk first. If you even think