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

the building. As a smokescreen.’

‘Is that what you intended this whole time?’

‘Christ, no. But if it works…’

‘I’ll see what I can do,’ Slater said. ‘But it’s a tactical nightmare.’

‘Just do what you can. That’s all I’ve ever asked of you.’

‘What about King?’

‘Do you know where he is?’

‘A couple of hundred feet in the other direction. Do I use the distraction to get back to his position, or to get inside the building on my own?’

Silence.

A long silence.

She said, ‘It’s your call.’

‘I might not get another shot at a breach.’

‘Then do what you spent most of your career doing. Go solo. King will find a way inside.’

‘You don’t know that.’

‘I’m not certain of anything,’ she said. ‘At least there’s someone in that building to fight. I’m not even going to start thinking about how little sense that makes.’

‘They’re defending something. That’s for sure.’

‘Then there’s hope.’

‘Why are they here? Why aren’t they holed up somewhere remote? Literally anywhere other than the city they’ve blacked out?’

‘I don’t know.’

‘I think this has something to do with us,’ Slater said.

‘What?’

‘You heard me.’

‘You can’t be serious.’

‘It’s just a hunch.’

‘You think a lot of yourself.’

‘I think there’s a reason we’re here in the heart of it.’

She didn’t respond.

He said, ‘I think there are answers in that building.’

‘I hope so.’

Outside, the silhouettes trickled closer to the looming bank building. They stood up a little taller. Slater thought he could make out guns in their hands. Tactically, they were doing everything to the letter. There were no flaws in the approach.

Aside from the fact they had no idea what they were up against.

He could almost feel the whole building tensing, the eight-storey slab of granite bristling with anticipation. A silence unfolded, so full and complete that he knew it could only spell one thing.

He said, ‘Violetta, I’ve got to go.’

A moment later, the first .50 cal round seared through the night, and then a cascade of bullets lit up Second Avenue like hellfire.

53

In the lobby, Slater ran straight for the closest armour-clad corpse as the night came alive with muzzle flashes.

He rolled the man over, exposing the M4A1 carbine rifle trapped underneath, snatched the weapon up and checked it had a fresh, full magazine.

Then he ran toward what was left of the revolving door.

Now he had a better look at the carnage. He made use of the constant muzzle flashes and saw NYPD in uniform scattered throughout the street, taking cover behind vehicles and returning fire at the bank building. Six or seven of the building’s windows were alive, barrels pulsating like strobe lights within. The skirmish was too widespread and too chaotic to keep track of. Slater would have no idea who was winning until most of the gunfire settled, leaving a bloody, miserable aftermath.

No matter who came out the victor, there’d be casualties on both sides.

It was a lose-lose.

He knew he wouldn’t get another opportunity to make a break for it, so he raced out the revolving door into the night. The cold wind hit him like a wall, but he pushed through it and made it to the closest vehicle in seconds. He threw himself down behind it, his pulse pounding in his ears, unsure how close he’d come to being hit.

Then shots lashed past him, so it was time to move again.

He bolted.

He gave thanks for all the seemingly unnecessary work he’d put into flexibility and dexterity in training. After years of consistent stretching and explosive plyometric work, his hips were as open as a professional gymnast’s. It allowed him to practically crab-walk through the maze of cars like some demented contortionist, keeping his centre mass behind the chassis of a vehicle at all times.

He weaved between sedans and hatchbacks and box trucks and snuck up behind a man he’d eyed at the outbreak of the firefight. You could hardly place him as NYPD, but Slater could. He recognised the outfit — leather jacket, black boots, jeans. Not your typical cop getup, but everything Slater had heard — rumours and whispers in the intelligence community — indicated that Detective First Grade Jim Riordan was no typical cop. Which helped if you needed someone to seize the moment and do the hard shit that most people didn’t want to do, but in this case it had only led to brazen bullheadedness.

Slater crept up on him, reached around and took the man’s service weapon in an iron grip.

Riordan spun, his deeply lined face contorted in horror at the thought of being ambushed. He bunched his free hand into a fist and swung the hard calloused knuckles straight at Slater’s head.

Any other man or woman standing there, it would have connected clean.

Right in the centre of the face, probably breaking a nose or shattering an orbital. Riordan swung fast and he swung hard, and you couldn’t fluke that sort of power. It took serious practice, if not formal boxing training.

But Slater was Slater, and he had seen the punch coming from a mile away, and he slipped it and wrapped up Riordan’s other arm and then shoved him hard into the door of the sedan he was cowering behind.

Not hard enough to draw attention, especially with war raging around them, but hard enough to send a message.

‘You don’t recognise me,’ Slater said, ‘but I recognise you.’

Riordan writhed against the car like his life depended on it. He had farmer-like strength — an unimpressive frame, but everything that was in it was hard and wiry and corded.

Slater had that kind of strength, too, and he was thirty pounds heavier.

He slammed Riordan into the car again and stared him in the face. ‘Calm down.’

‘Get the fuck off—’

‘I will,’ Slater said. ‘But don’t shoot me. That’s all I’m trying to achieve here.’

‘Who are you?’

‘You spoke to Violetta LaFleur,’ Slater said. ‘I work for her.’

Riordan stopped struggling, and Slater released him and moved back a foot.

The cop said, ‘How am I supposed to believe you? You got ID?’

‘No. I’m not even officially employed. But if I wasn’t who I’m claiming to